Finnegan 2

G drew a picture of a cat and taped it to her wall a week or two ago - it was a white cat, and she wrote "Cat" above it.  She likes to label things, now that she can.  Today, I found her with a black crayon, making black spots on the cat.  She'd marked out "Cat" and written "Dog", and underneath that, "Finn".  She drew a black mark at the bottom of the page, "that's his fur that he leaves everywhere."

*Sigh*

We picked up his ashes yesterday; I had both girls in the car with me when I called to see if he was ready.  I should've thought better of that - Cora piped up, "We're getting our puppy back?"  The hopeful melody of her sweet voice broke my heart.  I had to explain again that we're just picking up his ashes.  That he's still dead, that he's not coming back.  "Ashes?" G was curious. "They turned him into dust?"  We talked a bit about that, what it would look like.  I told them to imagine the ashes under the grill, the ones they like to play in.   I sent out a silent thank you to the universe when we got through the conversation again without them asking how they turned him into ashes - I can't think how I would explain cremation technique without them being horrified.  "Did they turn his fur to ashes too?" G asked.  She had that sad, tentative voice that she uses when something is bothering her and she's trying to understand.  "Yes, baby, his fur too."  "Oh," she said, looking down.  "I wanted to feel his fur again."  Somehow I managed to not cry, but it took effort.  I lost it last night when I shared that anecdote with Jimi - he did too.  It's almost too much to bear, to think of his soft fur and what a good boy he was.

We got him picked up, though, got him home, on the mantle.  They included a paw print pressed into some sort of soft dough that will firm up permanently in a few days.  I don't know if that was great or terrible.  I cried last night for a long time.  It wasn't all for him, but a lot of it was.  I have so much guilt - I was not the greatest dog mom over the last 5 years, and I don't know how I'll come to terms with that.  I can't make it up to him.  I can't tell him I'm sorry.  I can't redo any of it.  I keep replaying this night in my head, one of our walks in his last few weeks, before I realized he was hurting - we were walking our usual route and he was being so slow, and I was in such a hurry, like I always am, to get to the next thing, whatever it was.  I lost my patience with him, I assumed he was just being pokey, taking his time, and I pulled on his lead and griped at him to "Come ON - hurry up!"  I would love to not have that memory anymore. When he was slow the next night too, that's when I noticed something was not normal.  Also, the weeks leading up to that, when he was so slow to get up and come to the door to go outside in the mornings; I assumed he was being lazy, or ignoring me - as if he ever did those things - and I would lose my temper and yell at him, "Finnegan, COME!"  I didn't realize until later, when I put the entire sequence together in my head, that he obviously was aching and sore and having a hard time getting up to go out - I was just so engrossed in my own bullshit, worried over my own morning checklist and timetable, I didn't even notice my best boy was having a hard time.  And if I go further back in this memory lane of self-hate - the days when we'd come home and he would be waiting there for us, and we'd blow into the house full of kids and to-do lists and walk right past him without much more than a "Hey Finn, you need to go out?" and we'd let him out, but then ignore him nearly completely until it was time to feed or walk him.  I noticed when he wasn't greeting us at the door any more, but I figured he was napping.  I didn't realize that those door-meet declines coincided with the slow mornings, or that our walks were gradually taking longer and longer, until it was just obvious, and then it was too late.  He deserved better than that.  I owed him more than that.

I want to defend myself, to tell how I was good to him, and to the other dogs in my life before him.  But then I remember that night on that walk, when I hurried him along when he must've been in pain, and I just hate myself.  

I had this ridiculous thought yesterday:  "Dog is God spelled backwards."
Then, "If the way we treat our dogs determines if we get into Heaven, I don't know if I'll get to go."
Then, just now, "If Finn is the one who determines if I get in or not, he'd let me in.  He was always so forgiving."

He used to love it when I'd squat down in front of him and hug him.  He'd lay his head on my shoulder or in the crook of my arm as long as I'd stay there, my face buried in his neck, my hands rubbing along his flank and back, telling him what a good boy he is and how much we love him.  I can almost smell his doggy smell, remembering it.  How soft his fur was, the way he'd lean into me.  I feel like if I get to meet him again, we'll do that, and I'll tell him all of this, and he'll understand, and he'll still love me like he always did.  In the meantime, though, I get to live with the memories, of both the good times and of when I was not a good friend to my best friend.

