I never loved Sparky. I took in the 15-year-old Yorkie for six weeks because he needed a place to stay. But the six weeks stretched to six months, until this morning when he died in my arms.

Six months ago his owner’s daughter suggested just putting him down. So I took him to my vet, who said that he was clearly a hospice case, but wasn’t ready to go yet. So I kept him.

I never fell in love with him; to be honest, I never had the inclination. But I cared for him just as I care for my own two dogs (both of whom were rescued from shelters).

A few weeks ago, I wrote this about him: He’s just an old, smelly dog. Not someone’s beloved mother or handicapped child. He has no potential. In the general scheme of things, he simply doesn’t matter. So, on the grand scale of life and our purpose here on earth, do all my efforts on his behalf really matter?

The answer is yes, of course it matters. Not because of the dog but because of me.

I’m that person. The one who cares even when I don’t want to. Who avoids conflict like the plague. Who truly believes, despite all indications to the contrary, that people are inherently good. Who thinks that an icky little dog deserves to be treated with kindness, just as does every person.

The difference with Sparky is that my normal boundaries were dissolved. As a rabbi, I often find myself behaving in a loving manner, regardless of whether or not I love the person. I’m happy to be supportive and helpful, and lend a listening ear. Then I can go home and, if I need to, turn off the phone.

Not so with a dog living in my home. I bought him special foods, walked and bathed him, took him to the groomer and the vet, bought a carrier so he could come on walks when he no longer could walk on his own. I listened to him snore at night and cleaned up his messes in the morning.

This morning, I wept while my vet gave him three successive shots to end his life. I knew it was time; I’d watched him go into a steep decline over the past weeks until his quality of life had nearly vanished. I hesitated last night when he seemed pretty peppy on our walk, but on the way home he couldn’t manage to go any further and had to be carried.

People like to say that dogs wait by the rainbow bridge for their owner to join them. Sparky won’t be waiting for me. There’s a 93-year-old woman in a nursing home far away who bought him as a puppy. She loved him dearly for many years and still yearns for him. They’ll be happy to see each other.

As for me, I will settle back into my old routine with my two dogs, both of whom are seniors. Me too. I joke that we are a geriatric household.

I don’t regret taking Sparky into my home and my life. Yes, it was hard. This morning was awful. And other things happened in that six months — including a disastrous job experience — that challenged me.

But I learned so much. About my tolerance for disruption, about my ability to deal with hard decisions and unreliable people. About my willingness to take on difficult tasks that need doing.

And I learned to love an unloveable dog and weep as he died.