Finnegan
A few weeks ago, before Thanksgiving Day came and went, I was thinking of the years with Finnegan. As the afternoon you slept through wore on, your warm body curled up contentedly against the couch, your soul heavy with old age, it was impossible not to reflect on your life as it was heading into its final weeks. I sat there recalling the day you came into the house without parental permission, when a daughter found you squeezed into a small cage in a small pet store, the only dog for sale that day. You were a sixty-percent-off-clearance dog on a Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and she was bringing you home permission or not.
All seventy pounds that you grew into ruled the house with a sweetness that belied your booming bark and intimidating size. With tiny Gracie, all four pounds of her as your sidekick, you kept this family safe from mail carriers, proselytizers, driveway blockers in their cars on their cell phones, and all the squirrels, birds, deer, and wild turkeys that dared come into view in your yard. On a trip to the grandparents in North Carolina on a distant Thanksgiving weekend, when the family went on a brief drive and you and Gracie were safely ensconced in a generous yard enclosure, you stepped up to save the day. It was up to you to save yourself and Gracie from the inability to run free. You dug a wee sized Gracie tunnel under the chain link so she could go for help. Fortunately, Gracie didn't get far as we returned to find her, thankfully, only as far as the neighbor's carport.
As smart and crafty as you were gentle, you knew when the family left the house that it was yours for the taking. A baseball cap to chew on, a shoe to nibble; an unattended fast food bag with just enough cold fries at the bottom; a small bedroom trash can to knock over; a loveseat cushion to bite into. Not your finest moments, buddy, to come home and find you with your head hanging in shame, remorse in your eyes, slinking out of the family room. Such remorse the world has never seen until the next time the car left the driveway and your shenanigans began again. There were a handful of times when you made it out of a door left slightly open, just open enough for you to make a break for it. A couple of terrifying hours ensued as you disappeared. We searched and searched, only finding you when you returned of your own accord, adventure over, the safety of home desired. You were so smart. You didn't run to the highway. You ran to the open fields to indulge those wild, roaming free fantasies that all dogs have a right to possess, but you knew to come back. You would not break the hearts of my children, and for all the vexing days you gave me, I will be forever grateful to you for that.
Finnegan died on Monday in the home he was brought into. The days had grown long and tiresome, his steps tentative and slow. The once robust and proud protecting bark was raspy and thin. He died that Monday afternoon as the light of a mild December day grew soft and golden. A brief struggle for his final breath was quickly over, and with comforting arms to hold him, his last minutes faded and his twelve years on earth were done. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he was laid to rest. Cross the rainbow bridge, Finn, knowing that you lived a long and valuable life in the home that took you in. Your years as a beloved member of the family were lived to their fullest because my children loved you. They loved you as wholly, as completely, as it is possible to love a dog. They loved you.