Finnegan.

I just couldn't do it yesterday - it was too sudden, too soon, too much.  And after the awful start to the morning, he seemed okay after we got home.  Sort of. I felt rushed. The girls needed time to comprehend what was happening.  I needed time to love on him just a little bit more.

The dog who had barely eaten in two days wolfed down the T-bone I grilled him, and gnawed on the bone off and on throughout the evening.  Mostly he just lay on the pillows and blankets and yoga mats I'd laid out in the living room for him, breathing in a way that didn't quite sound right to me - too shallow, too raspy? - his body trembling the slightest bit with each rise and fall of his chest.  We picked the girls up early and explained as best we could what was happening.  I think they get it; we're reminding them to talk and ask questions and that it's okay to be happy and sad at the exact same time.  When the sun came out, we all went out to the front yard and he meandered and sniffed and then went to lay under a tree.  That was his favorite tree back in the day, back before we had a fence and he always went outside to the front yard on a tie-out - he liked to lay there and smell the air and watch the world go by.  Friends came by to love on him one last time, to tell him what a good boy he's been - and to love on us, because they know how awful this is.

Eventually he decided he was ready for bed, I guess, and he went and lay in the middle of the floor in the girls' room.  He would move from side to side, but was not interested in getting up for any reason for the rest of the night.  We talked about how it would maybe be better if he just went to sleep and didn't wake up.  Jimi and I stayed up listening to folk music that somehow was all about losing people you love and reminisced about our lives with him - all the crazy antics that drove us crazy and infuriated us back then - things we wish he could do again.

He had terrible separation anxiety in the beginning.  He bent the bars of his kennel trying to escape it.  He destroyed all of the blinds in our houses - the one we lived in when we got him, and the one we moved into the next year - trying to get to us when we'd leave for work.  We took the best walks through the parks together, and he scared the kids because of his one blue eye and one brown eye.  "Ghost eye," Jimi called it.  He was always sweet and dopey, though.  He was always the best boy.

He loved to explore, and I spent the first 4 years in this house chasing him through the neighborhood when he'd escape through a hole in the fence; once, there was a foot of snow on the ground and I was in slippers, until I lost a slipper.  Then I was just in one slipper.  Fucking dog.  When we'd go to camp, I'd irritate the shit out of Karen because I was constantly yelling "FIIINN - AAAA - GAAANNN!", trying to find him after he'd wander off into the cornfield or around the corner to someone else's camp over and over again, coming back covered in something stinky and gross more often than not.  Using a tie-out was a pain in the ass out there - he'd get wrapped around stuff or tangled up, and besides, what dog wants to be tied up out in the woods?  

He loved to be with us.  If we weren't here, he loved to be with our things.  At first, when he was little, he'd love our things too much with his mouth - we lost a lot of shoes.  Eventually, he just wanted to lay with our things.  He'd make a pile, in the middle of our bed, of shoes and shirt that we'd worn most recently, and then he'd lay there.  All day.  Waiting for us to come home and scold him for making a pile of our things in the middle of our bed again.  Nah, we never really scolded him for that - we'd scold him for the shoe he'd destroyed or the harness he'd cut through again with his scissor-like teeth or the bag of bread he'd shredded and eaten while laying on a pile of our things in the middle of our bed.

When G was born, we sent the little cap they first put on her head home with Stacy, who was keeping Finn for us.  She gave it to him, and says he carried it around with him everywhere for the next few days, whimpering.  When we came home, he watched over her constantly.  When I'd sit in my spot on the couch and nurse her, he was there, right there next to us, with his head next to hers.  He showed extraordinary patience with both of the girls, and was almost always exceedingly gentle with them.  (He nipped at G one time, but she deserved it.  We used it as a teaching moment to remind her to be kind to her puppy brother.)

He did an awesome job keeping our floors crumb-free, though he did contribute what I feel is probably more than his fair share of mess in the form of hairs shed.

He was the best boy.

I slept in the girls' room, so I could be close to him, in case he needed anything in the middle of the night.  He didn't.

