My first foster dog was an absolute delight. She was a young Cocker Spaniel crossed with Jack Russell. Misty fitted in perfectly, despite the fact that she was a stray she had impeccable manners and large soulful eyes that you could drown in. As long as she had someone to cuddle she was happy.
My naivety led me to ring the rescue and tell them I had a space for another foster dog. I think dreams of rescuing dogs by the dozen, me waving goodbye and wiping a tear as they moved to forever homes, had seriously clouded my judgment.
The next day Uri arrived.
‘What an unusual name’ I said to the lady who had transported him to me. She explained that the kennels named the strays alphabetically, this week was ‘U’. Not much choice there then! Apparently, his kennel mate was called Uriah.
This was Uri on the day he arrived. He was desperately underweight after living as a stray.
Uri was a young Jack Russell, white with a big black spot right on top of his head. Every rib was clearly defined, not an ounce of flesh on his body.
‘This one’s an escape artist’ the transporter told me ‘keep all your windows shut’. I looked at her in amazement, this little bag of bones couldn’t climb through a window. She went off laughing knowingly, another newbie foster mum out to change the World!
The first thing Uri did was jump straight on the cooker from a standing position, then proceeded to walk along the worktop sucking up crumbs like a hoover. (Luckily the cooker wasn’t being used at the time) .
Next, he was outside trying (and nearly succeeding) to scale a six-foot fence by running at it like a truck and then scrambling to the top.
I took a deep breath, fostering was not going to be all dewy eyes and waggy tails as I first thought. First I had to shut the windows, heighten the fences and seal off the kitchen and bathroom (he liked to jump in the bath, empty or full he wasn’t fussed!)
Then I could get on with the task of rehabilitating Uri.