Jax is the kind of dog that makes you believe in pure, unadulterated happiness. He’s a big, goofy shepherd mix, all soft brown fur and boundless enthusiasm, with ears that flop exactly when they shouldn’t. He has been my foster for nine long months—274 days, to be exact—and in that time, he has become my shadow, my co-worker, and the constant, comforting weight against my legs on the sofa.
My job, as a foster mom, is simple: to make my dogs ready for forever, and then let them go. But with Jax, that second part has proven impossible, not because I want to keep him (though, oh, how I do), but because the universe seems determined to keep sending him back to me.
Over these nine months, Jax has been put up for adoption, his profile shining on the shelter website, his personality glowing brighter than any filter. He has met dozens of potential adopters, and every single time, he has been rejected. It’s a painful tally, a list of “nopes” for the sweetest soul I’ve ever known, and it’s time to share the reasons people have passed him by, because frankly, they’re ridiculous
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I started keeping a mental log of the reasons people walked away from Jax. I think I did it to keep myself sane, to try and find the flaw everyone else saw. But every reason, when stripped down, just proved how perfect, and how misunderstood, he truly is.
The first serious rejection happened three weeks in. The potential adopters, a lovely young couple, spent an hour playing fetch with Jax in the yard. Jax, full of the joy of finally having a safe, open space, ran at full speed, skidding to a happy halt. The couple smiled the whole time, right up until the husband delivered the verdict: “He’s just… too much dog.”
The Truth: Jax is large, yes. He’s 75 pounds of lean, goofy muscle. But he’s also a gentle giant. He knows how to settle. He doesn’t chew things he shouldn’t. He just takes up space, and apparently, his sheer largeness was seen as an impediment, not an opportunity for bigger cuddles.
A woman who worked from home was looking for a silent companion. She came over, and Jax, ever the gentleman, greeted her with a respectful sniff and then retreated to his favorite spot on the rug. The meeting was quiet and successful.
A day later, she emailed the shelter: “I need a dog that absolutely never barks. Jax let out one small ‘woof’ when the doorbell rang. I can’t risk it.”
The Truth: Jax barks precisely three times a day: once when he needs to go out, once when the mailman leaves (a traditional right), and once when he’s dreaming about squirrels. He is not a nuisance barker. He is a communicative barker. But for this adopter, one single, appropriate woof was a failure to meet an impossible standard.
This one was the hardest to hear. An older gentleman came, looking specifically for a loyal, older companion. He loved Jax’s energy, his gentle demeanor, and his eagerness to please. He was almost filling out the paperwork when he paused, looking intently at Jax’s face.
“He looks too sad,” the man confessed, putting the pen down. “Look at his eyes. They’re soulful, but they look like they’ve seen too much. I want a happy-looking dog.”
The Truth: Jax has the classic, deep-set, dark-rimmed eyes of many shepherd mixes. They are expressive, intelligent, and yes, sometimes they look pensive. It is simply his natural face! He is a happy dog who loves life and toys, but he was rejected for the shape of his handsome eyes.
Jax’s official profile lists him as a German Shepherd/Hound mix. A family drove three hours to meet him, convinced they needed a purebred Golden Retriever, but they loved Jax’s profile picture so much they risked the trip.
They spent the entire afternoon with him. They threw the ball, they walked him, their kids giggled as Jax carefully licked their hands. Everything went perfectly until the mom said, “We just realized… he’s not a Golden. We really wanted a Golden.”
The Truth: They had fallen in love with him. They loved his temperament, his patience with the children, and his gentle heart. But in the end, the label was more important than the loving dog standing right in front of them. The arbitrary breed preference trumped a proven connection.
Each time the car pulls away and Jax isn’t in it, my heart sinks. And each time, Jax, sensing the emotional shift, nudges my hand with his wet nose, reminding me that even though he failed the audition, he still has a home, for now.
Nine months is a long time for a dog to wait. It means nine months of shelter costs, nine months of emotional labor from me, and nine months of Jax’s love waiting for its ultimate destination. He’s not broken. He’s not difficult. He is loyal, house-trained, great on a leash, and the perfect mixture of playful and lazy.
I know his forever family is out there. Someone who won’t see a “too much dog” but a perfect companion. Someone who will appreciate his three protective barks and his deeply soulful eyes. Someone who understands that love is not confined by breed preference or perceived sadness.
Until that perfect human arrives, Jax and I will keep sharing this velvet couch. But please, if you know someone looking for 75 pounds of pure, rejected love, send them my way. Jax deserves to graduate from his foster home and finally settle into the one place he was always meant to be.