We got up late today, just before 7.  G turned the light on and told him good morning and kissed his head - he thumped his tail a few times.  I gave him a few minutes to wake up, then asked if he wanted to go outside.  He got right up and headed for the door, more steady on his feet than he seemed yesterday.  He went straight out the door, down the steps, into the yard.  He peed, sniffed around a bit.  Stood, sniffed the air.  Then he came up the stairs and stopped, stood for a moment, then his back end started to wobble and he fell over on his side.  I caught him and helped him down.  He was panting, but not too heavily.  He lay there for a few minutes before he was able to get up again, but he made it back inside on his own and lay down on his bed.  He drank some water, seemed okay.  Just okay.  It was so obviously time.

We had to wait for the vet's office to open at 9.  I cooked him another steak and he ate the parts I'd cut from the bone, but didn't have any interest in the bone itself.  He drank some more water, rested his head.

I pulled the girls together and explained again what was going to happen.  I told them to go tell him they love him, that he's been a great puppy brother.  "Goodbye?" Geneva asked.  "Yes, baby, goodbye," I answered.

We'd talked about taking the girls with us, about having someone keep them both, or just Cora, but in the end, I decided I wanted to do this on my own.  The vet's office has tiny examining rooms, for one thing.  And the chaos - I just wanted my boy to be able to go in peace, and when we come as a group we bring the chaos.  Usually it's fine - this wasn't one of those situations, though.  So Jimi said his goodbyes, the girls gave their last kisses and hugs and belly rubs, and I asked, "Hey Finn, wanna go for a ride?"  He perked up, ears alert, and got up.  He trotted across the living room, down the short hall, through the dining room and kitchen.  He hesitated at the steps, but only for a moment, then he was down them, through the gate, sniffing in the yard.  He didn't try to jump into the car, but he was waiting patiently for me to lift him into it.  I opened all of the windows and we drove the short drive.  There were lots of people in the small office already - I'd left him in the car to let them know we were here.  After checking in, I went back out and let him down onto the ground to sniff - there are great smells for a dog in the parking lot of a vet's office, I imagine, and that's before you factor in the chicken place next door.

When they were ready for us, I carried him into the small room.  They lifted him onto the table.  I held his face and looked into his eyes and told him how much we loved him, how he's the best boy, how thankful we were that he was part of our family.  It felt like he understood.  He was not scared, he was not panicked, he was not stressed.  As the medicine took effect, he lay down on the table, into my arms, and breathed a few last deep breaths, and then he was still.  It was done.  And it felt okay.  Deeply sad, but okay.

That's how I feel.  Deeply sad, but okay.

I'll miss that good boy.  He was the sweetest boy.

Birthday breakdown

How was your Christmas?  I hope it was magical and full of love and happiness.

It feels like we've been celebrating for four days straight, and I'm a little over it.  I loved every moment, don't get me wrong, but this girl likes to sit at home and do nothing, remember?  Holidays are not conducive for sitting around and doing nothing.

Friday, of course, was Jimi's 40th birthday.  Knowing Friday was going to be a little crazy, I gave him his gift Thursday night:

It's a banjo-ukulele.  He's stoked.  

He tuned and played and played and tuned for the rest of the night...

Oh Yeah.  Friday was Finn's birthday, too.  (Not really - his birthday is ACTUALLY some time in January, but Jimi decided that 12/23 and January-something are close enough for gov'ment work, so forever forward, Jimi and Finnegan will share a birthday.)  Finn's three now!  YAY!  Of course, he got a present, too:

Stinky Pete, was the toy's name - he's a skunk.  Highly appropriate for our boy.  Pete's still around, but his tail has sprayed its stuffing all over my living room.

When Friday finally came, I spent the morning shopping for Mom & Dad & Brother, because I am on the ball and wait until Christmas Eve Eve for that sort of thing.  I wanted to try to Shop Local this year if possible, and so I headed downtown to Market Street, to a district they're trying to re-brand as NULU, or New Louisville.  (In answer, I imagine, to the artsy district known as Old Louisville, where the old Victorian houses live.)  Despite their efforts at pretension, I love NULU and the artsy-fartsy feel of it.

