A Golden Retriever Changed My Life

Thirteen years ago, the Universe conspired to bring us together in a whirlwind event that had ripple effects on everyone in my family for years. On this day in 2006, my cousin and his wife were waiting to turn at a red light when they were hit by a semi that lost control, sideswiping them and the row of cars stopped behind them. That night, we offered to take care of Bosco while my cousin and his wife recovered, thinking it would be a week or two while they could focus on getting out of the hospital and healing. At that point in time, we had been married just under a year, and had purchased our first home only a couple of weeks prior to the accident. We had not been thinking about, talking about, or looking for a pet! But the first night we went to bed with that soft and sassy golden snuggled between us, I knew in my heart that he had found his forever home.

One afternoon there was a voicemail waiting for us after work stating that the puppy was too much for them to manage on top of everything else, and either we could claim him or they would find him a new home. We walked to Sonic on that chilly October night to celebrate with some vanilla soft serve, which became a tradition for the three of us on special occasions.

At three months, he was potty trained when he moved in with us, but hadn’t had any other disciplines instilled yet. So we enrolled in the obedience course at the Boulder Humane Society, which teaches clicker training. On the afternoon following his ‘graduation’ from the class, he somehow retrieved the paper certificate and the plastic clicker from the kitchen counter and destroyed both of them. This ironic act of defiance fit directly in line with the independent personality Bosco showcased in all areas of his world.

When he was happy, the whole room was electrified with his joy. The unconditional affection that he lavished on us was the best way to come home after a tough day at work. And when he had done something naughty, he was guilty from head to tail! If he didn’t greet us at the door, we knew instantly something was wrong. He would cower in the corner while we searched for anything out of place, usually finding a chewed up piece of mail or music, the remnants of a loaf of bread he had nabbed from the counter, or – once – Brian’s hand-knit Christmas stocking partially unraveled. (Mom fixed it, and the next year she placed warning jingle bells in the toes of all of our stockings – the “Bubby bells,” which worked like a charm!) When you discovered the incident, he would slowly make his way over to you in the most pathetic army crawl, avoiding eye contact and radiating shame. Generally, watching us clean up the mess he had left seemed to be punishment enough because he would spend the next hour slinking around after you with remorseful eyes that begged forgiveness and promised good behavior from that moment on. 

Even in spite of his dependence on steroids to manage his Addison’s Disease, he loved food. Eating it, as well as watching us prepare it – especially salads. We called this sous-chefing, when he would insert himself as close to the counter as possible, and watch the activity with rapt attention. His favorite snack was leafy green vegetables! On one trip to pick up our farm share, he couldn’t restrain himself and I caught him chomping happily on some beet greens sticking out of the market bag. And breakfast and dinner were served on very strict schedules – unerringly within 5 minutes of his meal time, he would station himself in front of you and stare you down, in case you might forget that it was almost time to eat. When you scooped the kibbles out for him, he jumped in two quick ecstatic circles while making his way to his dish, which we referred to as his dinner dance.

He enjoyed riding in the car, hanging his head out the window and reveling in the wind rushing through his ears. He was always welcome at my parent's house when we spent time with them, and when we turned down their street he knew where we were headed. He had a loop around mom and dad’s acreage that he would do when he got out of the car, taking off and lapping around just beyond their treeline to check in on his land marks and explore any new developments, and eventually make it back around to the driveway. When he really got to run, it was a beautiful thing to watch the joy he experienced at full gallop. 

We were very fortunate to have supportive family so close, because one of the main complications from the Addison’s meant that any environmental changes or experiences outside of his routine stressed him out. It would take weeks to recover from a couple of days at the kennel, and once he was diagnosed and we figured out what was happening, my parents welcomed him any time we both had to travel. As much as he adored them both, he also knew they would do anything for him, and tended to take advantage of getting spoiled. Bosco could look sideways at the door at any point in time, and my dad would jump up to take him outside. And mom was prone to keeping puppy treats in her pockets, and if she was relaxing on the couch, he would nose his way in and help himself – no personal space!

He really loved to play in the snow. One winter afternoon we took him to my parents’ house and spent the day sledding on their large hill. Bosco definitely did not enjoy the experience from one of our laps in a saucer moving down the slope, but he LOVED chasing us down the hill! He would then grab the plastic sled from us and pull it back up the hill, ready to chase the next passenger down.

Swimming was also a fun pastime for him, though it was a skill that he had to re-learn every spring when it got warm enough to venture into ponds and streams. He would dash into the water eagerly, but the second his feet left the security of the ground, he would turn back toward the shore in panic and have to gather his wits about him before he’d venture back into the shallows. Inevitably, the pull of the tennis ball floating just beyond his reach would become so great he couldn’t resist, and he would steel himself to go after it. This first attempt always involved great strokes of his front legs coming up out of the water, generating huge splashes that obstructed his vision and pushed the ball he was after even further away. He would turn around, splash back to the shore, re-set, and try again. Each attempt became a little more graceful, until you could see the light bulb moment when he would find the rhythm, and swim gracefully after his prize. He would then swim the perimeter of the body of water he was in, collecting other balls – some that had been abandoned, and some that were involved in ongoing games of fetch. The most he ever got in his mouth at one time was three, which was quite a feat.

There were so may moments in our time together when it was obvious to me that he was absolutely meant to be a part of our family. The timing on us just moving into a pet-friendly place when he needed somewhere to stay. When he was diagnosed with Addison’s disease and several people in our life were surprised at our willingness to purchase and regularly inject him with the medicine his adrenal system needed to regulate itself. And the way he so easily assumed the role of my sidekick when I started working from home. There is no doubt in my mind that whether you know it or not, when the time is right, a pet will find its way into your life!

When we moved to Lafayette, our new back yard became a peaceful sanctuary for him. He knew every stone, every blade of grass, every short cut onto the deck. The last few months, the only time I felt like he was content was when he was lounging in the grass. He would settle in and pant happily, enjoying the sunshine and using his nose to follow the goings-on around him.

In his final years, he lost his hearing so gradually that I thought he had simply become an ornery old man who didn’t think he needed to listen to me when I called to him out in the yard. But when he didn’t react to the doorbell one day, it became apparent that his hardness of hearing was not elective. Eventually, his back legs got stiff and stopped cooperating with him. He rapidly lost his vision completely after last Christmas, which resulted in his hesitancy to tackle stairs and a new dependence on walls and furniture to find his way around the house. It also meant I abandoned my desk upstairs in the loft, and settled into a routine of working at the dining room table or the kitchen island, because it was such a challenge to get him back downstairs when he would inevitably find his way up the stairs searching for me. 

We had to say goodbye at the end of June. We spent his final day in the back yard, lounging in the grass, and enjoying the sunshine and some vanilla soft serve. All things considered, Bosco lived a really good life. He knew love and comfort, and shared his light with everyone in our life. 

Rest well, sweet friend. I will forever be grateful to have called you mine.