To Finn, the greatest dog

This post is written in honor and memory of my dog Finn, who we lost yesterday after a lengthy battle with lymphoma. I am seriously struggling to write about him right now. It’s too fresh. I have so many things I’d love to say about my beautiful, smart, wonderful dog when the time is right. Right now I’m grieving him and I miss him so much. So I’ll say what I can.

We got his ashes today. We have his collar. We have a tuft of hair. We have a house that feels incredibly empty without him. We have two boys who don’t understand. Jack will be asking questions soon, I’m awaiting it, and I’m hoping it happens after I can talk about him without crying. But I’m not sure that is in the cards at the moment.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, Katie joked that Finn was my treatment partner. He really was. I felt a kinship with him already – you hang out with someone for over 9 years, human or not, you’re bound to get close – but I felt like he was comforting me many times with a disease he knew far too well. Last week, at the height of my anxiety, Finn would bring me his yellow tennis ball for me to throw around for him. He’d chase it a couple times and then rest. He would lay his head on my legs at night when we’d go to bed. Even when he was hurting the most, he still made it a point to be as close as he possibly could.

But let’s not get it twisted – from the moment we picked Finn up from Louisville, he was Katie’s dog. I came along by default. Katie was his mom, she was the one who always took up for him when he was “sassy” (most of the time), she made sure he had all his medication, she would arrange the vet visits, she would sit and snuggle him when he was hurt and when he was happy. Finn did no wrong in her eyes (again, most of the time), and when he was somehow at fault, she wasn’t annoyed with him for long. He loved her more than anyone. She would tell me that she loved me and Finn “equally but in different ways.”

A funny memory we talked about last night happened one day at the dog park. We were standing around while Finn ran the park with a group of dogs. Finn, a Vizsla, was FAST. He could really move. I’ve read that Vizslas can run up to 40 MPH, and I don’t doubt it. He zoomed past me a couple times and Katie told me to watch out, that he might clip my knee and send me sprawling on the ground. I laughed; Finn was much too graceful to do that. But then he whipped around a tree and BAM. He slammed into the back of my right leg and next thing I know, I was indeed sprawled out on the ground.

Another habit Finn had was almost a nightly occurrence. We’d put the kids to bed and then feed Finn and tackle the chores. After we were done, we’d sit down, exhausted, ready to chat or watch TV or play a game or do some work (or more recently, go to bed). Like clockwork, within 30 seconds, Finn would be scratching at the back door ready to run outside. It always happened. We’d grumble, but it was a funny habit. Even at his most infuriating, we had to laugh. He was simply the best.

So rest easy, Finn. You finished your battle and you made us better for it. We are going to put a marker in the backyard, next to the tree where you’d stand and stare at squirrels. I’ll be sure to pull out a chair and stare at some in your honor. I will leave this post with a quote from one of my heroes, the late Norm MacDonald, who said, “I’m pretty sure, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure if you die, the cancer dies at the same time. That’s not a loss. That’s a draw.”