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Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Circles of Life

Life sometimes spins me in circles; throws me into the air like a tennis ball and when I haphazardly land, I find myself in a place that feels familiar and I wonder if I somehow missed a lesson the first time around.  When I brought home the hell-on-wheels, runt puppy who I named Finnigan; I was living with my dear friends Jaime, Jeff, and their two dogs, Bailey and Monty. I am forever grateful that they allowed me to live with them while raising a puppy and consider myself doubly lucky to have Kate, who let us move in with her when Finn was growing older.  He wanted so badly to be strong for me and love his life again, Kate gave us that.

Finn used to tear through Jaime and Jeff's house: table legs thrusting into his ribs as he knocked into them; sending vases and lamps flying onto the floor that never hindered his speed or determination to catapult himself onto their bed if we dared try to enjoy five minutes of uninterrupted dog time with a beer or pizza. Their dog, Bailey, was barely the size of Finn's mondo head. He was one of those adorable, cutesy, fluffy dogs that in some homes you might see wearing toenail polish and blinged-out tags dangling off on his couture sweaters, and Bailey was the sheriff in Jaime and Jeff's home. If Finn shoulder-checked Monty into a wall too many times or sent their bed pillows flying as he deliberately fluffed their down comforter while spinning in circles; the usually unassuming Bailey would race in, plant his paws into the ground and growl at Finn to let him know he was behaving like an idiot. Mr. Small & Mighty was not going to accept Finn's shenanigans and it was his job to teach the stupid puppy all the house rules. Finn would saunter off for a whole second. Then, he would forget he was ever scolded for his bulldozer-play behavior and tackle Monty again with an unphased, almost mocking look on his face.

Back then, I was beyond clueless about the ins and outs of doggie care but I was so excited to learn and what I lacked in knowledge, I more than made up with love. I was absolutely infatuated with Finn the instant I met him and wanted nothing more than to assure his happiness and safety. I loathed putting him in his crate when no one was home to monitor his antics. And, foolishly decided to leave Finn to his own devices in our bedroom the first day I went back to work after his arrival.  When I came home to a three-foot pile of toothpicks where my garage sale-find dresser once was and shards of CDs scattered all over the floor, I made peace with the crate.  Nothing like an emergency trip to the veterinarian to make sure 200 old school music discs did not puncture Finn's throat or stomach to help me temporarily get over the guilt I felt about leaving him in the crate for a few hours at a time. He also had quite the appetite for electric cords, if I turned around for one second, I would catch him burrowing behind the entertainment center to catch a sizzling snack. As Finn grew older and no longer needed the crate, I worried about him when I was gone.  The Internet is filled with graphic images of freak accidents and the older he became; the thought of him slipping as he tried to get up from the bathroom floor, his favorite place in the summer to stay cool, haunted me. I wish I worried less because it would not have changed a darn thing other than a few less lines on my own forehead.  Despite any concern I had about Finn while he was alone, I was blessed with 14 wonderful, fun years with my soul mate dog who taught me so much.

Gavin is a lucky fellow, I know a tad more now about dogs and he goes into his crate as willingly as Finn always did. But, I do not fret when I leave the house because I know Little Big Head is safe and cozy in his home and will wiggle his butt, do an exaggerated play bow then trot forward to stretch his pork chop legs along the floor in an upward facing dog pose.  His new nickname is Mr. Ridiculous.

This past weekend, Gavin had a play date with my friend Kate's dogs, Bailey and Grace.  Grace and Gavin skipped any sort of coy hello and went straight to racing, chasing, pouncing, tackling, throwing down and "LET'S DO IT AGAIN"!  Bailey was a little uncertain about the blockhead who was causing chaos in his backyard and indignantly marched over to growl at Gavin.  I know and trust Bailey's behavior so much that he sometimes came downstairs to hang out with Finn and I.  Poor Grace never understood why she could not say hi to me on walks when I had that big, brown gallup of a dog next to me. It always broke my heart to see her crestfallen face as she begrudgingly walked away.  We were lucky that we had our own separate entrance so Grace never had the opportunity to tackle Finn. Gavin more than happily allowed Grace to pummel him to the ground while Bailey stood watch over the two to make sure his services were not needed again. Bailey is such a funny dog and Gavin instinctively understood his idle threats. Bailey would throw a toy around and watch the two puppies pounce on it. Then, he would look up at his mom and I so proud of himself that he was able distract them and could savor an instant of calm, quiet and space. Occasionally, Bailey would jump into the game of tug or bark while circling the two heathens who somehow understood and would slow down their their rock em' sock em' play for a second. But, he always returned to Kate's side to assume his position as the king of the house. Bailey and Bailey, I can always count on them to school my goofy dogs.

