Zeque

When an emergency email from the Sacramento Front Street Animal Shelter hit my inbox on June 14, 2025, I barely hesitated. It read, “Two of our buildings are currently under Parvo quarantine… we’re hoping to place as many dogs as possible into temporary foster homes starting tomorrow.”

I forwarded it to my wife Adele with a simple message: “Why not?”

The idea of fostering a dog wasn’t new. During the early days of COVID-19, when the world was in lockdown and time moved as slow as molasses, we had tossed around the idea of bringing a dog into our lives. We figured fostering was a low-risk way to see if a dog would fit into our lifestyle, and after some online sleuthing, we applied to become fosters through Front Street Shelter.

But as with most things during the pandemic, the process was a slog of forms and virtual classes. By the time we were ready, the shelter’s kennels had been picked over. The few remaining dogs were mostly pit bulls—sweet dogs, but not quite what we were looking for. One promising pup caught our eye, but as we stood there deliberating, another couple swooped in and adopted it.

Lesson learned: if you want the dog of your dreams, you’ve got to be quick.

As the world reopened, we got busy with “normal” life again, and the dog dream drifted. The only canine companionship we had was from our daughter’s lovable Labradoodle, Zoey, who used to stay with us during family vacations. Zoey passed away last year, and a Labradoodle-shaped hole has lingered ever since.

So when that urgent foster email arrived, it stirred something. I told Adele, “Let’s do it. And let’s get there early so we can get the proverbial pick of the litter.”

We arrived at the shelter at 2:15 p.m.—the first to show. By 2:30, there was a line out the door. A staffer asked what we were looking for. Adele said, “Medium-sized.” I added, half-joking, “It would be really nice if we could get some kind of a Doodle.”

Adele rolled her eyes. “We’ll never get a Doodle. Everyone wants a Doodle. No one gives them up.”

“Well,” I shrugged, “it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

About 20 minutes later, the staffer returned—with a dirty white, 18-pound male miniature poodle.

“We’ll take it,” we said, almost in unison.

Since our family tradition includes the letter “Z” in everyone’s name, I suggested we name him Zeque—like Zeke, but with a French twist to honor his poodle roots.

Zeque was charming from the start. Spirited, affectionate, and a little too enthusiastic with Adele, who worried about his jumping, nipping, and our garden’s smorgasbord of toxic plants. I, on the other hand, found joy in our walks. Zeque wasn’t just a dog; he was a conversation starter.

One day, a cyclist named William pulled over to meet Zeque. He immediately bonded with the little poodle and said he’d always wanted a dog like him. We hit it off and agreed to go biking together sometime. As the end of our fostering period approached and the shelter asked whether we’d consider adopting Zeque, Adele and I were torn.

That’s when I remembered William. I asked the shelter, “What if we have a friend who wants him?” They said, “Absolutely.”

 So now, William has adopted Zeque. As for us, we may not have adopted Zeque, but we gained a new friend, a new sense of community, and a renewed sense of purpose—all sparked by an email, a dirty little poodle, and a little bit of hope.

~ Al Zagofsky