08/20/2026
Let me be clear: I am NOT a dog person.
I agreed to foster these two Border Collie puppies because my sister guilt-tripped me, and I figured how 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 Border Collie pups from an “oops” litter.
Too fast.
Too smart.
Too much intensity packed into bodies roughly the size of a loaf of bread.
The shelter needed a short-term foster just long enough for them to grow, get healthy, and be ready for their spay/neuter appointments.
I judged them immediately.
Border Collies?
Overachievers.
Workaholics.
The kind of dogs that stare into your soul like they’re auditing your life choices and finding them lacking.
I pictured nonstop herding of invisible sheep (or my ankles), obsessive ball chasing, strategic furniture scaling, and my very real security deposit.
Then I opened the crate.
Frankie didn’t burst out.
He studied the room first—head tilted, eyes sharp, calculating escape routes and weaknesses in my character.
Then he launched.
Straight past me, immediately circling the coffee table like it was livestock that needed organizing.
Olive followed with laser focus, locked onto a dust particle floating in sunlight like it was her sworn enemy. She crouched. Stalked. Pounced. Missed. Recalibrated.
They had no off switch.
No concept of “inside voices.”
No understanding that not everything needed to be herded—including me.
The shelter warned me:
“Bonded pairs rarely get adopted together.”
People want one puppy.
Not two.
Especially not two Border Collies who would grow into high-drive, hyper-intelligent shadow creatures with opinions, stamina, and a deep need for purpose.
“Prepare yourself,” the coordinator said.
“They’ll probably be separated.”
I told myself I didn’t care.
I wasn’t a dog person.
Then Olive got sick.
She stopped shadowing me from room to room.
Stopped nudging Frankie to initiate wrestling matches.
Stopped staring at me like I was her full-time job.
She just curled up in a tight little ball—quiet, still, wrong.
Frankie unraveled.
He paced the house, checking every room.
Brought her his favorite toy and placed it gently by her nose.
Nudged her.
Licked her ears.
When she didn’t respond, he lay down beside her and pressed his entire body against hers, chin draped over her back like he could anchor her to the world.
He wouldn’t eat unless she did.
Wouldn’t settle unless she slept.
I ended up at the emergency vet, swiping my card for a $400 bill—for dogs that weren’t even mine.
When Olive finally bounced back, she didn’t go to her water bowl.
She didn’t go to her brother.
She walked—slow but determined—straight to me.
Rested her head on my knee.
Held eye contact.
That deep, intense Border Collie stare.
Then she climbed into my lap like she’d done it a thousand times, turned in two precise circles, sighed dramatically, and fell asleep—completely trusting, completely safe.
That was it.
I called my sister crying.
“I think I’m keeping them.”
She laughed.
“I know. I knew the second you sent me that video of them herding your vacuum cleaner.”
I wasn’t a dog person.
Now I’m a two-Border-Collie person.
Life comes at you fast.
📍 Foster Fail Anniversary: 6 months 🐾
