When we adopted him six years ago, Bosco the Sheltie was a bit on the wild side: he stole toast off our plates, riffled through coat pockets to pilfer treats and once even snatched part of a sandwich from a young woman who was sitting cross-legged in the grass.

 

The bowlegged, tricolored fellow with big ears had been taken in by Sheltie Rescue of Georgia after he was found wandering a street in Atlanta one snowy day. He was strongwilled and passionate: about trucks and buses (he circled with excitement when they passed) and even moreso food. But he was also loving, protective of his family and heartbreakingly sweet. He never stopped being grateful for his forever home. Long after the cheap brown fleecy bed I bought for him wore out, he refused to surrender it for a nice one. It was parked right next to our own bed, and at night he burrowed down into it with the same determination he brought to everything else.

 

Bosco was the name his foster family gave him, and it stuck. He was two years old when we got him, we think; with rescued dogs you never know for sure. In the five years we had him, he suffered a series of health problems. There were gallbladder issues. An absence of cartilage in one of his hind legs, which gave him a perpetual limp. A series of benign tumors forced the amputation of one of his toes. We fought the pain with everything from surgery to morphine drips to acupuncture. Bosco persevered as long as he could.

 

Finally, his body had had enough and when he lost his appetite, we knew it was time for that final visit to the vet. We kissed him goodbye a year ago today. Bosco was the neediest of our dogs, and maybe that’s why losing him hurt the worst. His forlorn-looking bed is still tucked in my closet, taking up way too much space. I’ll be ready to toss it someday, but not just yet.