Knowing

Old Dudes Rule
"Swish. Swish. Swish." Oh, the ridiculous tail wag. "Tit tat tit tat" of Finn's little paws hitting the hardwood floor as I knew he was moving closer. Then, a little louder. "Swish! Swish! Swish! Tit Tat! Tit Tat!" Within a second, I heard a deep, elongated sigh and was smothered in emphatic, slobbery kisses.  Finn knew that if I slept a little later than normal, some cuteness persuasion was all I needed to get going. It was very sweet, and much different from his early days. Back then, he would race into my room as soon as the first obnoxious alarm exploded near my head; paws flopping every which way. He would expectantly stare at me until I gave him the go-ahead nod.  Finn, always the comedian, would clumsily moonwalk at least twelve or so steps, sometimes bumping into the doorway. He would gear himself up with a huff, then charge forward as he lept into the bed; never gracefully.  The latter stopped when he slipped on the floor jumping off the bed, heaven forbid I helped him. I tried once and he indignantly marched off like a grumpy old man and if he had hands he would have been flinging them at me in disgust for having the audacity to think HE needed any help; if he wanted to do it, he would do it all by himself. Finn knew what his body could and could not do; and he always knew I would get up when he really needed it, even if it included a little grumble along the way.

I miss old Finn.  Not because it was easier, our effortless groove was probably between 7-11 years of age, also the time dogs stopped beating him up. Even into January of this year, we walked (slowly) two hours a day; kept up with some training, that boy had mean "stand/stay"; and feeding 30ish pills a day, one at a time, on a butter knife hidden in wet dog food was an acquired skill that I have to admit, I was pretty darn good at. But, when I look at pictures of him as a pup and even a young adult, I realize I barely knew that dog. The richness and understanding that comes from growing up together and sharing so many memories, is something I wish for every single dog lover out there.  I thought I could not love Finn any more, boy oh boy, it got better every single year.

But, HOW Will I Know?
So, I have avoided the topic of how I knew it was time to say goodbye to my Finn because I do not want to be maudlin, a word I learned from the amazing author David Tabak...you must read his book. But, I remember how scary it was to wonder if Finn slowing down a bit and showing less interest in some of the things he was once loved meant he was really not feeling well or if it was just normal old guy stuff. Perhaps he wanted to sleep and cuddle more and I should have been thankful for saving money on chew bones?  As I was pondering the question, every person I asked resoundingly responded, "you will know!" It was maddening because when I pushed a little more, all I heard was, "trust me, you WILL know".

Finn was so resilient and even when I knew he was not feeling his best; friends would often think I was bananas, he wiggled to greet them at the door and often grabbed a toy to show off while happily corralling them to "come in!" So, I was haunted by the possibility that Finn was staying here and strong for me. But, a dear friend asked me if I felt Finn was happy? Yes. Enjoying his life? Yes. Vibrant, even though I knew he could mask his own discomfort? Yes. If the answer to all those questions were resoundingly "yes", what did it matter if Finn was staying strong for me or him? I could not answer that question but what I did know is I wanted to make sure I did not let him suffer so I wrote a post-it to myself that read: "Be present for the process and make choices out of love. You will have no regrets." And though I kept my promise to myself and Finn every step of the way, I kept asking myself, "will I know?"

I thought long and hard about who Finn was and what made him happy. For us, I knew if Finn stopped wanting to go on his walks, that was a telltale sign he was letting go. And, I also knew Finn always had a voracious appetite. While I am fairly certain he played the old dog card a time or two to score better food, I trusted that when he stopped eating that it meant it was time to give him a kind farewell. We certainly had a couple close calls but they were easily resolved with a little hot dog or a cooling collar for the walk.  And, by "resolved", I mean the next walk or meal, not days or weeks.  When Finn and I lived in Roscoe Village, we often ran into this amazingly sweet couple and their two dogs.  One of the dogs, wearing nothing but a smile and a dog mobility cart, wiggled and bopped along like prosthetic wheels were the most natural thing in the world for him.  Even then, I knew that headstrong, independent Finn would have been miserable walking with one of those carts.  Older Finn often reminded me of my grandfather. Age never seemed to bother my Papaw, but not being able to take care of himself the way he always had really aggravated him.

Then, there was the sparkle.  I could not explain it to anyone, but the ornery twinkle in Finn's eyes seem to fade and no one saw it but me.  My friends who visited during the holidays all agreed Finn looked like the same old silly guy he was always was, happily eating their leftovers when they thought I was not looking. But I saw the change in him and he knew I did, though I did everything in my power to treat him like the strong, capable dog he always was; with a much more tender touch and slower pace.

I knew in my heart Finn was not in pain, he always oozed into his twice daily massages I gave him to soothe creaky bones and tight muscles. Plus, weekly acupuncture and chiropractic visits gave me the peace of mind to hear my lovely veterinarians concur his comfort.  When Finn was a pup, he would have been racing to the door two minutes into any of my attempts to snuggle with him, oh, how I loved Senior Finn!

Calm
The week before Finn passed, he was so spry that I contemplated renting a first floor studio apartment, thinking we might have a year or more of happy days.  I was in denial.  That same week, I also bought 20+ cans of wet dog food to help hide his pills. He started turning up his nose to his raw meat, fish oil, sweet potato concoction that I held for him to slurp because he slipped while eating a few months prior. I found our more recent feeding ritual endearing, even when the occasional glob of meat flew down my pajamas or into my coffee. Did I mention I am a vegetarian?

