One of the questions I get asked most often as a foster mom is:

“How can you let them go?”

It’s usually asked after someone sees a picture of a foster dog curled up in my lap or hears a story about a dog who spent months learning to trust. People assume that after all that time together, letting go must be impossible.

The truth is, sometimes it is.

But fostering isn’t about keeping them.

It’s about preparing them.

When a foster dog arrives at my house, they don’t always come in at their best. Some are frightened. Some are confused. Some have lived their entire lives without knowing what it feels like to be part of a family.

A few have come from puppy mills where they spent years in cages. Some come from hoarding situations where dozens of dogs were living together and receiving little individual care. Others are young mothers arriving from local shelters with puppies in tow, doing their best to care for their babies while their whole world has been turned upside down.

Some have been surrendered because their owners could no longer care for them. Some were found wandering roads or abandoned in the country. Others sat quietly in shelters, waiting for someone to notice them.

They all arrive carrying whatever life has handed them.

My job isn’t to erase their past.

My job is to help them believe their future might be better.

Sometimes that means teaching them that hands can be kind.

Sometimes it means helping them learn how to walk on a leash or sleep in a bed.

Sometimes it simply means giving them a quiet place to exhale.

I often tell people that fostering is a lot of waiting.

Waiting for a scared dog to take a treat.

Waiting for a tail to wag.

Waiting for a dog to realize they don’t have to be afraid anymore.

The victories are often small.

A puppy mill dog finally making eye contact.

A senior dog learning to play again.

A nervous little Chihuahua choosing to climb into your lap.

Those moments don’t seem like much to most people.

To a foster parent, they’re everything.

Of course, there are always dogs that get under your skin.

The ones that make you wonder if maybe you should keep them.

I’ve had a few of those.

A little puppy mill survivor who learned that the world was full of cookies and squeaky toys.

A senior dog who traveled with me on camping trips and made herself part of every adventure.

A Pekingese who made me think, just for a moment, that maybe this one should stay.

But then I remember why I foster.

Every dog that stays with me forever means one less space for the next dog that needs help.

And there is always another dog.

Another Chihuahua.

Another Shih Tzu.

Another senior whose family couldn’t keep them.

Another puppy mill survivor learning how to be a dog.

Another frightened little soul waiting for a chance.

That’s why I tell people:

“I’m not their home. I’m only a pit-stop.”

A pit-stop is important.

It’s where you refuel.

It’s where you catch your breath.

It’s where you get ready for the next part of the journey.

But it’s not the destination.

The destination is a forever home.

The destination is the family that chooses them.

The destination is the person who looks at a dog and says, “You belong with me.”

And when that happens, no matter how much I love them, I let them go.

Not because it’s easy.

Because that’s the whole point.

After all these years and more than a hundred foster dogs, I still get attached. I still cry sometimes. I still wonder how a house can feel so empty after one little dog leaves.

But then the phone rings.

And somewhere, another small dog needs a place to land.

So I clean the crate.

Wash the blankets.

Put away the food bowls.

And make room.

Because I’m not their forever home.

I’m only a pit-stop. 

Disclaimer: The pups in this article found their forever homes.❤️