What I learned from loving a dog who was already dying.
I began my dog fostering adventures in December. I got this crazy idea that since Dakota — my beloved six-year-old dog — is neurotic, maybe he’d enjoy having another dog around. I wasn’t 100% certain that I wanted or could afford a second dog, so I figured fostering would be a good way to try it out — and help rescue dogs at the same time, something I’ve always been passionate about.
I submitted an application to foster through a local rescue group and heard back the very next day. They had a six-month-old long-haired black Chihuahua mix they wanted to pull from the shelter — if I’d agree to take her. I said yes.
That’s how Jazmine came into my life. She was a wild child, causing lots of chaos but even more laughter. We had her for about a month before she found her forever home with a lovely family. I was both sad and relieved to see her go. After that, I told myself: no more puppies. Only adult dogs from now on.
Shortly after Jazmine left, I was asked if I’d be willing to foster a dog named Oliver. I didn’t know much — only that he was sick, on antibiotics, and supposedly not contagious. I was hesitant, but agreed. That night, I got a call from the woman who picked him up from the shelter. She warned me he was severely emaciated.
I thought I was prepared, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Oliver.
When I first laid eyes on him, I was in shock. Every rib showed. Bones jutted out across his body. He looked like he was barely clinging to life. That first night, I was terrified. I thought about calling the rescue and asking them to find another foster — I didn’t feel equipped to care for a dog who looked like he was on death’s doorstep.
But I couldn’t give up on him.
Every time the thought of returning him crossed my mind, so did the image of him being abandoned again. I decided to keep trying.
He fit in right away. I told myself I’d adopt him when he got better — because everyone thought he would. He cuddled in my lap and loved being close. But something was very wrong.
He stopped eating after one day. His diarrhea was constant. He barely got out of his bed and had zero energy. After four days, he went back to the vet. His white blood cell count was sky-high. Cancer was suspected, but they opted for a stronger antibiotic in case it was a treatable intestinal infection.
That week, we hoped. I won’t lie — there were small signs of life that gave me hope. He devoured boiled chicken. He lit up for his squeaky toy. When he heard it, he’d push himself out of bed and stagger toward it. Trying to take it away turned into a battle of hands and teeth — the playful kind. He was still trying. Still fighting.
He curled up so tightly in his bed, trying to stay warm. If I tried to pick him up, he’d growl, frustrated. For a day or two, his diarrhea even decreased, and again, I let myself believe he might pull through.
But the antibiotics didn’t work. His weight continued to drop.
Eventually, Oliver underwent more tests — bloodwork, an ultrasound. Afterward, they started him on new medication and a special diet. Cancer was still on the table. But there was also a new possibility: Protein-Losing Enteropathy. His body might have been incapable of absorbing food or nutrients.
Even with the new plan, I began to realize Oliver needed more than I could give. I worked full time. I wasn’t home enough to monitor him the way he needed. When I signed up to foster, I never imagined I’d be caring for a terminally ill dog. But now I was — and I knew the most loving thing I could do was let him go somewhere better equipped to care for him.
That Monday, Oliver went to a new home with a new diet, a new med schedule, and someone who could be home with him. I made plans to visit him later that week.
But I never got the chance.
Two nights later, I got the message. He was gone.
That morning, he had played with his toys like always. That night, his breathing became labored. He could no longer stand. He was put down.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I broke down sobbing. I could barely breathe. Dakota curled up next to me, sensing something was wrong.
I was supposed to see him that day. I never got to say goodbye.
The guilt was crushing. I had already struggled with the decision to move him to another home, and now this. But even in my pain, I know we did everything we could for him. In those three weeks, he was loved. Deeply.
Still, I’m heartbroken. He was only five. He didn’t deserve this. He had just enough spark left in him to make it all the more devastating — to know he wanted to live, but just couldn’t.
No one wants to take in a dog for the last few weeks of his life and watch him die. But fostering isn’t about me. It’s about them — the dogs who were discarded, abandoned, forgotten. I don’t do it to be a hero. I do it to try and save lives.
I did my best for Oliver. It wasn’t enough to save him — but sometimes love can’t do that. Sometimes love is just being there while they slip away.
I still remember the night I found out he might have cancer. I laid on the kitchen floor next to his bed and sobbed. I stroked his head and apologized out loud for not being able to save him. He looked at me with those big brown eyes — peaceful, forgiving, alert. I think he knew.
Dogs are put on this Earth for one reason only: to be loved.
Loving Oliver meant doing what was best for him — even when it broke my heart. Even through the guilt and the “what ifs.” Could I have kept him longer? Would it have mattered? I’ll never know. But I do know that no one could have cured what was killing him. All we could give him was comfort. And we did.
I’ll miss his angel face. I’ll miss yelling “Olivero!” up the stairs. But I won’t miss watching him wither away.
He didn’t deserve that disease. But he deserved love — and that’s what I gave him.
I was lucky to be Oliver’s mom, even just for a little while. It was emotionally draining. It hurt like hell. But I’m so, so glad he didn’t die in that shelter.
He died knowing he was wanted. He died knowing he was loved.
I believe things happen for a reason. For whatever reason, I was chosen to be Oliver’s person — if only for a moment. And while the goodbye nearly broke me, I know we did what was right.
He’s free now. Free from pain. Free to run. Free to squeak all the toys and eat all the chicken in whatever beautiful place waits for good dogs.
And I was privileged to be his.
“Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.”
– Coldplay
No comments