There's garden nestled between a parking lot and an art gallery.

I guess they had way too many tomatoes this year?  There are a few left on these vines.

We love our bourbons here in Kentucky.  :)

I finished my shopping for Momma, but Daddy and Brother still needed gifts.  Jimi was scheduled to work till 6 p.m., but was lucky enough to be one of four to get sent home early.  Even though I'd already made my way back home, we headed out again toward NULU; Jimi was starving, so we went to The Bodega at Felice, home of Lobster Bisque Fridays.  YAY!  Bossman gave me a gift card for Christmas and I was ready to get my eat on.

There's a small vineyard in their side yard.

The button on his jacket was a gift from his work-wife, Barb.

It says "In case of Zombie Apocalypse, Follow Me!"

Lobster Bisque and Grilled Cheese

I was really sad about the spilled soup, and I sure did use my spoon to save every last drop possible.  

I would've licked the plate, but I didn't want to embarrass Jimi.

Fish Tacos

After lunch, we shopped a bit, but the hats I'd had my eye on for Daddy weren't his size, and I wasn't seeing anything that would work for Brother.  We left NULU and headed for the Highlands, where I knew I could at least score a skateboard.  It was what Brother really wanted, and even though it was more than I wanted to spend, I had a feeling it'd be totally worth the extra money to see the excitement on his face.  (I was completely right about that, by the way.)  By the time that purchase was wrapped up, we were out of daylight, and I was starting to panic about Daddy's gift, but hey, that's what Christmas Eve is for, right?

Friday night, our buddy Scott Anthony was playing piano and singing in a 12-piece Steely Dan cover band.  Before the doors, we went with Steve to La Que for over-peppered lettuce cups.  (The over-peppered part wasn't part of the original plan.)

While we were waiting for our food, Jimi says "That's a very pretty flower there behind Steve."  Steve turned around and was in awe - apparently, this plant is called Crown of Thorns, and Steve, who is super plant-smart, says, "Holy crap, that's a Crown of Thorns.  I've never seen one in bloom."  We spent the next few minutes trying to get a non-blurry, non-blinding picture of the beautiful plant.

I suggested we just take it, but they wouldn't let me.  Boys never want to have fun like girls do.

I don't know why he was making this face.
I'm sure there was a funny story involved.

I nearly ruined our night before it had much chance to get started.  When we arrived at Headliners, I got the idea that I didn't want to haul my purse around.  I pulled out my valet key, my wallet, my phone and my smokes.  I popped the trunk from the inside, then used the regular key to lock the trunk release.  I got out of the car and went around to the trunk, where I deposited my purse and my daily keys before shutting the hatch.  Then I walked back up to the driver's side and locked the car.  I was swinging the door closed, when BOOM!  Sense hit me like a sledge - WAIT!  What if the valet key doesn't unlock the door?!  I stopped the momentum of the closing door, fit the key into the lock and turned - nothing.  It wouldn't turn.  My belly sank.  Fuck.  Probably won't open the trunk either, huh?  Nope.  Steve asked if the valet key will start the car, and it will, and he asked if we've got a spare house key we can get to at home, and we do, so we shrugged our shoulders and went in to listen to the music.

 I don't know Steely Dan music, but apparently this group was spot-on.  I enjoyed it, even if I didn't recognize all but two songs.  Lisa, Scott's fiance and Jimi's "sissy", was beautiful as always, and Scott was gettin' down up there on stage.

There was no way to tell Steve, "Yes,
I want a picture of me & Jimi.  But I also
want you to get my skinny jeans and suede boots in the shot."  

I woke up Saturday morning and went on a tear looking for my spare key, the one that's not the valet key.  I remembered using it last winter, but I hadn't seen it in months.  We emptied drawers and closets, old bags and purses, change jars and mail organizers.  "Would it be upstairs for any reason?" Jimi asked.  "No, I don't think so," I replied.  Of course it was upstairs.  On the coffee table, right where it belongs.  All was well with the world, as my purse and regular keys were freed from the trunk of my car.

It was a freakin' Christmas Miracle.

Speaking of Christmas, guess I'll talk about that next time.  This post is pretty epic.  :)