This week I faced one of the worst situations a foster of rescued animals can face: a beloved foster dog ran out of second chances. He had some issues with resource guarding, and despite our efforts to rehabilitate him, he finally bit my partner hard enough to draw blood, over a tissue that had fallen on the ground. Most rescue groups, including the one I volunteer with, will not adopt out a dog that bites. My foster dog had become unadoptable. The only ethical, responsible course of action was to euthanize him. I kissed him goodbye, told him I was sorry, and handed him to the vet tech. It was an awful, awful day.

That evening I spent some time at the pound, where a mama cat and her tiny kittens were waiting for their new foster to pick them up. This mama cat is no more than 7 months old, and her babies were only about 2 days old, with little shriveled remnants of their umbilical cords still clinging to their bellies. They were only the size of my palm. I picked all 5 of them up, one at a time, amazed at their pussy-willow softness. Little Mama laid back and smiled and purred, kneading the air with her front paws (I call it "making air biscuits".)

Whenever the sadness over my lost foster dog washes over me, the sight and the feel of those tiny, warm, palm-sized kittens and their smiling mother comes back to me just as strongly.