Junes, a.k.a Junebugs. His actual name was Junior (mother's choice, not mine--I wanted to call him Frankie,) but that was only cute when I could hold him in one hand.
Got him when he was five weeks old as a private rescue (I found an ad for him online and me and my mother both thought there was something strange about the look in his eye, so we decided to look him up).
When I got him he was a half-dead little thing who had worms, a severe case of anaemia and really matted fur. I've never seen a sicker puppy. Took him to the vets the next day and they tried to take him away from me. To keep him alive, mind you, but I decided to care of him myself. I have experience with rescues AND puppies, so I knew what I was doing.
I didn't sleep for three days, though, because I was so afraid that he would die when I wasn't looking. He pulled through. He was strong, stubborn and just as willing to share food as I am. That is to say, not at all.
He had serious problems with food aggression and anxiety for a long time. Blood, sweat and tears literally went into making him the cuddle monster that he was in the end. He never got to a point where he would let just anyone take things out of his mouth, and he could still snap at strangers when pushed into a corner. Oh, and he hated the vets, but we had some really bad experiences there that I just couldn't seem to let him let go of. My fault. But still, it was impossible to push him out of bed at night, or to lock him out of the bathroom when I had a shower. He'd whine and whine and kiss me to death. Manipulative little prick.
If you're wondering, he was a rottweiler/great dane/akita inu crossbreed, and he was huge.