Firsts and Lasts

Kibble vomit. My first new car, ever. During our initial car trip to Blacklick Woods; I wanted Finn close by my side so I harnessed him into the front seat of my tiny sports car. I soon wished I had purchased a larger vehicle after he hit a growth spurt a couple months later. As I drove, one eye darted over at him every couple of seconds to make sure he did not get tangled while he sighed and rested his head on the console or my shoulder. Our field trip bliss was soon interrupted when my fuzzy, big-bellied, chocolate blob gacked up three cups of pulverized meat pellets all over the gear shift. Poor guy. Finn and I grew up together, we raised each other. Giving him time to digest his breakfast before a car ride was one of the very first lessons I learned about raising a dog.

Gavin and I have had so many firsts in the past week.  With the help of a little baby food, he finally figured out that airplanes were not coming to get him and joined me in a venture to Gompers Park; my favorite of many routes with Finn. The serenity and quiet that washes over the woodland area, even when frigid winds cut into my skin and the bare trees are towering over brown grass and an oddly non-pungent section of the river; it is my hiding place when I need a break from my uber-connected, mock speed day. With Finn, I was the center of his attention when we were there.  Not even the mysterious vermin who scurried across the ice in the winter or shot out of the water like a dolphin in the summer could take his attention away from me for more than a minute or so. In the house, Gavin is happiest curled up next to me; snorting, honking and squeaking his way through what I imagine to be peaceful dreams. At the parks that I enjoyed long, contemplative walks with my sweet old lug; Gavin could win an iditarod all on his own, even with a harness to help ease the twinges that shoot through my shins, arms and back as I am reminded that walking a young dog is indeed a workout.

As Gavin and I were out and about more last week, I ran into a couple neighbors who asked, "Who's dog is that?" Then, "Oh, what happened to your dog?" The waterworks came flowing again as I had to tell them Finn had passed away since I saw them last.  I am not sure if the crashes, knots and twists were harder when I had to utter those words out loud or when I saw someone who seemed to not acknowledge that I had lost Finn and simply said, "Is that your new dog?" On Easter, I was feeling bright as I was eyeing my plate of all white food smothered in cheese; when a cousin who I only see at family holiday gatherings asked me how Finn was doing. The surge of grief sent me back to a place where all my heart wanted to do was sing Gone, Gone, Gone by Phillip Phillips, "Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating. Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you. And long after you're gone, gone, gone. I love you long after you're gone gone, gone."

The last time I made the 800-mile round trip drive to Ohio was with Finn last Thanksgiving. Being alone with my thoughts with a surprisingly sweet, easy-riding Gavin harnessed in the back seat reminded me how much I enjoyed the long road trips and time to reflect. Little Big Head is such an laid back dog when he is not in crazy puppy mode or mushing and preying his way through my neighborhood. My mom and step dad, Jim, fell in love with Gavin instantly as he wiggled and wagged towards them then leaned against their legs for hearty chest rubs and shoulder massages. They remember the first trip Finn and I made back to Ohio.  My two brothers could have easily been Chevy Chase and Randy Quaid as Finn broke a fish tank; scared the crap out of the cat; destroyed the Christmas tree; and almost drowned from a quick dip in our pool.  I can still hear the saccharin sweet tone of my oldest brother Matt's voice, as he said through gritted teeth the next holiday, "Finn's coming home with you, that's great". Ironically, that same brother was Finn's favorite tug partner because Matt was one of the few people strong enough to play over and over and over again.

In more recent years, Finn lazily laid on his bed in the sun while my mom and I caught up over coffee on the porch or napped on the floor next to Jim, who was always so kind to be on the lookout for a tail or paw under the footrest of his recliner before he rose from his chair. I take great pride knowing Finn and I did that together. Their memories of the amazing flip of a switch puppies can make were jogged when I was out to lunch with my dad. Gavin grew bored of Jim's floor-fetch game with his squeaky ball. After a quick nap on the bed that tricked my folks into settling in, he decided to toss the container of pretzels onto the floor over and over again in attempt to spark a new game with Jim. After a few tries, Jim told him "no" and Gavin mouthed off like a Tasmanian teenager and raced through the house, slamming himself onto furniture then shaking and gnawing his frustration onto my mom's rug and my brand-new hiking shoes. My mom still has not made peace with the crate. Finn was certainly an "only dog" but accepted that I was often smothered in the scent of other canines because he reaped the rewards of gobbling up treats while I was chopped them for my sessions. If my lug was watching over, I bet he would have laughed uproariously at Gavin's monkey business.

Isaac never met Finn. They grew up knowing each other, Isaac scrunching his nose and wiping slobber from his cheek years before racing to put on his shoes so he could stroll along next to us along the line of trees or fields. I was unaware my nephew could be a little shy when meeting new dogs. My brother Chris thought it would help Isaac ease into their first day if he could join Gavin and I on a walk. However, I had just come in from three steps, pull, stop, repeat with the 40-pound tugging machine that is Gavin on a leash. I needed a breather. With time, a little coaxing and Gavin's small bladder, we went for a walk. Isaac said to me, "I think I'm used to...wait, what's his name? But, I still miss Finn. Do you miss Finn?" I smiled through teary eyes and held Isaac's hand as we stopped every couple of steps for my squirrel-chasing, goofy puppy. It took Finn and I some time to master leash walking so that the walk was enjoyable for both of us and even the three years before I fell in love with dog training; I never stopped adoring that naughty, energizer bunny of a dog.  Beth, my sister is the only person who only remembers Finn as the sweet, gentle, lovable dog he grew to be. I know the burns and twinges of pain that seem to shock my heart and aching back, will pass. As Gavin and I continue to grow closer and trust each other more and more everyday; I think Finn would love their shared obsession with fetch and tennis balls. I have my angel Finn watching over us and guiding me, only me. Unlike my grandfather, who I still miss very much, no other angels are all mine and I like that; just as much as I treasure the feeling a giant, black head resting on my console while I drive.