Loving, Again

A few days after I kissed Finnigan's peppery pink and milky brown speckled-always wet-nose for the last time; I was on the phone with my nephew who very sweetly and sympathetically said, "Aunt Brandi, daddy told me Finn died"; a word I still can not say out loud.  As we continued talking, he asked me when I was going to get another dog.  Isaac was the first person to ask me and he is six-years old so he was also the most appropriate to say what I am gathering so many others were thinking.  I asked Isaac what I should name the dog, trying to lighten the mood. And, he matter of factly said, "Finn Again". Oh, kids.

Isaac loved it when Finn and I visited; he would hold my hand as we traipsed through the giant fields near my mom's house.  Finn would trot along next to us, go off to sniff some type of vermin hole or gawk at the geese because when I said "meatballs", nothing could stop my chocolate nugget from racing to my side. Isaac would tell me tales of the zombie dogs that were hiding behind the trees as he carried his gun and a soft sided cooler as a backpack for his ammunition. When Isaac was just learning to crawl, we taught him to pet Finn gently. And, when he started to toddle through the house; I taught him to play hide 'n' seek with Finn, a game that always caused hoopla at grandma's place.  I heard a rumor once that Isaac immediately ran to hide in a closet at a friend's house and yelled out to their dog to "find me" in his cutie little voice, much to the confusion of the dog.

Isaac's question has been on my mind and a few others have since asked the same one. When Finn was here, the million dollar question was always how many dogs I had; like being a trainer required me to have 50 dogs in my home.  As I was building my business and biding my time in our small apartment, my lease limited me to one dog. And, when Finn and I needed a good time far away from the city, it was super easy to jump in the car and drive to North Carolina, Michigan, Kentucky, Tennessee or wherever and explore whatever the heck we felt like getting into together.  After I bought my place in 2010, I introduced Finn to two dogs on two separate occasions.  He was aging and I knew the type of dog who would mesh well into our home but only wanted to do it if he was downright ecstatic to welcome a furry friend.  Well, both dogs snarled and lunged at him so we remained a one-dog home which worked out mighty nicely when we moved into Camp Kate. Her Bailey is super sweet and happily accepted Finn into his house.

As I grow more and more ready to love another dog, I started the meet and greet process with just a few of the oh-so-many dogs who need homes.  But, this is all uncharted territory for me.  I have never met dogs with the intention of possibly bringing one or more home, with the exception of the two I introduced to Finn. When he crashed into my world, I was in a place in my life where I could care for a dog on my own and had always thought I would bring our family dog, Goldie, with me. But, she was aging and had only known one home. I did not want to tear her away from her familiar environment for my own selfish needs.  Within days of declaring that I was going to start looking for a dog (sans the internet, it was that long ago); my boss told me about an abandoned puppy who was going to be shot if no one took him. I asked no questions and saw no picture but knew I had to rescue him.  The rest is history.

So, this searching for a dog to share my home feels amazing, awkward, and bizarre.  Perhaps I will rescue two rugrats who have always lived together but would struggle if separated? I have met a couple dogs and though I have a strong affinity for every canine I have ever met; one of them just did not care for me and I felt awful that I felt nothing for him.  But, it has to be right and more than a new pal thinking I am cool because I respect his or her space and often have potted meat in my bag or a salmon-filled pouch hanging off my belt. Thinking about opening my heart again does not feel like I am diminishing my relationship with Finn, but honoring it.  I am a dog lover and living without a dog just does not feel natural.   Finn's legacy will live on, and I truly believe three of my close friends who loved me enough to put on birthday hats and watch him eat doggie birthday cake once a year now have dogs because Finnigan opened their inner-canine loving heart. And, Isaac, for his birthday I bought him a life-sized stuffed Golden Retriever toy that he's taught to "rollover", takes everywhere, and aptly named Goldie.  The same day I was introduced to lovely dog #2, my brother told me that they were at their animal shelter meeting dogs.  Atta boy, Finn! Look at all the homes you opened for your fellow canines. Here's another great book that's helping me heal so much!