I have heard folks say they believe their heart dogs loved them so much that they came back to them in the form of another dog.  While I certainly believe in the magic of greater universal powers than my human mind can understand. And, am obviously inclined to share my home with active, ridiculously silly and happy lunkheaded boy dogs; I want to learn about Gavin and love him for who he is, not attempt to make him into Finn.  I was truly blessed with the amazing gift of a shared, long and happy life with Finn; his spirit lives on in my heart and always will. But, sweet Gavin has his own little soul for me to cherish and with time; I will likely learn the lessons I have yet to grasp by choosing that little guy to be my faithful companion.

I often wondered as the year went by if I would be strong enough to give Finn an honorable goodbye; I prayed about it and worried a lot. Oh, I should have let go of that nagging inclination because when the time came; Finn trusted me and somehow I found faith in my own courage. Little Big Head is just starting to learn he too can trust me and that I will not let anything bad happen to him.  Yesterday, he had his first day at camp because the last time I wore out a dog his age, I was a lot younger and had less responsibilities. Plus, I wanted him to have a day to just be the wild puppy he wants to be.  As soon as he walked out the door with the very nice man who came highly recommended by a client I wholeheartedly trust but I still drilled during his interview; I fretted.  Then, I stopped.  The world is not in my control and worrying only takes energy that I need to get Gavin up and down the stairs ten times a day so he learns where to potty.  Last night after his big play day, he settled right into his spot on the bed and snuggled up so close to me with his adorable snore song that I turned down the heat because he is a four-legged furnace. He had a good day. It has been a long time since Finn wanted to share the bed, I often fell asleep on his dog bed with him so he did not have to strain his tender muscles climbing to be with me. Though he was quite the independent guy, Finn grew way more snuggly every year we were together.  It was so nice to have that again and I am so very grateful for the adorable big-headed boy I call "Gavin".

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Little Rituals

In my old apartment, Finn would prop himself up onto the over-stuffed olive green sofa cushions; paws nestled under his chin and simply gaze out the window for hours on end. I always wondered what was going through his mind as he contentedly watched the world go by from the comfort of his home; his passionate curiosity was only peaked when he saw a squirrel taunting him from the tree. Sometimes he would pop his head up and stare but, often it was not worth the trouble as he let out a little joyous grumble and nestled back down into what I can only assume was the canine version of television.  When we moved into my condo; I bought a love seat, specifically for Finn to enjoy watching all the school children come and go from one of the sun room's many windows.  The ONLY time he ever jumped onto the small leather-like settee was when I invited him up to share potato chips with me.  Popcorn and chips were the only foods I snacked on with one hand and indulged Finn with the other. I have to admit, tight jeans were worth every second of hearing his sweet little "nom nom nom" as he crunched away on fatty, delicious treats with his soft, trusting mouth.

Even if Finn was passed out on the living room couch or snoozing away on his giant dog bed, head hanging off the side without a care in the world; he would always join me in the sun room when I was doing yoga. He would grace the heel of my foot with a couple drive-by love licks while I was suitably in downward facing dog then lay next to my mat on his other dog bed while falling in and out of sleep to the soft background music. I could never resist returning the gesture by giving him a smooch on the snout or softly rubbing his belly in between poses. Finn would occasionally get bored of all the serenity and I would find him hovering over me during final relaxation, grey beard and pink wrinkly, flabby lips two inches from my nose as he tap- danced and winked one eye to let me know he was ready for a walk WHENEVER I was.

