Fostering Saved Her Life. Then It Saved Mine. A College Student's Journey Through Three Life-Changing Weeks

By: Isabella Scott 

The Night Before: Shopping for Someone We'd Never Met 

The first thing you need to know if you decide to foster a puppy in college is that your favorite high heels will never be the same again. The second is that neither will you, but you won't realize that until you're alone on a Saturday night with a four-month-old beagle named Maisy, doing absolutely nothing, and yet it's the most meaningful nothing you've done all semester. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

A couple of months ago, my roommate and I decided we were ready to be foster parents. We were finally out of the dorms, fresh off of junior year anticipation, and ready to feel some kind of responsibility that mattered. Not to each other—we were already navigating that– but to a dog. A real dog. One that would need us in ways nothing else in our lives did. 

We arrived at PetSmart the night before picking up Maisy–a four-month-old beagle mix recovering from a broken leg–wandering the aisles like expectant parents in full nesting mode. We stood staring at leashes for thirty minutes, trying to decode what the difference between four feet and six feet would mean in practice. We had no idea. We picked one and pretended we'd made an informed decision. 

Treats that promised to be "grain-free" and "anxiety-reducing" went into the cart (for the dog, though honestly, we could've used some too). And then we found Lamby—a soft, floppy sheep toy that my roommate held up with the kind of reverence usually reserved for finding a child's first beloved blanket. Into the cart it went. 

And then—the collars. 

"We should get it engraved," my roommate said, holding up a pink heart-shaped tag. 

I should have said no. I should have reminded us both that we were temporary. That our names on her collar were being written in disappearing ink. That you don't put your return address on something you're planning to give away. 

But pride is a funny thing. We wanted proof—tangible, metal-plated proof—that we were her people, even if only for a little while. That we mattered to her story, even if we were just a chapter, not the ending. 

So we stood at that engraving kiosk, typing our names and address with the solemnity of people signing a mortgage, not a foster agreement. Like she was ours to keep.

Spoiler alert: she wasn't. 

But standing there in PetSmart, high on the delusion that we had any idea what we were doing, we didn't know about the shoes, or the couch, or the 6 AM wake-up calls. We didn't know how you can miss someone you only knew for three weeks like they were a part of your body you didn't know you needed until it was gone. 

Meeting Day: When Responsibility Became Real 

When we picked her up from the Humane Society of North Texas that Wednesday, the staff handed us a care package like we were leaving the hospital with a newborn: a crate, food, toys, a blanket that smelled like the shelter, another leash we didn't need. They walked us through everything—feeding times, medication schedule, signs to watch for. They made it clear we could call anytime with questions, no matter how small. 

That support mattered more than I knew it would. 

And then they placed Maisy in my arms. 

She was tiny and tired and timid, and the weight of her felt like being handed something breakable and irreplaceable all at once. Like someone had just given me responsibility in its purest form and said "don't mess this up." 

Her leg was wrapped and healing. I'd have to give her medication daily, be careful when I picked her up, and watch how she moved. She'd come from bad breeders, spent time at the shelter recovering, and now she was in my hands, trusting me not to hurt her. 

In the car ride home through Dallas traffic, all I could think was please let us get home so she's okay. But Maisy wasn't looking at me. She was looking out the window like she was seeing the world unfold all at once. 

Little did she know, she'd never spend another day at that shelter. 

The First 48 Hours: When the Schedule Fell Apart 

Our house was foreign to her at first. She was timid meeting our other roommates, quiet in a way that felt like she was still deciding whether to trust this place. But when we settled onto the couch—her small body curled against my leg—something shifted. I just let her rest. Let her know that this was her place now. That she was safe. 

The next morning, she was a different dog entirely. She dashed around the house like she'd been storing up movement for months. That broken leg that was supposed to slow her down? It became a suggestion she politely ignored. 

That night, all five of us gathered around the kitchen table for what can only be described as a foster parent summit. We coordinated our schedules, went over ground rules, pooled everything.

we knew about having dogs growing up—testing our skills and knowledge like we were studying for an exam we couldn't afford to fail. 

We assigned shifts. We made plans. We felt so prepared, so accomplished, like we'd cracked the code of puppy parenting through superior planning and communication. 

That system lasted exactly two days before it dissolved into frantically texting "WHO CAN WATCH MAISY I HAVE A THING." 

The Reality Check: Destroyed Shoes and Life Lessons 

Puppies are no joke. I'd felt massive responsibility for myself before, but I'd never understood what it meant to be responsible for a life. A life that couldn't tell me what was wrong. A life that trusted me completely despite having every reason not to trust anyone ever again. 

The medication had to be given twice a day, tucked into peanut butter because Maisy could detect a pill from across the room. I set alarms. I kept a log. And whenever I panicked—which was often—I'd text the HSNT foster coordinator, who always responded with reassurance and practical advice. 

And then there were the casualties. 

My favorite heels became her personal chew toy. I found them shredded, and she looked up at me, tail wagging, like "I made these better for you!" 