Purpose and Joy

Sidekick, trusty companion, travel buddy and as many dog-loving pet parents can attest; often the only reason to get out of bed on a rainy, cold Saturday morning. These were just some of the many roles Finn played in my life. And, as I sift through old pictures of him, I notice the grayer and bushier his eyebrows became over his sweet caramel eyes; his smile was also more magnanimous so every ounce of effort I put into keeping him healthy was truly worth it.

I rescued Finn from a hunter who had shunned him to live alone in a barn because all the other dogs in the home were attacking him. I never once questioned if that scrappy puppy and I were right for each other; but I remember how overwhelmed I was knowing that I was Finn's whole world and he counted on me for everything. His health, happiness and safety would always be in my hands; the responsibility scared and humbled me a great deal. But, I would never have guessed how rewarding it would be to care for another living being; how amazing it would be to see myself through Finn's eyes nor how much I would learn about my own life by sharing it with my four-legged kindred spirit.

Finn's purpose in my life was so grand.  If he were writing this; he would have said in what I always imagined to be an animated, yet dopey voice that his job was to make me laugh, he was always so ridiculous and silly. My faithful Finn knew he could cheer me up, even if he never could understand the aches and pains of being human.  What he could not appreciate but I can, is that I was struggling to find a dog-friendly apartment in Columbus at the same time I visited more dog-welcoming Chicago. If it were not for Finn, I might still be living in Ohio. And, it is no secret Finn was an absolute hellion when he was young. I  might still be clumsily climbing the corporate ladder in high heels and listening to my co-worker gripe about stolen yogurt in the communal fridge if he were a model puppy; rather than helping people teach their dogs to be the best version of themselves.

It gave me great joy to take care of Finn and his well being was always a priority in of my life but anyone who has lived with an aging dog knows their own purpose becomes more and more about their furry soulmate every year. For me, the motivation was knowing Finn had given so much and he deserved to be a jolly, indulged old man.  My neighbors would often make comments about how patient I was with him getting up the stairs and I would always tell them "I sure hope someone is patient with me when I'm his age". I would like to think I appreciated my vibrant guy throughout Finn's entire life but when you know your time is finite, you tend to be grateful for every little shiny moment.

There was also an element of delusion, even in his twilight time Finn was unbelievably high-spirited so I was almost offended when he had a bad day or a medication no longer seemed to give him relief or bounce.  I was never angry with him, I was mad at aging but did not understand that until now. At times, my heart was so very heavy because I knew he would not be in my life forever. That reality became more profound with every day that passed. Sometimes I curled up with Finn on his dog bed, as he very rarely wanted to exert his energy to get on the couch. I would hug him tight and cry into his fur as he very dutifully tried to kiss away my tears. Crying is not pathetic and once I allowed myself the time to accept the truth and what it meant to me; I could honor and cherish every second I had with Finn, wearing a smile on my face.

In Jon Katz's book, Going Home: Finding Peace When Pets Die, he describes the Perfect Day for aging animals and I love the idea of giving a dog a perfect day before saying goodbye.  However, I am a bit of an overachiever and even before reading the book; made it my mission to give Finn as many perfect days as I could in the past year. Sometimes it was as grand as a hiking trip to Devil's Lake where us mere humans could barely keep up with him or a week-long stay on a beach in Door County so he could swim to his heart's content as many times a day as he wanted. Often, it would be a morning romp in Lake Michigan or even if I was crunched for time; always stopping for the gaggle of teenage boys who would excitedly yell Finn's name from three blocks away and then race each other to take turns getting him to "shake", "spin", "bow" or give them kisses.  They always forgot his old hips could not handle "sit" and whenever they would utter the command; Finn would crinkle his eyebrows and smirk at me like "they are kidding, right?"  For my birthday, a few weeks before I said goodbye to Finn; my dear friend Sheila graciously agreed to join us for a hike at Caldwell Woods, one of the few forest preserves we had never explored. I can think of no better gift than a mild, winter afternoon walking with and watching Finn pounce in the snow.

