"I'm so sorry to call you this late."

"I'm so sorry to call you this late."
It was 3:47 AM when the rescue coordinator's voice cracked through my phone. I'd picked up Mochi earlier that day—a sweet, cream-colored Pittie with the softest ears I'd ever touched. Standard foster. Two weeks, maybe three, until she found her forever home.

"Her sister is destroying our intake kennel," the coordinator said. "She hasn't stopped screaming since Mochi left. We've tried everything. Blankets with her scent. Kongs. Thunder vests. She broke a tooth trying to chew through the gate."
I looked down at Mochi, who was sleeping at the foot of my bed. Except... she wasn't really sleeping. Her eyes were open. Staring at the door. Waiting.

I drove to the shelter at 4 AM in my pajamas.
Matcha was a disaster. Hoarse from screaming, paws raw from pacing, trembling so hard she could barely stand. The second she smelled Mochi in my car, she collapsed against the crate and went completely still. Like she could finally breathe.
"Just foster them together for a few days," they said. "Until we figure out placement."

That was eight months ago.

They sleep in a pile every night. They eat from the same bowl even though I bought two. When Mochi goes to the vet, Matcha comes. When Matcha gets groomed, Mochi waits in the lobby.
I was supposed to be their temporary stop. Turns out, I was their destination.

Time passed, and the two of them became inseparable in ways I hadn’t imagined possible. Even when guests came over, they moved as one—Mochi sniffing, Matcha shadowing, a perfect tandem of mischief and comfort. I often caught them in the quiet moments, pressed together on the sofa, ears twitching, breathing synchronized. It was like they had invented their own language, one I was slowly learning to understand.

Their personalities complemented each other. Mochi was the fearless adventurer, the first to greet strangers, the first to leap into puddles or chase shadows. Matcha was the careful observer, the one who studied every corner, every movement, before daring a step. Watching them navigate the world together was like witnessing a perfect balance of courage and caution—a little universe of their own, bound by loyalty.

Vet visits became almost comical. Mochi would barrel through the doors, tail wagging, dragging Matcha behind her, who reluctantly shuffled along, ears flat but eyes wide with trust. The staff learned quickly to greet them as a package deal. One nurse joked that separating them would cause an international incident. I laughed, but inside, I knew it wasn’t a joke—it was true. They were family, and the world outside had to respect that.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear them whispering to each other in the dark, paws brushing, noses nudging. I’d sit on the edge of the bed and watch, amazed by the intensity of their connection. It was a reminder of the fragility of life and the beauty that can emerge when two beings find their perfect counterpart. It made the chaos of fostering, the long drives, the sleepless nights, feel small in comparison.

Now, when people ask me how long I’ve been fostering, I smile and say, “Longer than I expected, and shorter than I’d ever want it to end.” Because Mochi and Matcha didn’t just fill my home—they filled my heart. What began as a temporary stop turned into something permanent, something undeniable: love multiplied by two, sleeping in a pile at the foot of the bed, reminding me every day that some souls are meant to find each other, no matter the odds.