Those small, but meaningful rituals throughout the day are what I was told I would miss most. I don't know, there's so much that has changed in my daily routines. But, I am really trying to not allow bereavement to be my sole connection to Finn. Every single day, I have visited the park where I said goodbye to him. I try not to hold onto the pictures of our last day there together: the snapshot of him taking deep, knowing breaths and twitching his nose as he gazed towards the church that sounded bells the instant I knew he was gone or even in those last moments, his silly and feisty personality never faded as he found the energy to steal treats from the pouch on his leash as it lay on the ground next to his final resting spot. Instead, I gaze and take deep breaths; I see him standing there, snow up to his knees and all over his muzzle that made him look even more dapper with his matching white eyebrows and hipster jacket; eagerly waiting for me to hide behind a tree or let him scavenge for snowman arms. He also had such a voracious appetite for snowman carnage.  If Finn happen to see a stick-arm hanging off three giant, sparkly, white blobs stacked one on top of the other; he would rip off the wooden limb and chomp away with vigor, closing his eyes to express sheer delight in his kill.  We would walk around the park and I would catch him returning to the scene of the crime for a chomp of snow to wash down the stick. Poor snowman.


Whenever I visit the park, I feel a deep connection to Finn. Sometimes it is so profound as a random tennis ball oddly sitting in the frost covered water fountain; hearts suddenly on a tree I have passed hundreds of times before and never seen; or a leaf formation on the ground that just happens to be in my path and take my breath away. Other times, it is simply the wind brushing against my cheek that reminds me of his slurpy old man kisses. But, last weekend I went out of town for the first time in a very long time and had a mild panic attack that I was not going to be able to honor that ritual, unable to see my Finn.  Then, I realized how silly I was being.  I definitely needed a weekend getaway, a break to re-charge my batteries. If I handcuff myself to my rituals, I can not live my life. What a huge disservice to myself.  And, if Finn were watching over me, he would sound off his "fix it!" bark; the one I heard every single fall when the weather would cool and the waves of Lake Michigan crashed into the shore as he danced around on the sand.  Not even his tennis ball could trump the scary current.  I always loved how much power Finn thought I had.

The day before my trip, I spent more time than usual at the park.  Partially to store up for the weekend, and also because I knew it would likely be the last time I would walk that path without a dog with me.  As I strolled through the paved loop; stopping to take in the chirps, honks and almost hypnotic sound of cars whizzing by; I noticed a stiff-legged but, overly perky dog shoving his nose into a patch of grass then growing bored, moving on to a giant stick that seemed to have a more interesting story to tell.  Or, perhaps his version of showing the trees and sticks he was the head honcho. I caught up with the white and brown-spotted pooch and his human as my purpose was not so clear, my feeble nose never my guide unless potato chips are involved.  I began chatting with the very kind human. He told me he had agreed to take "Mike" from his friend a couple years prior because his buddy no longer wanted him.  With only a few words, I knew the two had an amazing bond and I just knew by looking into the eyes of the nice man, he was a gentle soul himself.  It turned out, the old rescue dog has a couple masses and the gentleman was in the process of looking for a second veterinarian's opinion for his beloved dog and I was able to help him.  I left the park feeling full and ready for my weekend.  Mike gave me a couple quick, friendly goodbye kisses then went on to his very important business at hand.

As I write this, there is a symphony of endearing snores coming out of a little black dog with a ridiculously giant head. Gavin joined my home two days ago and when we attempted my ritual walk to park; he did not find the sound of the cars on Pulaski as hypnotic as I do. So, we walked a quieter path.  This little guy is still trying to figure out this big, new world he was plunked into and we will have to find our own rituals; while learning to trust each other.  I still went to the park to see my big lug.  Gavin was so tired after his play dates, a trip to Wigglyville and a visit from my friends Nora and Kevin.  Someone asked me if I felt at all like I was betraying Finn by bringing home a dog. Absolutely not. Is it different? Unbelievably so. Strange and exhausting? Um, puppy amnesia is a very real thing, but we are having fun.  Sometimes we look at each other with blank stares because we just do not know each other yet, but we will.  Finn and I had over 13 years to build a relationship that no longer needed words, we just knew what the other was thinking and needed.  Right now, I think Gavin is pretty darn content curled up with me, head resting comfortably on my thigh snoring like a freight train. A big one.

Monday, March 11, 2013

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.

Monday, March 4, 2013

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.***