This is a First Person column by Sonja Arsenault, who lives in B.C. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
My husband and I weren't planning on fostering a dog. Especially not one that looked uncannily like our little, late Griffin, which we had recently lost to a heart condition after 12 short years together.
We were convinced our grief was too raw and the love for our Morkie-mutt felt irreplaceable. Our hearts didn't feel strong enough to withstand saying goodbye to another canine-being, even if it was for a good reason like finally being adopted by a loving family.
Then one Saturday in March, a friend who volunteers with a local rescue texted me with a photo of a ragamuffin poodle/Maltese cross named Sammy.
He needed a temporary home where he could decompress and learn the art of house training, how to walk on leash and where he could work on feeling safer and less reactive around food and children. The rescue's foster homes were filled to capacity, so my friend asked if we could take in the eight-month-old pup.
I couldn't shake the
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