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.

 

 

The pups and I hit the Dog Park yesterday, right as the sun was starting to set over the Missouri. It was cold — 30 degrees and falling — but heart-stoppingly beautiful, the snow-covered park stretched out beneath a buttery-gray sky. Best of all were the muffled sounds of dogs racing past on packed snow. Jillie the border collie got her run in and Chachi, the husky mix, got some face time with one of his favorite humans — i.e., the woman whose pockets smelled as if they might contain treats.

 

We were celebrating my return home after a week spent with family in Tennessee. I work upstairs in our house in Montana, so when I leave town the dogs really feel the difference. I have to confess, part of me enjoys an occasional break from the pack, the chance not to feel compelled to interrupt work every couple of hours or so to play a round of fetch or tug. At my parents’ in Kingsport, I got my animal fix by hanging out some with my dad’s three goats: a golden-eyed normal-sized goat and two pygmy goats he bought a couple of months ago. The smaller goats were still too skittish to come near, but the bigger goat followed my dad and I along the edge of the barn, cocked her head sideways as my dad scooped out a cupful of feed and, later, stood still as I petted her and my dad curried-combed her coat.

 

Goats strike me as perfectly pleasant pets. They’re low maintenance but good-natured and responsive. If we lived out in the country I’d want some for myself. Sorry, Jillie, but something tells me you would not be able to herd goats.

Yesterday was one of those days we live for in northcentral Montana: warm, sunny — OK, a little breezy — but so much nicer than the sub-zero temps we’d endured for the past week. The dogs and I celebrated with two walks. In the morning we drove to Gibson Park, the largest of Great Falls’ 56 parks, and walked twice around the 1.3-mile path. Chachi, our husky mix, loves Gibson Park so much he cries when he hears the words; we can’t get there fast enough. There must be more to smell there, is all I can figure. He kept burying his nose in the snow and inhaling deeply before bolting forward with a gallop, as far as his long lead would allow him. Jillie the border collie is all about the squirrels, and happily the squirrels at Gibson Park oblige by stepping onto the path and waiting for us to approach. They mistake us, apparently, for friendly strangers who come bearing nuts. Sorry, guys. We just want to run you up a tree.

The thermometer said 1 degree when we left home. By the time we arrived back at the house an hour later, it had risen to 34. Too good to be true! By late afternoon it was in the mid-40s, so we headed out again, this time to the River’s Edge Trail, where Chachi and Jillie crisscrossed back and forth, dodging the icy patches, as we strolled briskly along the Missouri River in the direction of the falls.

Walking a dog is so much more fun than walking solo because you find yourself looking at the world through an animal’s eyes. These two are delighted by sights and sounds I would never notice on my own. To watch them trot along, savoring the adventure, is a reminder that dogs need to get out and experience the world. They are so much more complicated than the dumb, emotionless creatures large-volume dog breeders would have us believe they are. The next time you think of buying a dog, ask yourself: do you really want to do business with anyone who keeps dogs in cages, deprived of even the simplest of life’s pleasures? I don’t care how well-kept a kennel is, if the breeding dogs are confined day in and day out, it’s a puppy mill — the last place you should turn for a new pet.