Fostering Dogs

I stared suspiciously at my Tasmanian correspondent. 

"Would you mind repeating yourself?" I asked in tones of measured politeness.  "Did you say you'd been attacked by a bear?"

"No you idiot," she snarled.  "Take that damn tinfoil from around your head and pay attention.  I said," but whatever she was going to say was drowned in a ghastly inhuman howl that drowned out all attempts at conversation.  I looked around wildly trying to see the pack of mutated wolves that must be threatening the life of my correspondent.  Then, suddenly suspicious, I contacted my tech support.

"Random question guys?"

"Have we by any chance been involved in a black ops genetic engineering project breeding monstrous sized wolves accustomed to feeding on human flesh and then released said wolves onto the streets of Hobart as part of the final testing stage before unleashing our hell hounds onto an unsuspecting world?"

"Ah, yeah.  Something like that."

"Of course not.  We wouldn't do something like that, again."

"It isn't wolves," interrupted my correspondent.  "It's the neighbour's foster dog."

It turns out that my correspondent's neighbours are currently fostering a dog called Bear.  From her description it seems to be a cross between a labrador and a hippopotamus.  My correspondent's involvement with "Bear" seems to involve picking him up when he escapes from his apparently not particularly attentive carers.  It would appear that it isn't only humans who slip between the cracks of our foster system.  Despite Bear's rather impressive bulk he apparently has no problem tiptoeing out while the neighbour's attention is elsewhere.

I wondered aloud if my correspondent's neighbours were the best people to look after a troubled dog.  She pointed out that they were raising four boys and a large dog of their own so they should be experienced with unmanageable animals.  They were also once responsible for a stealth wombat.  I cast a suspicious glance at my tech support but for once they appeared as bewildered as I.

Apparently at an earlier stage in their journey as not particularly effective animal fosterers these neighbours took charge of a wombat.  For those who don't know, a wombat is a sort of small, furry tank.  Their natural habitat is stretched out dead by the side of the road but occasionally one encounters a live one, normally with one's car.  This particular wombat made a habit of lurking in the shadows and then charging out when least expected and slamming into the legs of passing human beings.  This was probably a sort of race memory revenge for all of its kindred that have been hit by cars.  Still it didn't seem to indicate any sort of high quality fostering skills.

Despite this when a bloated, independent minded labrapotamus needed housing these people put their hands up and it currently resides next door to my correspondent.  She says this is only temporary.  In her opinion the thing is likely to die of a heart attack trying to get up the drive.