I’ve never written anything this long before, and I certainly never imagined I’d be sharing it with the world. But I can’t hold it in any longer. I need to let people know what my foster pup and I are going through, because I think a lot of folks out there have no idea how often this happens. And maybe if I share this, someone else will recognize themselves or their own dogs in our story.
First, let me give a little background about how this all started.
I volunteer at a local rescue shelter in my city—a place overflowing with wagging tails and sad eyes desperate for a forever home. On the day I first met “R” (I’m just going to call him that for now), he was seated quietly in his kennel. Honestly, I almost walked right by him because there was so much noise going on around us: other dogs barking, people talking, staff members hustling around. But when I looked closer, I saw this big black dog who seemed both hopeful and resigned at the same time.
I remember bending down, calling his name softly. He rose to his feet in this awkward, hesitant way, almost like he wasn’t sure if I was truly addressing him or if I was going to walk off the moment he stood up. When he finally came to the kennel gate, his eyes locked onto mine, and I swear my heart did something weird. It fluttered, melted, broke, and healed all at once. It was a strange feeling I still can’t quite describe.
The volunteer coordinator mentioned that big black dogs were often overlooked. Some people have these ingrained fears about them. Some folks just have a visual preference for lighter-furred dogs. And there’s a weird phenomenon I had never heard of until I started volunteering: something sometimes called “black dog syndrome.” Essentially, black dogs often spend way longer in shelters because potential adopters might gravitate to “cuter” looking pups or dogs whose colors photograph better. It seems so unfair—like a living being’s fate hinges on something superficial. But it’s a reality.
Anyway, R had been there for quite a while. Longer than some of the other dogs that arrived after him. The staff had done everything they could think of to help him stand out: he wore festive bandanas, he had “Meet Your New Best Friend” signs on his cage, he got extra grooming, and he was always introduced to potential adopters. But more often than not, people strolled right past him. If they did give him a second look, they sometimes offered a courtesy pat, but you could see them physically lean away or move on quickly. It was almost like… they found him intimidating without even getting to know him.
That broke my heart.
So, I decided to foster him, hoping to give him a better shot at finding his forever home. I wanted to show potential adopters how wonderful he is inside a real home, away from the shelter stress, away from the caged environment. My thought was that with social media and word of mouth, I might be able to get more eyes on him. I was excited and, in a weird way, felt heroic. I pictured an easy process: “Oh, look at this perfect dog living with me, he’s so sweet and trained, come adopt him right now!” Simple, right?
That’s not what happened.
Let me say this: R is an absolute gentleman. He’s gentle with children, he’s respectful of the cat (my cat is far less respectful of him, I might add), he’s obedient, curious, and bursting with a quiet love. Sure, he has his quirks—like an almost obsessive love for tennis balls and a weird habit of sleeping in the corner of my bedroom with his rear end propped up against the wall. But honestly, those quirks make him all the more endearing.
In the first few weeks, I posted pictures and videos of him nonstop. Everyone in my network shared them. Friends, family, coworkers—they all pitched in, and I felt so much gratitude each time someone reposted or recommended him to someone they knew. I was sure we’d find him a home in no time.
Weeks went by. More pictures and videos. More adorable moments. More stories.
No real nibbles.
When people came by to meet him, it was always “Oh, wow, he’s bigger than I imagined,” or “I was looking for something more… I don’t know, unique?” Or worst of all: “He’s a sweet dog, but we just connected more with another one we met.”
Deep down, I realized the color of his coat still felt like this insidious reason overshadowing everything else. People might not come right out and say, “No thanks, he’s black,” but you could sense the unspoken reasons. I’d watch visitors recoil just slightly if R got too close. They wouldn’t do that with smaller, lighter-colored dogs. And it made me furious in a way I can’t fully express, because all R wanted to do was please them, to show them he was worthy of love.
And R isn’t the only one in this predicament. In the time I’ve been fostering him, I’ve seen a bunch of lighter-furred dogs, or smaller dogs, or dogs with some novel pattern on their coats, get adopted within days or weeks. But R remains, no matter how much I hype him up or how many meet-and-greets we set.
Now, I know some folks might say, “Well, if you love him so much, why not adopt him yourself?” Believe me, I’ve thought about it. Sometimes I look at him curled up on my sofa and can’t imagine not having him around. But part of fostering is understanding that I can only keep so many animals while still offering future fosters a temporary haven. If I adopt R, that might mean I can’t foster others in need because of limited resources, limited space, or limited time. And on a more personal note, my work schedule isn’t always conducive to a large-breed dog’s needs. I’m constantly trying to balance the demands of this sweet boy with my job.
I do love him, though. It’s impossible not to.
There was a point—maybe around the three-month mark—when I started to worry that I was failing him. I felt guilty that I wasn’t doing something “right.” In my darker moments, I’d look at him sprawled across the floor, tail wagging whenever I glanced his way, and think, “How can the world not want you? What is wrong with us?”
