Stars

"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars."
-Charles Beard

Gavin and I started our Friday heaving, darting and stopping our way to Eugene Field Park. It was my ritual morning stroll with Finn; he never slacked on his daily mission to plunge his nose into the ground until he tracked down his favorite digging spot. He would doggedly rake his paws into the hole, gorge himself on a mouthful of dirt and worms; which inevitably clung to his floppy lips and pearly white teeth then valiantly skip to me. Fourteen years flew by so fast, it is hard to recall how I ended up being the big cheese; even when bunnies, pigeons and screaming children zoomed past us.

Standing there with Gavin that day, who was ricocheting off the pavement into the sharp, dreery air as he squirmed to say hello to the other hooded, hunched-over people who, like me, were standing there solemnly thinking of our neighbors' homes that may never be the same. Heaviness clutched my soul in a place I usually treasure so much peace and light. What a dark week last week was for flood victims and so many others who suffered horrific tragedies in Boston and West, Texas. I found it so difficult to think about much more than their sadness and loss. The gray, damp skies made everything I looked at seem desolate, yet somehow my day would go on like normal and that too made me very somber. As I was standing there, Gavin bunny- hopped towards a woman, jiggling and shimmying, in hopes she might want to clown around with him. Her eyes softened a bit as she leaned down to stroke his chest and her face became so humble and tender.

I was planning a small get together at my house that evening and in between stirring sauces; melting chocolate; and lurking around the corner at Little Big Head, who has discovered how much fun it is to chew and dig my sisal rug, despite his antlers, tracheas, bullies and Kongs there for his chewing pleasure, I was glued to the news. I was really struggling to find my celebratory spirit; but reasoned that being with people who dazzle, shine and make me laugh was likely the best way for me to remember how beautiful the world can be.

Finn used to LOVE it when I had shin digs. While I prepared, Finn was glued to my leg in the kitchen, longingly gazing into the meat-drenched air and snorting at the sweet smell. I always tried to make a non-vegetarian dish for my guests and Finn relished in the rare occasion he was privy to the aroma. And, every time the doorbell sounded it's obnoxious DING DONG; he marched over to the couch, hoisted himself up with his front two paws and retrieved one of my corded yellow couch cushions. Without fail, when the door opened; Finn would be standing so proudly, goofy grin across his face and tail swinging to and fro with a  pillow dangling from his mouth for his admirers. His performance always grew more enthusiastic when a friend squealed, "Hi Finn, you wild man!". He never chewed a pillow during his one dog act, so I was fine with dried slobber as an accent on my cushions.

This weekend was Gavin's coming out party and boy, did he show off his charming lil' personality. Every time the door opened, he lowered his head as he wriggled towards them. Gavin looked like a tadpole scurrying through the water, his tailing whipping back and forth to pronounce his merriment as his bounded into one of my favorite people's legs for petting and kisses. Many of which came bearing gifts for him which he happily chased, squeaked and destroyed; the entire time showcasing how amazing his spirit is as we discussed the possibilities of his past and marveled at him bouncing from one person to the next.  

When I woke him up on Saturday morning, he hummed and honked in protest as he stretched and begged me with his eyes to let him stay in bed.  We watch Kate's dog on Saturdays so we had to get going and once he figured out he really had to get up, he wobbled to door, beaming. My dear friend Jenny already sent me an email to tell me she can't get Gavin out of her mind, my adorable ham.

Forgiveness

Dogs amaze me. Finn was brought into this world to hunt and when he proved he was not worthy of retrieving downed birds and was too much trouble in the house because the other dogs were cornering, tormenting and biting the runt of the litter; he was left alone in barn. I can only guess that the sparse human interaction he had was gruff and unkind as he was tossed his water and food. If the guy was going to stick the barrel of a gun to his head to get rid of his problem dog; I doubt he worried himself about Finn's comfort sleeping on the warm, muddy ground.

Yet, my Lug sprawled his lanky legs and giant paws over my lap as my mom drove us away from that beat-up lonely, barn he would never have to see again. He trusted me. I rubbed the nub inside of his ear as he moaned, snorted and purred; his head grew heavier and heavier onto my thigh like human hands had always been gentle and compassionate to him. We stayed with my parents that first night, who had just installed white carpet in the house so I slept on the floor with him in the laundry room so Finn did not make a mess of their new floors. Finn curled himself up into a tiny brown ball, and smushed his peanut body as close to me as he possibly could. He did not move the entire night.

