We just wanted to see if we were good and ready to have a dog in our life. We signed up to foster, and then walked around our Brooklyn carriage house giving a virtual tour to the folks evaluating us.
We thought it would take a while. A few weeks, maybe even a few months. A few days later, we got a call: “there are two 8-week old puppies—siblings—looking for a new foster home right now, can you take them?” Of course. Of course. Yes. We had no idea what we were doing, but how hard could it be? They’re so small, after all. It’ll be fine?
We didn’t own a car in New York, because who owns a car in New York? We quickly rented a Zipcar and we were on our way. It was exciting. We were excited. Two puppies! Two. Two… puppies. Huh.
They already had a foster home, but she was struggling—it was just her. When we got to her home, she invited us into the living room. Right in the middle was a pen, two crates, and two adorable, tiny puppies. One was yellow with a tinge of ginger, and the other was black.
“This one is Cacio,” the foster said, pointing at the yellow one.
The other, of course, was Pepe. Cacio e Pepe.
We were in love (obviously).
The weeks that followed were intense. I don’t know what I thought looking after two 8-week old puppies would be like, but I had not fully considered just how much they would be be. All. The. Time.
Waking every couple of hours to make sure they went potty.
Hours of daily play because they couldn’t yet go outside.
Taking things—what is that—out of their mouths.
Cleaning, cleaning, and—oh god no—cleaning.
We were exhausted, but we were coping. We were, I think, being good carers. They were healthy, and seemed happy, and I felt proud—of us and of them. I’d almost forgotten that they weren’t a permanent part of our family, and were destined instead for another home.
We had to take them into Manhattan for an adoption drive. We didn’t rent a car this time, so we each placed a puppy in a tote bag and jumped on the A/C from Utica. After pitching them to just about everyone on the subway and fighting our way through the rush-hour crowds, we arrived.
For the next couple hours, we watched as they were passed around, photographed, and hogged by one or two families for a little too long. We were happy to be helping them find their forever home, and devastated that it wouldn’t be ours. We were fostering. That’s the game.
A few days later we got the call: they’d both found homes on Staten Island. It couldn’t be much more perfect—two sisters had both decided to adopt one each, which meant that the puppies would be separated but would stay in each other’s lives. We were so happy for them. We started preparing for them to depart, talking about our memories with them and occasionally consoling one another when it felt a bit too sad.
A few days more, and we got another call: one of the sisters had dropped out. As if it was some sort of pact, the other sister dropped out shortly after. We were back to square one. We felt lucky to spend more time with them, but it was still a sad moment overall.
Folks new to fostering weren’t allowed to adopt the animals that they were fostering—or so said the rules. We wondered whether the rules were flexible, but we didn’t want to be those people. Eventually, we sent a timid message, so that we were only those-people-esque:
Hey Rachel, it’s Craig (Cacio and Pepe). We’ve just heard the news about Cacio’s adoption falling through. I know y’all have rules around this, but since there’s no harm in at least letting you know, we’d be more than happy to adopt Cacio if that was possible and helpful. Let me know one way or the other.
One of the other rules was that you couldn’t adopt siblings, which meant that we could only adopt one of the puppies (if we could adopt one). Besides, we lived in a Brooklyn Carriage house, and really couldn’t fit two adult dogs without it feeling unfair to them. We loved them both (we still love both) but Pepe had even more energy than Cacio, and we agreed that it made more sense to find him a home with more space.
The reply came back 13 minutes later: they’d love for us to adopt Cacio, and were so happy that we asked. The first rule was apparently less firm than we’d thought, and thank goodness (for us) that it was.
Cacio has been in our life for over two years now, and you’ll hear a lot more about her some other day. As I sat down on the couch this evening to write, though, and as she immediately jumped up and lay next to me, I realized what I wanted to write about. What I wanted to remember.
Half of what I write about on this blog is really just to help me remember a moment, and I don’t just mean to remember it later. Just as it’s written in every Field Notes book: “I’m not writing it down to remember it later, I’m writing it down to remember it now.”