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.
