A Foster Fail Story: Wingman

Written by ​Lisa Klobuchar

In the spring of 2015, the canine flu epidemic in Chicago was raging, and young rescue organization called One Tail at a Time was calling for dog-free foster homes willing to take strays from Chicago Animal Care and Control that were at risk of flu exposure. Feeling called to do something for the community during this crisis, I filled out a foster application. Then week after week I then hemmed and hawed, never feeling it was quite the right time to welcome a pup. 

July rolled around and the vans of Chicago Animal Care and Control were patrolling the streets, especially busy during the days around 4th of July fireworks, when so many terrified dogs run for the fences. On July 8, one of them, a balding, rat-tailed, malnourished, brown-toothed 12-pound scruff, was captured near Western and 35th. 

Meanwhile, I was emailing back and forth with a One Tail foster coordinator, having no luck finding a match. 
“Yes, I’ll take her.” 
“Sorry she’s bigger than you want.” 
“I could take one of those.” 
“No, they’re already in foster.” ​

I was starting to wonder if this foster thing was ever going to happen. Finally, on July 12, I got a group email calling for foster commitments for a mass rescue at CACC. I replied that I could take any dog under 25 pounds. On July 13, I received an email with the photo on the left below: ”We just welcomed this guy today. He needs a home without other dogs for now just due to him having kennel cough but should be just fine with parrots.” I replied, “A little medical issue doesn't faze me. I could take him.” It was the weekend of the Pitchfork Music Festival, so they named all the dogs after the musicians in the line-up. ​
On July 17th, I picked up Killer Mike at Higgins Animal Clinic. He was stinky, and nervous, and had the weirdest scraggly curly tail I’d ever seen. I thought, “Boy, my first time out and I sure got an ugly one!” Green rookie that I was, I assumed that the clinic staff would have walked him prior to my arrival, so I carried him from my car straight up to my apartment. His first order of business was to do his business on my rug. The next was to explore every inch of my apartment, quickly finding my basket of massage balls. He chose a tennis ball, jumped up on the couch next to me and looked at me with smiling eyes that said, with crystal clarity, “Hey, this is going to be fun!” ​​

I took him for vetting a couple days later. The shocked vet who brought him back to me after the exam said, “Be careful with this one.” Clearly, there was some interaction back there that he gave me no details about. I mentioned that he needed a bath really badly. The vet said, “I don’t recommend trying to bathe this one.” 

Whatever had gone on with the vet in the exam room wasn’t going on with me. I knew this little dog was safe for me. I bathed him. ​​​​

In those first days, he had zero obedience skills. He didn’t know how to sit, only stand and lay. He was intact, and nervously and vigorously humped everyone who came near him. We played and snuggled. On walks, his widespread ears and bright eyes attracted the admiration of men and women, boys and girls. His angelic nature shone through in everything he did. I looked at him one evening, thinking how inapt the name Killer Mike was for such a joyful old soul. I felt I could see the wings growing from his shoulders. We locked eyes, and he seemed to say, “ I like that. You can call me Wingman.” ​

​Then he had his neutering. When I picked him up his teeth were white and shiny. Better yet, it was as though the hump switch had been instantly turned off—not a single hump since.

A few days later I got an email from One Tail. “We'll likely have him join us at the Adoption Center in a couple days as I think he'd be adopted quickly . . . ” 

My stomach dropped to my knees. I remember thinking, with a touch of anger, “There will be no ‘joining at the adoption center’!” Still, I had had no intention of adopting a dog. I didn’t feel I could afford one. I didn’t know if I’d could make a dog happy. I was afraid of the grief that inevitably comes too few years in the future to anyone who gives their heart to a dog. I didn’t know what to do. I consulted friends and family. I was in anguish at the thought of him leaving me, but in serious doubt about whether I could care for a dog. Finally my friend Trish said the one thing that cleared up all the fog: “I can’t tell you whether you’ll regret NOT keeping him. But I can tell you that you’ll NEVER regret keeping him.” ​

That was it. I wrote to One Tail: 
“SUBJECT: Killer Mike has become my Wingman 
I wish I wasn't such a total failure as a foster mom, but I'm very happy that this little angel fits so well into my household: with my temperament, with my birds, and with my schedule. He's such a great guy, and I really want to give him his forever home. Please tell me I can adopt him! Lisa” 

I actually didn’t know how this would be received. Was I good enough for a foster, but not for adoption? Would loss of a dog-free foster home disappoint them? Was I making the right decision for me? Twelve hours later I got this email: “Of course! We're thrilled that he's a great permanent match :)” ​

Today, he’s six pounds heavier, slightly more dignified, flawlessly house-trained, and magnificently handsome. He’s still playful, though he much prefers plush toys to tennis balls. He knows all kinds of tricks. He had a brief but rapturous stint as an agility dog. He still hates any kind of medical poking but has never once even shown his teeth to a vet, to me, or to anyone who loves me. ​

Happy Gotcha Day, Wingman. In our four years, we’ve had our medical scares, fun times, sporting times, and quiet times. You’ve brought me new friends and cemented old ones. In all, you’ve enriched my life in ways I could never have imagined. You’re living proof that a true and proper soul mate doesn’t necessarily have to walk into your life on two legs. ​

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