On Sunday, January 6th Finn ate just fine and was so fired up that we went to forest preserves. He even had a little flicker in his eyes that prompted me to ask if he wanted to play our "race" game that we invented together back in the day. I would say "let's race" and I'd run as fast as I could while he cavorted beside me; tongue, ears and paws all flopping about. He always won. I was often heaving by the end of the block while he had a goofy "what's next?" look on his face. That day and many days prior; I humored him and pretended to run in an elaborate slow motion version with an even more dramatic defeat. It was so amazingly nice to see an old guy smile at a job well done.  That night, he was laying peacefully and sweetly on his bed as I tallied up his quality of life points in his pet hospice journal,18 out of 20; not too shabby for an old guy. I gave him belly rubs, he gave me kisses and we both went to bed.

No Mistaking
"SWISH! SWISH SWISH! TIT TAT! TIT TAT! TIT TAT! TIT TAT!".  I opened my eyes and his giant nostrils were all I could see. When Finn knew I was awake, he circled and danced his way over to the back door. I opened it up and barely got my shoes on when he had bolted up the five stairs and was in the backyard with some uh, tummy issues.  He did what he needed, swooped right back inside, and plopped onto bed.  Finn woke me up two more times that night.  When I stroked his ears and neck to gently wake him on Monday morning, I could not get him to eat anything.  Sometimes if he was bored with his food; he would turn his nose up like he had only eaten caviar and I was offering him canned tuna. This was different, he just looked at his food like he had given up.  I knew that if I could not get him to eat, I could not give him his pills. I had promised myself and Finn a very long time ago I would not shove pills down his throat.  So, I called Dr. Lyles, my mom and my dearest friend to let everyone know what was going on.  They all asked what was I going to do and I said, "all I know to do, cancel everything for the day and see how he feels."  Looking back, I realized that in all our years together, that was only the second time I had to cancel my clients because of Finn's health. God love my strong guy.

I thought without all his medications and herbs that it would only be a short time before Finnigan would let me know he was hurting or anxious. But, the most amazing thing happened.  Not a pill in his body and he had not been on the sofa in months; Finn hopped onto the couch and laid down.  He looked at me sweetly and softly as I sat on the couch with him. He nestled his little head onto my lap as I rubbed those big, soft, floppy ears; we stayed like that for at least two hours.  I cried as I stroked Finn's thinning shoulders and his still-burly neck, two of his favorite spots, as he sprawled out and let his head grow heavier in my lap. Then, he popped up and sauntered to the door like he wanted to go outside.  I opened the door and Finn walked to the gate like it was any other day that he was itching for a stroll. So, we walked.

It was sunny and cold, but dry. Always good for a guy with arthritis to have a little chill but no moisture in the air to cramp him up.  We took a short walk and he was my happy-go-lucky guy again. Finn ate a treat from my pouch and we sat in the park together, sun warming us both as he laid his head on my lap again.  Usually he had more important things to do at the park, but that day, it was different. When we got back to Kate's house, Finn peacefully curled up his big, orthopedic dog bed.  He always had a larger-than life-personality and presence but he almost whispered as he laid down and seemed so comforted when I curled up with him. Sometimes if I laid on his bed with him, he'd raise his big, grey eyebrows then look at the couch, like, "hey, you gonna move so I can have my space?" Not that day, we snuggled and napped into the evening as Finn occasionally gave me a knowing, sweet look and a soft little kiss.

The Hard Stuff
At 2:45am, Finn woke me up and was a little anxious.  I was able to give him one of his pills in a hot dog, I was so grateful to give him the relief he needed.  On yet another quick outdoor trip, he walked to the gate like he wanted to move a little more, so we did.  It was late and cold as we very slowly walked a few houses away when Finn stopped.  I looked down and his body looked so skinny. For the first time, he was in pain and I swear he gave me the most obvious "make it stop" look.  I sobbed, but knew what I had to do. I promised Finn I would not let him suffer and I absolutely meant it.  When we got back to Kate's house, he again went calmly and peacefully to his dog bed and within seconds was asleep, good ol' drugs. I must have dozed off too because his little tail wag woke me up again a few hours later, I made all the calls.

Making the decision on when to say goodbye to Finn weighed on me all year, I constantly re-assessed his health and quality of life to make sure I was allowing him to stay here for the right reasons.  Researching end of life resources is awful and while I hated making those calls, I am glad I did because I had peace knowing I could keep my promise to Finn.  Making the last call to Dr. Lyles was the most difficult, kindest and selfless thing I have ever done.

While I know with every ounce of my being I did the right thing by Finn and for Finn, I still miss him terribly. I was feeling particularly blue last week and could not get out of my head how much I wanted him here with me.  Of course I know his decline and aging itself was and will always be out of my control; and I know that if he were here today, he would be suffering so I continually remind myself of that when I want to stomp my feet like a toddler.

Then, I had a thought that made me crack a smile again.  I have known a lot of dogs in my life and many would likely give me a doggie high-five because I always gave them the caviar of treats and helped their parents understand them better. Maybe, just maybe, some of those dogs who have also crossed over the Rainbow Bridge are now giving my big lug doggie high-fives. Finally, he gets to be big man on campus with other dogs.  It gives me comfort to think that in doggie heaven there may be another big lug, raising the canine version of a glass of irish stout and cheering to Finn because his mom taught their human to stop petting him like he was tenderizing meat; and my dear Finn is smiling so proudly and taking it all in as he continues to watch over me.  Loss is inevitable for all of us. Perhaps it makes us better appreciate what we have while we have it; raise a glass as often as we can; and live life with a little more compassion.  High five and cheers, Finnigan. You still inspire me everyday.

***TO MY READERS I am so touched that so many people are reading this.  My intention is to share MY journey with MY dog and I recognize that my experience could have been very different from how it transpired and this journey may or may not be the same as yours. I am telling MY story, that's all; I will leave advice to veterinary professionals.***