For more than a year, Finn was my life and I take great pride in knowing that I gave him as many perfect days as he gave me. But now, life is different. Sure, I could fill that time with a plethora of to dos but the closet in my office is always going to be a mess so why bother risking injury by opening the door? I miss so very many things about Finn but I also miss the human interaction that I came to treasure as a part of my daily routines with him. I no longer see the jovial, chatty mail woman Lucy who always stopped to smush Finn's face nor do I get caught up in a hilarious conversation with my next door neighbors John and Jav and their dog Lola. Finn believed John's purpose on this planet was to give him treats whenever their door was open and always looked so crestfallen if they didn't see him lurking through their screendoor.

So, I must find a new purpose and different joys. I will love another dog one day, maybe eight. We will go for long walks and have different routines that I will grow to love in different ways. For now, I am exploring, floundering, volunteering, reflecting and even dating. The latter I had given up for some time because I wanted to enjoy every day I could with Finn; not have an awkward conversation with a guy over coffee who also liked music and trying new restaurants. Perhaps it's the law of averages; sharing my home with Finn came very natural, even when it was not easy. So, finding my main two-legged partner in crime might take a little more exploration.

Ode to Camp Kate

Gratitude
I anticipated feeling despondent the instant Finn took his last peaceful breath but instead I was very serene and unbelievably grateful.  Through my tears, what rushed over me was gratitude for all the gifts I had been given or cooked up. I shared almost 14 years with the perfect dog for me and deep in my soul trusted I said goodbye to Finn when his old body was ready, purely out of love. Two days before his passing, he was so pumped up and peppy that we took a trip to the forest preserves where we had a ball together. The day before our parting we lounged around the house; snuggled on the couch or curled up on his giant orthopedic dog bed.  I was so appreciative for the extraordinary veterinarians who kept Finn lively; for so many amazing warm wishes from so many people, even some I had forgotten Finn had ever met and for my dearest friends Sheila and John who held my hand while I comforted Finn into a tranquil sleep. But, most of all, I was grateful for Kate. She gave Finn three months of dignity with only five stairs to endure; the ability to re-enjoy his treasured long walks; and me the comfort of seeing my lug beaming, even playful again. The overwhelming loss set in a little later as I rode home in the passenger seat of my own car, without my dog in the backseat.

You Never Know Until You Try
Over the summer, I was hoping to make a 36-hour trip to surprise my nephew and spend the day with my family at Kings Island.  I was really struggling to leave Finn, our stair ritual had become one that I was not sure I could expect someone else to understand or execute.  I worried there might be a thunderstorm and Finn wouldn't know what to do without me there to comfort him.  He was accustom to me putting together an amalgamation of his man cave, Thundershirt, relaxing music, herbal supplements and rubbing dryer sheets all over him to ease the stress. Plus, tracking and administering his growing list of medications and herbs was a lot expect someone else to do fully and timely. So, I decided not to go. I was bummed and sharing my disappointment with my dear friend, client and super woman Kate who looked at me very easily and said "why doesn't he stay with me"?  I paused for a second. As a single woman I was used to doing everything for myself; unsolicited help was a fairly novel concept to me. After thinking a little more, I knew Kate would be the perfect person to watch Finn, especially after she graciously offered to work from home during my trip. Plus, she had a basement with a separate entrance so Finn could be spared from Grace, the puppy, crashing into him for fun (something he would have LOVED when he was a tyke). And, I could only imagine that her basement would be much easier for him to ride out a storm than my third floor condo surrounded by windows.  So, we agreed to test it out a couple afternoons while I tended to clients.

As soon as I opened the gate to her backyard, Finn's eyes lit up at the baby pool planted in her backyard just for him (or so he thought).  Water! And toys, so many toys...rubber frisbees, ropes, Kongs and TENNIS BALLS! He wagged, wiggled, looked at me eagerly then plopped himself right into the pool. Finn was so tickled: dunking his head into the water, throwing toys into the air, shaking the water off, getting distracted by MORE TOYS in the backyard; then trotting back into the pool. When I came to pick him up later, Finn rose his sleepy little head from his bed on the living room floor and stretched all four legs before meandering over to greet me with his giant slobbery kisses. Needless to say, the overnight stay went off without a hitch.

