Last week, a friend of mine called me with an unexpected invitation.

A friend of hers who runs a pet ministry at a local church called her about Daisy. Although she regularly fosters dogs and would have opened her own home, her schedule was very busy and she remembered I was considering adopting a dog from a shelter. She thought this would be a good experience for me.

Daisy, she explained, is an older dog, maybe around ten; a toy poodle. She is toilet trained, very affectionate, not a barker, and healthy. Daisy’s back story, as she understood it:

Her owner had a stroke several months ago. Her owner’s landlady provided basic care, but, as it looked like her owner was going to be in an extended care facility for some time (maybe never being able to return to full capacity), Daisy and two cats needed to find new homes.

I picked her up a week ago with the understanding that I would reach out to my friends about finding a permanent home and that if that didn’t happen before I left for vacation, I would give her back.

I emailed photos to some of my friends with the announcement, “I am a foster mom” and included an explanation of Daisy’s situation. Then I set out to make her comfortable while establishing a few ground rules.

I bought her a few toys (which she ignores) and a fake fur lined bed (which she loves). I placed an old towel on the floor next to my desk so she could hang out with me during the day.

I placed a few chairs sideways as a barrier to my living room entrance. She found a way in once but seems to understand that the space is off limits unless I am also in the room.

I’ve come to find some of her pecadilloes oddly endearing.

She doesn’t like to walk on my hardwood floors (too slippery) or walk down my spiraling back stairs (also wood). Once her leash is attached to her collar, she’ll scamper out onto my deck from my kitchen then stop and wait until I pick her up an carry her down the stairs.

She doesn’t like to get wet. When we encounter a lawn sprinkler while we’re out, she’ll stop before placing one of her paws over the soaked sidewalk. I am resigned to tug at her leash until she breaks her locked gaze on the flowing arc and we can move into the street long enough to avoid any possible misting.

Daisy doesn’t like to be alone. She will follow me around my apartment. Every time I get up from my desk to get something from the refrigerator, or when I pad from my bedroom to the kitchen to get the teakettle going in the morning, she’ll shadow me. I think I understand her psyche. A pet must always keep an eye out for their person.

She’s followed me into the bathroom while I was showering. While never feeling like David Letterman when Margaret Mary Ray was stalking him, under the hot spray, I’d sense that I was not alone.

I would draw open the plastic curtain and see Daisy staring at me with her fluffy white head cocked, in poodle princess mode, wondering what the hell I was doing in a large tub with water pelting me from above.

And at night, I’d chuckle thinking that Rocky, the Flying Squirrel had nothing on Daisy, the Flying Poodle. Wanting to get in my bed in the worst way, she would stand up on her hind legs and leap up multiple times hoping to land on the top of my mattress.

Her legs are too short to manage this herself, and I have been unwilling to enable her by hauling her into bed with me.

I’ve made it a point, though, to sleep on the edge of my bed and place her furry futon along the same wall so that she could always see me and know that I didn’t disappear. How she has made a nest for herself in my bedroom has made me smile.

Knowing that someone wants to sleep close enough that you are the first thing they see when they wake up is no small thing.

If you live in the Chicago area and might be interested in giving Daisy a permanent home, I’d love to hear from you.