I also have to mention the reactions of well-meaning family and friends. They’ll watch me fret over him and say, “Well, maybe he just needs a better set of photos.” Or “Have you tried putting one of those cute scarves on him?” Or “I heard black dogs are harder to photograph—maybe that’s the issue.” It all comes from a place of love, but inside, I’m screaming. Because it’s not about the lighting or the accessories. It’s about a prejudice (though that might be a strong word) that runs deep in some people, a hesitation they might not even realize they carry.
And while I’ve witnessed heartbreak whenever I see him get passed over, I’ve also had some smaller victories. We’ve had some meet-and-greets go so well that I was sure it was going to result in an adoption. One time, a young couple came, spent almost an hour playing with R in the backyard, and left with big smiles on their faces, promising they’d be in touch. I spent the rest of the day daydreaming about him living in their adorable house with a big fenced yard. I imagined him going on road trips with them, maybe wearing cute bandanas for holiday photos. But then, they ghosted us. No responses to calls or emails. No explanation.
I’ll admit that night, after that, I cried. I think I cried more for R than for myself. He’s the one being judged, misunderstood, and shrugged off. Sometimes it feels like he’s sitting there wondering, “Was it something I did?” and it crushes me.
Still, I won’t let go of hope.
In these past few months, R and I have developed a bond so deep that I sometimes think he can read my mind. The moment I feel down, he’s there, nudging my hand with his muzzle, or he’ll flop his big head onto my lap and give me that wide-eyed look, like he’s saying, “It’s okay. I’m happy right here.” He is joy incarnate. He’s taught me so much about resilience, about how to keep loving people even when they let you down. Because none of the rejections have diminished his spirit. The next time someone comes over, he’s still wagging his tail, still excited to show them that he’s worthy of love.
I’ve been trying to capture that essence of him in the latest Facebook posts and short videos I share. I’ve shown him learning a new trick (he sits and shakes on command now), and I’ve shown him napping with the cat snuggled against his side. Honestly, it’s comedic that my cat—who historically hates dogs—has embraced this big black gentle giant so completely. When I posted that video, a bunch of folks commented, “Awww, so sweet!” and “He’s so good with cats? Someone adopt him already!” But still, no one actually followed through.
Don’t get me wrong: some adoption inquiries do roll in. But for one reason or another, they fall through. Maybe the prospective adopter can’t have large dogs in their apartment building, or maybe they’re not ready for the responsibility of a big, active dog. Sometimes, they’re just uncertain, and I sense that once they meet R in person, he’s not “flashy” enough. He’s not a rare color or a puppy or a small breed that easily fits in a carrier.
But I keep telling myself the right person is out there. The perfect home, the perfect human, the perfect environment. That they’ll see him for who he truly is, and that all this heartbreak will lead to something incredible. Because what is foster care if not the belief that these creatures are worth fighting for?
So yeah, I’m somewhere between heartbreak and stubborn hope, leaning heavily on the love I feel for this dog. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to foster him before I have to travel for work again. The rescue does have backups, but the idea of him having to go to another foster—another strange place—just rips my heart to shreds. I want him to have consistency. I want him to settle in. I want him to have a life filled with squeaky toys, Sunday naps on the couch, and daily walks where he can sniff every single tree along the route.
I know I can’t control everything, though. All I can do is keep sharing his story and praying that someone, somewhere, sees beyond his black coat and bulky frame. He’s so much more than that. He’s one of the friendliest, most loyal, good-hearted souls I’ve ever met—human or animal.
I wish there was a neat, tidy ending to this post. I wish I could say, “And guess what, we found him his dream home, and they are all living happily ever after!” But that’s not where we are right now. I’m writing this in the midst of the uncertainty, the longing, the frustration. Yet, in this chaos, I also feel a strange sense of fulfillment. Because loving him, advocating for him, being in his corner—it’s teaching me that sometimes the happiest endings come after the biggest struggles. Sometimes, you have to walk through the heartbreak to get to the joy.
R is next to me as I type these words—his head on my foot, dozing peacefully. I look at him and remember every moment we’ve shared so far: the belly rubs, the morning walks, the times he’s gently taken a treat from my hand, the quiet nights watching TV together. I’m reminded that he hasn’t given up. So how can I?
I don’t know how his story ends. I don’t know if he’ll be with me next month, or if we’ll find that amazing person who finally sees him the way I see him. But I do know one thing: I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep posting, keep telling the world about this wonderful dog, keep ignoring the rejections, keep hanging onto that glimmer of hope that someone out there is looking for a big black goofball to complete their family.
If you’re reading this and you feel a tug in your heart, share R’s story. Or just share the story of any overlooked dog, any animal that might be passed by because of silly stereotypes or superficial reasons. Because they deserve a chance. They deserve love. And so do we all.
That’s it for now, I guess. My main hope is that someone who stumbles across this will see a bit of themselves in it, and maybe open their doors—and hearts—to a dog that might otherwise be overlooked. Thanks for reading, and thanks for caring.
I’m signing off with tears in my eyes, but I’m also smiling. Because somewhere in all this emotional mess, I feel the spark of something beautiful, something that insists that we keep going. And if you ask me, that’s exactly what R and I plan to do.