Maisy also had a habit of leaving little favors in my closet—particularly on clothes I'd left on the floor. Maybe she was reminding me to actually get to my laundry. Or maybe she was a fashionista with opinions, showing me what she liked and what she definitely didn't. Either way, my sixty-dollar skirt became her latest critique. 

But somehow, when I did the math—sixty dollars versus the immeasurable value of having her here—it made sense. 

Shoes and skirts could be replaced. This was irreplaceable. 

Learning Her Language: The Small Moments That Changed Everything 

Waking up at 6 AM became my new normal. I'd stumble outside and watch her explore the yard like it was brand new every single morning. The same grass. The same trees. But to Maisy, it was an adventure every time. 

I learned to study in shifts. Twenty minutes of focused work. Ten minutes of playing tug-of-war with Lamby. Twenty more minutes of reading. Ten minutes of fetch that she never quite understood.

But somewhere in that chaos, I started learning her. The way she tilted her head when she was trying to understand something. How she'd paw at my leg when she wanted attention. The way she carried Lamby everywhere like a security blanket. 

I grew up with Cavalier King Charles Spaniels—those supremely chill lap dogs. But Maisy was the opposite. She demanded presence. She required engagement. And I loved learning every inkling of what made her her. 

From Broken to Unstoppable: Watching Her Heal 

The vet told us to keep her calm. Limited activity. No running. Give that leg time to heal. Maisy heard this advice and decided it didn't apply to her. 

Within two weeks, she went from tentative steps to full-on sprinting around our backyard like she was training for the Olympics. She ran laps with determination that made you forget she'd ever been hurt. She'd burst outside every morning, face turned toward the sun, and just run. Perfect circles. Over and over. 

The zoomies hit her daily. And when they did, you just had to stand back and witness pure, uninhibited joy. 

This little dog who came from a cruelty case, who'd been broken physically and probably emotionally, who had every reason to be scared—she chose joy instead. Every single day, she chose joy. 

How a Four-Month-Old Beagle Made Our House a Home 

Our house transformed when Maisy arrived. Before her, we were five roommates coexisting. After her, we became a family. 

Friday nights, when people would start showing up before we went out, became Maisy's time to shine. She'd greet everyone at the door, tail wagging so hard her entire back end moved. Friends who'd come to see us ended up spending twenty minutes on the floor with her instead. 

"Can we just stay here with the dog?" someone would ask, only half-joking. Sometimes we did. 

She made our house a home. College can be deeply lonely—you're surrounded by people constantly, but somehow that makes the loneliness worse. But with Maisy, I could just be. She didn't care if I was interesting. She just cared that I was there. 

The Saturday Night That Changed My Perspective

Everyone was out. The house felt too big and too empty. My phone lit up with Snapchat stories—parties, bars, people having the exact kind of night everyone expects you to have in college. 

And I was on the couch with Maisy, watching Pretty Woman with DoorDashed Flower Child on the way. 

I'd stayed home because she'd seemed quieter than usual, and I didn't want her to be alone. Or maybe I'd stayed home because I didn't want to be alone, and being with her felt less lonely than being surrounded by people who were only half-present. 

She was curled against my leg, Lamby tucked under her chin. I was half-watching the movie, half-watching her breathe, mostly just existing in the same space as her. The house was quiet except for the TV and her soft sighs. 

It wasn't the thrill-seeking night I was supposed to want. But something about it felt right. 

We got closer that night, just by being near each other. No agenda, no performance, just casual proximity that somehow meant everything. 

College can feel like you're constantly chasing the next thing. But that Saturday night, doing absolutely nothing with a four-month-old beagle, I realized I'd been chasing the wrong things. 

This—this—was what mattered. 

The Email That Changed Everything 

It started with a call from the vet saying they wanted to check Maisy's leg. And then the news: she'd healed. She was ready to go back to HSNT and be available for adoption. 

Then came the email. 

"Great news! Maisy will be at our PetSmart adoption event tomorrow." 

I read it three times. The words didn't change. 

Great news. The phrase felt wrong. Because it was great news—Maisy was healed and ready to find her forever home, exactly what we'd signed up to help her do. But it also meant she was leaving. Tomorrow. 

We'd known this was coming. The entire premise of fostering is that it's temporary. But knowing something and feeling it are entirely different experiences. 

My roommates, if I'm being honest, were ready. They loved Maisy, but they'd had a less hands-on approach. They were tired of the accidents, the mess, the chaos. They wanted some quiet and normalcy back. Maybe a hired professional to scrub the couch.

I couldn't blame them. But I also couldn't imagine the house without her. 

We tried—desperately—to get close friends to adopt her. But puppies are hard. Everyone loved her, but no one was ready for the reality of what she required. The early mornings. The constant attention. The chewed shoes and the accidents and the medication schedule. 

She deserved someone who was ready. Someone who could give her the forever home she'd been waiting for. 

