09/02/2026
Let me be clear: I am NOT a dog person.
I agreed to foster these two Bichon Frise puppies because my sister guilt-tripped me, and I figuredâhow hard could it be?
Two puppies.
A crate.
Food twice a day.
Someone adopts them.
End of story.
I was wrong.
Spectacularly wrong.
Frankie and Olive were 8-week-old Bichon Frise pups from an âoopsâ litter.
Too fluffy.
Too charming.
Too much personality packed into bodies roughly the size of a cotton ball with legs.
The shelter needed a short-term fosterâjust long enough for them to grow, get healthy, and be ready for their spay/neuter appointments.
I judged them immediately.
Bichons?
Drama.
Attention-seekers.
The kind of dogs that make direct eye contact until you question why youâre not applauding them.
I pictured nonstop zoomies across my living room, dramatic flops when ignored, strategic couch climbing, and my very real security deposit (goodbye, throw pillows).
Then I opened the crate.
Frankie didnât burst out.
He blinked up at me through a halo of white fluff, tilted his head like a tiny cloud trying to understand taxes⌠and then trotted straight to the nearest mirror.
Olive followed with absolute confidence, immediately locating the softest blanket in the room and claiming it as sovereign territory.
Within seconds, they were bouncing.
Off the couch.
Across the rug.
Into my shins.
They didnât herd.
They performed.
Frankie discovered the joy of spinning in tight, joyful circles every time I made eye contact.
Olive perfected the âpick me up immediately or I will simply wiltâ stanceâfront paws lifted, eyes enormous, sigh calibrated for maximum emotional manipulation.
They had no concept of personal space.
No understanding that I did not, in fact, need a fluffy audience while brushing my teeth.
No awareness that I was supposed to be fostering themânot becoming their full-time staff.
The shelter warned me:
âBonded pairs rarely get adopted together.â
People want one puppy.
Not two.
Especially not two Bichons who would grow into velcro-coated shadow marshmallows with opinions, separation anxiety, and a deep need to be involved in absolutely everything.
âPrepare yourself,â the coordinator said.
âTheyâll probably be separated.â
I told myself I didnât care.
I wasnât a dog person.
Then Olive got sick.
She stopped following me from room to room.
Stopped launching herself dramatically onto the couch beside Frankie.
Stopped doing her little happy spins when I walked in.
She just curled up into a small white comma on the blanketâquiet, still, wrong.
Frankie unraveled.
He stopped performing.
Stopped spinning.
Stopped demanding applause.
He padded over to her slowly and dropped his favorite squeaky toy by her nose.
Nudged her gently.
Licked her face.
When she didnât respond, he pressed his tiny body against hers, resting his chin over her back like he could warm her back to life.
He wouldnât eat unless she did.
Wouldnât settle unless she slept.
I ended up at the emergency vet, swiping my card for a $400 billâfor dogs that werenât even mine.
When Olive finally bounced back, she didnât run to the toy basket.
She didnât bounce toward her brother.
She walkedâslow but determinedâstraight to me.
Rested her head on my knee.
Held eye contact.
Not dramatic this time.
Just steady.
Then she climbed into my lap like it was always meant to be hers, turned in two neat little circles (because of course she did), sighed like she had survived a great injustice, and fell asleepâcompletely trusting, completely safe.
That was it.
I called my sister crying.
âI think Iâm keeping them.â
She laughed.
âI know. I knew the second you sent me that video of them barking at their own reflection.â
I wasnât a dog person.
Now Iâm a two-Bichon-Frise person.
Life comes at you fluffy.
đ Foster Fail Anniversary: 6 months đž
