Cheer Up!

I was hesitant to write last week's post. Finn and I were such kindred spirits: outdoor lovers, people pleasers, and by nature, fairly optimisitic creatures. Sharing the part of my story that still makes me sob was difficult to put out to the world.  I received a few "hang in there" or "it will get better" emails; I continue to be so touched by animal lovers who know that letting go of the unconditional love we all cherish from our furry friends is inevitable for all of us.  And, while I never turn down a hug or a chance to talk about Finn; I want to be clear that being open and honest about my healing process does not mean I am wallowing in sorrow and eating ice cream on my couch every night.  I would be deeply disturbed at who I am if I was zipping through my day feigning sugary sweet happiness, a mere two months after my last walk with my beloved dog of almost 14 years. I very much want to remember our good times but also know if I sweep my grief under the rug, it will eventually get stinky, very very stinky.

For me, a good cry is cathartic. I feel better, lighter.  In yoga class last week, the teacher asked us to dedicate our practice to something or someone, as they often do.  And, that night, I dedicated my bendy, twisty exercise and stress reducing session to honoring Finn's fire and carrying his torch as I continue to live my life.  That small, mental shift has helped approach my world with the warmth and twinkle that Finn so easily carried.  His non-pitying, party-like ways often made otherwise mundane moments festive and amusing.  As I entertain Finn's spirit; carry his zany, zesty personality with me and honor the person that I am today because I shared my life with such a fun-loving character; I can feel my own celebratory nature slowly returning to my heart and soul.

Last summer, I took Finn to Door County over the July 4th holiday, and found a little motel that had it's very own beach. I tended to avoid dog beaches because they invite young, bouncy dogs and all Finn really wanted to do was hang with me and swim after his ball, not be pestered by a bunch of bulldozers.  It was was so hot that I did not even unpack the car when we arrived, I took Finn to check-in with me and we hit the beach right away.  Bounding down to the water, skipping every other step to get to there as fast as his legs could carry him, my smiley senior was on his favorite mission. But gag, the rancid smell hit me so hard, I was dizzy. Despite the layer of algae and what I suspected was pieces and parts of dead fish, there was a small crowd enjoying cocktails and food.  Finn dropped his ball in the foot-deep green slime and this quiet, little red-haired girl who seemed excited to have one less adult surrounding her asked if she could throw it for him. Finn began bunny hopping as his gray eyebrows fluttered left, right and left again. He slipped in the algae as she waved the ball around and I completely panicked that he popped a hip out of socket or would be so sore that he could not enjoy our vacation.  Finn jumped right up, perky as always, but drenched head to toe in dripping, mossy gook that clung to his fur like he was the sea creature villian in a horror film. I almost regurgitated my lunch but Finn was not going to let stinky sludge ruin his good time.  Deciding that hosing miniscule fish bones off Finn after every swim was not how I wanted to spend our days, I set off to find a better beach.

A whole three-minute walk away, eureka! The sand was clean but it appeared to be a people-only beach.  We often went to Rogers Park early in the morning so Finn could enjoy a good romp in the water and I could suck down my coffee without being yelled at for not adhering to the "No Dogs" sign. I am such a rebel. To my delight, there were no signs and the closer we got, no one even looked our way for more than a second or two.  I asked the few sunbathers who were laying on the sand if they minded if Finn swam. Not one person even blinked an eye as Finn stood there, patiently, ball in his mouth and a giant blob of drool, dripping off his jowl.

So, we spent the whole week at that quiet beach and Finn enjoyed his relaxing swims while chasing little girls who squealed and flailed their arms inviting him join them or welcoming the kayakers who coasted into shore and reached out to pet his head as Finn glided through the water, eye on his ball the entire time.   I was standing waist deep in the water, with a stupid grin on my face because I trusted Finn so much and looking around I knew, even then, I had so much to be grateful for. Had Finn not slipped on the nasty algae, we might not have found that lovely hodgepodge beach where my doofus dog somehow managed to win the hearts of every vacationer while he frolicked so easily and gracefully with his ball. I had a flashback to our very first walk in Chicago. Young Finn raced right, charged left, lifted his leg then dashed forward with as much fervor as a child after a whole box of cookies.  It was the most exciting place he had ever been and the harness that had worked so well in Columbus was not much help as he spotted a bright-eyed little girl who I swear was singing "Good Ship Lollipop" while she waved her dripping ice cream cone around. I knew what was going to happen two seconds later than Finn did as he performed a master dine and dash.

Crazy eyes and wild limbs coming at her face, the poor thing was terrified as Finn leaped in the air then turned to look at me proudly and licked his lips, white, sticky ice cream all over his nose and dripping off his droopy mouth. We were both so clueless in the city, that I worried when I saw a police officer and a "Curb Your Canine" sign that they were going to arrest me and lock up my giant four-legged nitwit.

No matter how stupid or sweet Finn's behavior was, he always knew how to cheer people up.  One of his favorite ways to bring the life back to the party was to grab a shoe from the pile or jump onto the couch and nab a pillow to invite someone, anyone to chase him around the table.  I may be a dog trainer but I also have a sense of humor. It had been many years since Finn destroyed anything so I often giggled as I watched him looking over his shoulder with ornery grin on his face, while one of my favorite humans clumsily followed and arms desperately reaching, as if they were actually ever going to catch him. Boring me would finally say "drop" and Finn would give an "ok" by plopping the slobbery cushion onto the floor, saunter over to his dog bed where he would flop with emphasis, a knowing soft smile on his goofy mug.

Sometimes I have to stop and catch my breath because I can see Finn chuckling at the front door with a slipper in his mouth or I feel his spirit as I drive through the city and catch a glimpse of a big lug carrying a ball on a walk next to their beloved human, tail flip flapping about so everyone knows that is the only place in the world that matters.  And, I get a little misty-eyed. But, when I shed few icky tears; I find that I have more room in my heart to treasure my memories and make new ones.  I am doing my best to honor my grief process, and while I don't believe we ever fully feel ready to make a big change, I know little Gavin is right for me and I look forward to loving him for the dog he is.  Goodness, so much to learn about the big headed guy with the ridiculous tail wag.  I know Gavin is not Finn and I will inevitably fall into old habits, bonk myself on the head and create new ones. I am already gearing myself up for the early morning walk, sans coffee. But, I trust myself and know that I am ready to open my heart again and give a warm welcome to at least one dog (perhaps two) who really needs a break; not "replace" Finn because I carry him with me, everywhere I go. That big lug fuels my fire, makes me feel lighter and will always be a part of my soul.  A great quote from this book, "Grief dares us to love once more"-Terry Tempest Williams.