In September 2012, I declined an invitation to get involved with Safe Humane; Finn needed me more than ever. While I knew so many other dogs were and will never blessed with the love and care Finn had; I just could not leave him alone, knowing that every single day we had together was a gift. When he passed away, I wanted to find something worthwhile to do with my time. I am far from being a martyr but when there is a grey shadow cast over my world, time better heals my wounds when I give back rather than indulge myself. The phenomenal Executive Director, Cynthia Bathurst allowed me the opportunity to help other volunteers teach vital skills to Court Case dogs. And, every time I travel through the city, griping to one of my friend's about Friday afternoon traffic on my Bluetooth, stomach full from lunch and water whenever I want or need it, my ticker grows three times larger the instant I see one of those incredible animals light up when they see any one of us. You see, these dogs sleep on concrete floors and through iron bars, they stare, bark, tremble or peer out like they have given up until a volunteer lassos them with a leash. We can rub their bellies; teach them vocabulary that will help them find and stay in a loving home and how to accept new, possibly scary things like their ears being touched. I tear up every single time I walk through the pavilions but the life they live now is so much better than where they were; many abused, starved and other horrific acts inflicted on them by the only families they have ever known. Yet, they lean into our touch and look at us like they have never had a reason to distrust a human being. I usually drive home in silence so nothing distracts me from how grateful I am to play an extremely small part of something so meaningful and to let them warmth I feel sink in a bit as I think about unbelievable, forgiving dogs.

What happens when a dog trainer posts on their Facebook page she is ready to open her home to a dog? So much love came my way, I was a bit overwhelmed at all the dogs people were picking out for me. One of my very first puppy students as a business owner and the ultimate dog lover, Mary Ellen sent me a picture of Cappucino, a small pit bull mix with a Herculean noggin. He looked so serious! But, the description I read about his personality seem like a perfect fit for me AND he was a Court Case dog. In the short time I had spent with the program; I had (and still have) such admiration for the dogs who survived their ghastly experiences, still ready to give love and accept it with Grace.


Gavin (formerly Cappucino) sashayed up my stairs joined by the Alive Rescue volunteer with the exact same expression he had in the picture, but his odd-shaped body wiggled and squirmed then he bounced towards me, nothing about this dog was serious. Bright, soulful brown eyes looked up at me adoringly as his leaned his skinny back against my legs then flopped onto the floor for a belly rub. We just met but his whiplike tail was tapping my pants like a little heartbeat, just for me. Sometimes he looks at me very quizzically, like he is trying really hard to figure out what I am going to do but never seems worried or afraid, except for the occasional hesitation about the stairs or an airplane. His past is still a bit of a mystery to me but even before I gave him any reason to trust me, he did. And, I will make mistakes with him just like I did with Finn but he will forgive me.  The first week he was home, we were out for a walk and he saw this couple walking into their home. He just HAD to see them and after he performed a diddy that looked like the macarena to invite them over for a quick hello; his stealth bow, lay down, head turn move blew up in his face because somehow he bounced his way under the fence gate. Poor guy got so freaked out when he tried to pull his ginormous head backwards between the two iron rods. When I leaned down to help him, he was thrashing about so much that the fence gate nailed me right between the eyes, I saw speckled bright lights for a second. He shook it off and forgot about it the instant he saw a SQUIRREL and I forgave the little dork. One of my all-time favorite books on the subject:

Great Expectations

Compared to my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, Chicago is ridiculously dog-friendly; which was a huge deciding factor for me when I made the move. As a new dog parent, I was absolutely dying to meet people who's life had been lit up by their dog as much as Finn had already seemed to do for mine. If we were not racing to Wiggly Field for him to charge so fast after slimy tennis balls that his four legs scrambled before he was able to take off; I was studying the book Doggone Chicago and printing out Mapquest directions so we could explore a new neighborhood together.

I was completely fascinated by the fact that some stores even allowed dogs to accompany their humans while shopping. Back then, my obedience school dropout and I would have maxed out all of my credit cards just walking into a dog-friendly boutique. Finn would have certainly chose to retrieve the most expensive item at the top of any rack; surely causing intricate jewelry displays to go crashing to the floor; his tail thumping, paws tapping and him smiling up at me, with an exaggerated "ISN'T THIS FUN?" look on his face. I always wondered who those dogs were that chewed up socks. My lug ate a hole in my mattress and my roommate's glasses within a week of our arrival to the Windy City; he never fancied anything cheap and easy to replace. I remember once thinking that raising a puppy would look like one of those dog food commercials; butterball Finn frolicking by my side, gently nuzzling me as we rolled and laughed in the emerald green grass together. I am so glad it was not what I expected it to be, it would have been a lot less fun.

