So I just called Kizzy's foster mom and told him that he wasn't going to work out here. A serious case of "it's not him, it's me." We went for a long walk this morning, through the beautifully hilly forests of William & Mary College. Then when we got home I had to slip out for two minutes to put his blanket in the washer because he had an accident last night--my fault for not taking him out one last time. But when I went to open the door he was out in a heartbeat, down the stairs and poking around in the bushes...I was momentarily grateful for the college student that had thrown up in the mulch on Friday night, because that was the only thing that stopped him. I picked him up and put him in his crate and headed back out the door, blanket and vinegar in hand. He barked. And barked, and barked and barked, barked like he's never barked before. Coming back I could hear him in the parking lot. I think he's figured out that when he's in his crate, I'm gone--and he's alone.
And that was the moment when I knew Kizzy isn't the dog for me. He's a wonderful, sweet, generous dog, but he needs a family, kids, other dogs, he doesn't need a single mom who's turning into a workaholic and who has not been feeling the best lately. I feel terrible for having put him through the ordeal of coming to live with me and my roommates, and now he'll have to adjust to a whole new place and a new family--but I know that that's the best for him. Sure, I could keep him, crate him all day and totally break his spirit, but that's not what I want, and that's not what he deserves. He deserves better than me, basically.
So that was unfun. Thank you everyone for your kind words of encouragement and the gifts...I don't know when he'll be leaving, but it will probably be next weekend.