Even if that someone wasn't us. 

The Last Few Days: Memorizing Every Moment 

Those final days felt like they moved in slow motion and at hyperspeed simultaneously. Every moment felt weighted, significant. 

I took so many photos. Videos of her running in the backyard, her broken leg fully healed—a testament to what HSNT's medical team and foster care could accomplish together. Pictures of her sleeping on the couch. A video of her greeting me at the door after class, entire body wiggling with excitement. 

My camera roll became a shrine. 

On her last night with us, all five of us sat in the living room—the last time we would all coexist like we had been doing. We didn't plan it; we just gravitated there. She went from person to person, giving each of us attention, like she somehow knew this was goodbye. 

I scratched behind her ears, and she leaned into my hand with her full weight. "You're going to have such a good life," I whispered to her. 

I wanted to believe it. I needed to believe it. 

Goodbye Isn't Easy (Even When It's Right) 

The day before the adoption event, we brought Maisy back to the shelter. 

I held her one last time in the parking lot, her small body warm against mine, Lamby tucked under her chin. We'd packed up her things: the bed, the treats, the toys. The pink collar with our names engraved on the back stayed on her neck—proof that we'd mattered to her story, even if just for three weeks. 

Walking through those shelter doors felt like walking toward the edge of something I wasn't ready to fall off of.

HSNT staff took her gently, reassuring us she'd find the perfect home at tomorrow's PetSmart event. I couldn't look at her as they carried her back. I couldn't watch her disappear behind those doors, wondering if she thought we were abandoning her too. 

My roommate had to be the one to hand her over while I held it together, nodding, pretending I was fine. 

On the drive home, "When She Loved Me" came on the radio. I didn't cry hysterically. I cried quietly, watching the road pass by—the same road we'd taken when we first brought her home. The same streets where she'd looked out the window like she was seeing the world unfold all at once. The same route, but this time without her small body in my lap, without her curious eyes taking it all in. 

My roommate drove in silence, letting me sit with it, because what else was there to say? The next day, within an hour of the adoption event starting, she was adopted. One hour. 

I found out through HSNT's Instagram story. There she was—Maisy, in someone else's arms. I stared at the photo, trying to gauge her expression. Was she happy? Scared? Did she miss us? Did she wonder where we'd gone? 

Our house felt too quiet immediately. Like someone had removed a vital organ and expected us to function normally. 

A few weeks later, I received a text from another HSNT foster who'd reached out to Maisy's new family to check in. She sent me a photo: Maisy nestled up on a couch, looking content and loved. Her new family had young sons who spent hours playing with her. They thanked us for the time we'd spent with her, for helping her heal. 

I stared at that photo for a long time. 

She looked happy. She looked home. 

And even though it hurt—even though I missed her with an intensity that didn't make sense for three weeks—I was grateful. Grateful that we got to be the bridge between her broken past and her joyful future. Grateful that those young boys would grow up with her. Grateful that she'd never have to wonder if she was safe again. 

She was exactly where she was supposed to be. 

Even if a part of me wished that place was still with us. 

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me: A Foster Parent's Guide

Check your lease. Know the rules before you fall in love. 

Be realistic about your schedule. Look at your actual life and honestly assess whether you can carve out hours every day for a living being who depends on you. HSNT's foster coordinators can help match you with a dog or cat that fits your lifestyle. 

You won't know everything. You'll mess up. You'll have moments of panic Googling things at 2 AM. That's okay. HSNT provides supplies, medical care, and 24/7 support. You're never alone in this. 

It takes a village. You need roommates who are on board, friends who'll cover when you can't. Build that village before you commit. 

The goodbye will hurt. It will hurt more than you expect. Let it hurt. The hurt is proof that it mattered. And HSNT staff understand—they've seen it before, and they'll help you through it. 

It's worth it. All of it. The destroyed shoes, the ruined schedule, the 6 AM wake-up calls, the goodbye that breaks your heart. It's worth it because you get to be the difference in a dog's life. You get to be the bridge between their past and their future. 

Three Weeks That Changed Everything 

Three weeks. That's all it was. 

Three weeks that taught me more about responsibility and love and letting go than anything else had managed to teach me. 

I'm not fostering currently—my schedule got too busy. But I will again. When my life is more stable, I'll reach out to HSNT and fill out that application again. 

Because Maisy taught me something crucial: temporary doesn't mean meaningless. Sometimes the most meaningful things in our lives are the ones we know we can't keep. 

My favorite heels are still ruined. I still have that skirt shoved in my closet. I still scroll through photos of Maisy late at night. 

And I wouldn't change any of it. Because for three weeks, I got to be exactly who I needed to be. Present. Responsible. Needed. 

For three weeks, we gave Maisy a home. And in return, she taught us what home actually means. 

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Humane Society of North Texas - Pets and People, Saving Each Other®

HSNT’s mission is to save, shelter, protect, and advocate for all animals in need in North Texas.

www.hsnt.org