The memories of Finn sprinting on leash, with nothing on his mind other than getting where he wanted to go as fast as possible or actually getting a squirrel who was running up the tree and looking at me dumbfounded that he caught the little furry creature, seem so far away to me. He was so shocked there was a squirrel in his mouth that he immediately dropped it and looked at me like "what the heck just happened?" I felt so bad watching the poor thing limp away that I found a squirrel rescue to nurse it back to health. When I close my eyes, the Finn that I see is running along the side of the Smoky Mountains and turning back to see where I am or looking up at me with his twinkly eyes as we savor the simple joy of walking together. If he had not had so many bad experiences with other dogs; I might have never worked so hard to find the amazing, remote places we shared so many good times together. That change for me, years ago, was not easy to make. I loved being at the parks with other dog lovers, but am so grateful that I was able to understand who he was and revel in the beauty and quiet of trails, trees and real grass.

Saturday night, flashes of light crackled and zapped through the dark sky and the instant I heard the crashes, my heart started beating faster and without even realizing it, I jumped up to start preparing Finn's man cave.  Poor little Gavin rose his sleepy head that was previously resting on my leg, wondering what all the fuss was about through his squinty eyes. He yawned and squeaked as he stretched and went back to sleep. I shook my head, still a little rattled. My life has been shaped by my experiences and so many of those memories include or were inspired by Finn. What I am starting to realize is Gavin lives with a person who is going to instinctively do things that I used to do with Finn, but that's not so bad. And it does not mean I expect him to behave or respond to me the way Finn would have.

Gavin's first walk in my neighborhood was a dream, he looked up at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. He was on medication. And while I was looking forward to long walks again; training Gavin to not whip his tail like a maniac while pouncing on the neighborhood children or cannonball himself four-feet into the air, squealing and gripping trees while intently staring at the squirrels SO. FAR. AWAY has been a lot of work. And, it is not fun for him. He would much rather play with a dog or chase a squeaky ball. I have seriously considered purchasing a squirrel costume to keep his attention on walks and because I think it would be hilarious to see peoples' reaction to a giant squirrel walking a dog.

My friend Sheila recently sent me pictures from my birthday hike with Finn. There were so many candid photos where I was talking to her with an expression on my face that looked like I just taken a bite from a lemon. In front of me was Finn, standing there and gazing up so adoringly. That moment and so many more in recent years, I was the only thing in the world that mattered to that dog. There were other people, dogs, deer and he still chose me. A bond that strong is not instant, and as Gavin shows his puppy ways more and more everyday; it brings back memories with Finn when I chuckled, shook my head and wondered if we would ever understand each other.

When I began searching for a dog to share my home; I thought I wanted a buddy who would go on long walks with me. I had grown so comfortable with a big lug who no longer had any desire to say hi to random dogs on the street or race through parks, inviting all the pups to chase him. Perhaps the lesson I need right now is to learn how to get out and play more; Gavin is the just the dog for the job. In the past couple of weeks, seeing Gavin glittery eyed, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he and Grace run in circles around Kate's house; smiling as he pounces onto the ground, attempting to invite the new pup at the park to play or; belly-up, snoring after a long day at camp, his playfulness is helping me come back to life. And, Gavin is way more interested in learning what I would like for him to learn when he gets the wiggles out of his system. Now that I have discovered an abandoned tennis court for him to enjoy an intense game of fetch after a walk, we are understanding each other in a much more meaningful way.

It has been exactly three months today since I last kissed Finn on his forehead but it seems like I stroked his fur only yesterday. The pieces of my heart that I lost every month I saw the glimmer dim in Finn's eyes and his face and body grow more frail, though he still wore an ear-to-ear smile and showed the world he was a trooper with his never-ending tail wag; are somehow coming back to me when I see Gavin pause, then hop into the air like a rabbit to catch his bone, ball or a recent discovery, my shoe. He has to do some serious sleuthing to find my shoes so I wonder if Finn is whispering in his ear; because nabbing shoes was a game he would like to believe he invented. Like young Finn, Gavin wants and needs to get out and be with dogs and a lot of people. Perhaps I do too. What I thought I needed was nothing more than a silly expectation and maybe I have so much more to learn and experience if I pounced and played more often.

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.