Making Oneself Right at Home
I have no idea why I worried Finn would not make himself right at home at Camp Kate. He had stayed at countless friends' and familys' homes, hotels, motels, cabins and a few overnight doggie daycare facilities; all with ease. Back in Finn's snotnose days, he and my landlord's dog were engaged in a rip roaring game of chase when her dog decided to race through their doggie door, as she lured Finn to keep up. By the time I caught up to them, he had already made himself at home on their couch with a bone.  The good news, I was able to check off "crawl through a doggie door" from my bucket list.

When I was in grad school, Finn and I visited a dear friend and his two dogs in Urbana-Champaign. Ray's two Brittanys were eager to have Finn join their party as the three became fast friends. They zoomed over furniture, sent rugs flying, barked, pounced and playfully bulldozed into each other then tore off looking back to make sure one of them was trailing behind.  After the boys thrashed and smashed to their hearts' content, the humans decided to relax in the backyard hot tub. Not long after we got in, Finn was standing on the deck, looking expectantly down.  I gave him my usual "hey buddy" greeting but had a sneaking suspicion he did not just swing by to say hello. In an instant, Finn was airborne and somehow plunked himself in between the deck and the hot tub. He was such a floppy, wiggly dog but he looked like a statue of himself as he landed into the tiny space with such precision. Then I heard chomp chomp chomp.  I looked down to see Finn with a tennis ball in his mouth looking up at me with his dopey face like, "now what?" Good, sweet, patient Ray had to take his fence apart and helped me lure Finn around the back of the hot tub with hot dogs to get the bonehead out. It's odd Ray never invited us back.

Thank You, Kate!
Well, Kate did.  She told me that Finn and I could move in with her if our never-ending battle with the stupid stairs ever became too much for him.  He was such a trooper and trucked up them as long as he possibly could. After Kate made the offer, I of course felt gratitude but I also worried.  What if it was awkward or weird? She was and still is my client after all and I had lived alone for years. What if hearing Kate's two dogs run and play above us was stressful for Finn? The what ifs could have stonewalled me. We humans can really overthink things. But I had to do it for Finn and I had to get past my own weirdness and innate need to equate worry and love because he just could not go up three flights of stairs anymore without the possibility of one or both of us really getting hurt.

So we moved into Kate's on Monday, October 8, 2012. The day after we moved in, Finn was grinning and galloping as he dashed from one smell to the next and SO MANY PEOPLE. At least half of the commuters we passed just had to say hi to Finn; surely they were inhabiting the sidewalks just for him.  It was magnificent to see Finn so chipper and pretty dang awesome to enjoy the walk myself without the impending dread of battling the stairs to go home. Because Kate gave us her entire basement, Finn thrived and I lived with my happy dog again. On Finn's really good days, her generosity allowed us to enjoy long walks through the park and the occasional trip to the forest preserves; all of which we had to forego so he had the stamina to get up the steps.  Kate gave me a gift I would have never dreamed possible and I think Finn knew it.  I was laying with him the evening after we moved in, massaging his hips and shoulders and he gave me a look that I swear was the doggie version of THANK YOU SO MUCH.   Words can not express my gratitude to Kate for giving me more time, good time with Finn and for giving him dignity.  He was so independent and loved being able to tackle the five steps to her place all by himself.

And, I was able add yet another house, neighborhood and more parks to my list of places that bring a smile to my face with even more good memories of Finn. Cheers to Kate and a mighty couple of glorious barks from my lug; she gave us a once in a lifetime gift that I will always treasure and can only hope to pay forward to her or someone else one day; in honor of Finn. We used this harness for a long time and it helped me help him get up the stairs without all the bulk that would stress him out:

Slowing Down

My big, brown dog came into my life at a time that I needed a kick in the butt to get off the couch, go outside and explore the world (or at least some of it) on my own two feet.  As he aged and started slowing down, I found it helped me realize how much I had been craving a milder pace and some quiet time.  My walks with Finn were my way of taking a deep breath, connecting to him as he would  frequently look up at me with his bright eyes and giant smile. They were my moving meditation. Our morning walk was through one quiet park. Finn trotted and sniffed along the river for stories of what happened the night before. He would check back in with me then be off again to take it all in: squirrels, the scent of other dogs who had very purposely left their scent or perhaps the giant raccoon we'd often see late at night that certainly was not missing any meals as I gripped my coffee mug and thought about the day ahead of me.

During my afternoon break, we would walk through another park with giant trees along a different part of the river.  Finn would sometimes get fired up and bounce around with his ball in his mouth or drop it for our version of old dude fetch.  He would stand waiting and I would walk across the park and say "get your ball". There was never regret or remorse in his face as he merrily moseyed towards it and happily snatched it up. I admired his doggie ways and the calm that must come from thinking, "this is how we do it now". Sometimes, he would search for sticks or stare at a squirrel with his little ears all perked up in excitement then dilly dally along behind me. On days where we had more time, we'd often sit on the grass together and just breathe in the fresh air. Quite the opposite of what we did together in his younger days where his feet barely touched the ground as I tried to keep up with him.

Back then, we would go to Wiggly Field and I would throw the tennis ball over and over and over. Every single time, he would drop it like it was the greatest thing in the world, pounce forward with his giant tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth; so excited and entertained just to chase a ball. He had an intense infatuation with tennis balls, we'd often leave the park only after three "drop its". Halfway down the street, Finn would surprise me with yet another slobbery chomp. I will never understand how that boy could fit four tennis balls in his mouth!  We even tried Flyball once but he got so darn excited at the sight of SO MANY tennis balls flying around he could barely contain himself.

As summer approached, he was slowing down more and the midday walk through my favorite park was too much for him. I missed the long walk so much as it was my time to clear the cobwebs in my head and found myself mourning that a bit. But, also found grace and gratitude in quiet time spent just rubbing his soft ears or eating lunch next to him while he rested his big ol' noggin on my lap.  I smiled thinking of how our relationship had changed over the years. I did sometimes miss the fast pace we used to approach the world together but wouldn't trade the richness or understanding that comes from sharing so much time with my big lug.

One night, Finn had an anxious episode, out of nowhere. At our weekly vet visit the next morning, I was sleep deprived and a little emotional so my amazing veterinarian, dear friend and downright awesome human being Dr. Barb Royal said to me, "death is not the enemy, suffering is".

I reminded myself that over and over again as I struggled to determine if an anxious night, a 30-minute stair trip or yet another mad scientist medication/therapy/herbal supplement recalibration blew up in my face meant it was "time" or not.  No one tells you how much you worry or the weight that literally sits on your shoulders. I have to believe that no person sets out to hold onto their dog longer than their old bodies can handle; but we all know people who regret seeing their dogs struggle because they feel they said goodbye too late .

One thing that gave me peace as I tried to remind myself during those difficult moments that Finn was happy and spunky 23 hours a day was something given to me by a client and friend of mine Beth Bradfish, a metta meditation:

For Finn:
May you be peaceful and at ease,
May you be held safe from harm from within and without,
May you know that I will never allow you to suffer,
May you be happy.

For Me:
May I be filled with loving kindness,
May I be peaceful and at ease,
May I be held safe from harm from within and without,
May I be well,
May I be happy.

I said this everyday, multiple times a day for the last few months and still recite it as I continue on my journey. Too often we want to label life experiences as bad or good, but sometimes they just are. Through the sludge, we can find a new way of being or approaching the world. If it were not for Finn, I would never have discovered the beauty of a long walk, the joy of slowing down or the magic of a tennis ball.  Thank you, my friend. Like Finn, I never do anything halfway.  Here's yet another book that I'm working through: