When we brought you home from the shelter, eight years ago, you were very timid. I'm not sure what your former owners did to you, other than abandon you, but it took you a while to trust that you were with us to stay. After a few weeks, you began to play, and give us kisses, and you loved our walks around the neighborhood. You were the prettiest dog on the block; everyone said so. When our down-the-street neighbor said, "You're doing a great job with her, she's come a long way," I was filled with pride for you.
One night you ran away from home. We looked for you for hours, up and down the streets of downtown Durham, and then went home, bereft. At 3 a.m. we heard a wild barking at the front door, and there you were, covered in mud and wagging all over. I don't know if you were so happy because of your romp or because you'd managed to find your way home.
We loved you so much we decided to get another dog just like you. What we ended up with was Zack. Zack was in every way your pesky little brother. He was faster and stronger, but you were smarter, and you were eternally stealing his food and taking away his bones. You two got into snarling wrestling matches at least once a day, but there were other times when you would, in unison, run across the yard together just for the joy of it. There was nothing more beautiful than those two flashes of white fur against the green grass.
I took you to obedience school; you did not graduate at the top of the class. You learned most of the commands, but in a half-hearted way. You were stubborn and independent and clearly did not see the point in sitting for a biscuit; you knew that eventually I'd give you the biscuit anyway. Similarly, any time I threw a ball for you to fetch you'd look at where it landed, look back at me, and lay down, as if to say, Why should I run after something you just threw away? On the other hand, you had me well-trained: Every time you went to the back door to go out, you'd stop right at the threshold until I gave you a treat. I don't think you every crossed the doorway without a biscuit in your mouth.
You had a purple cow with a crazy-sounding squeaker that was your very favorite thing.
The four or five times we got a really good snowfall, you were in heaven.
You lost a lot of attention when the girls came along, but you never seemed to mind. You loved the girls due to their habit of dropping food around the house, and you were so patient with them, enduring fur-pulling and attempted pony rides with nary a twitch or a growl.
You always picked the worst spot to lay down in -- in front of the refrigerator, at the very bottom of the stairs, right behind the kitchen chair someone was sitting in.
And then you got sick, and then you got sicker. We could see that you weren't getting much pleasure out of life anymore. A night or two ago, I found you laying in the grass. I asked you if you wanted to come inside, and you thumped your tail once and sighed, as if to say, "I'd like to follow you, but it's gotten too hard." This morning, you barked -- a weak, frightened bark -- every time I left your sight. I think you were saying, Stay with me. Help me.
So I helped you the only way I knew how. I sat with you on the deck and stroked your head. I fed you crusts of toast and Snausages and popcorn. Then I took you to the vet and I stayed with you until you were gone.
"You did the right thing," the vet said. I'm not sure. I wonder if you would have preferred hanging around for a while longer. But Chris and I decided that we'd rather let you go a day or two too early than have you linger here, hurting, for too long.
We'll miss you, Finn. We'll miss your fluffy tail and your pretty brown eyes and especially your funny roo-roos. I hope you're in a place now where you can have all the biscuits you want, and a nice spot to nap in, and someone to scratch your chest in just the right spot all day long. You're a good, good girl.
One night you ran away from home. We looked for you for hours, up and down the streets of downtown Durham, and then went home, bereft. At 3 a.m. we heard a wild barking at the front door, and there you were, covered in mud and wagging all over. I don't know if you were so happy because of your romp or because you'd managed to find your way home.
We loved you so much we decided to get another dog just like you. What we ended up with was Zack. Zack was in every way your pesky little brother. He was faster and stronger, but you were smarter, and you were eternally stealing his food and taking away his bones. You two got into snarling wrestling matches at least once a day, but there were other times when you would, in unison, run across the yard together just for the joy of it. There was nothing more beautiful than those two flashes of white fur against the green grass.
I took you to obedience school; you did not graduate at the top of the class. You learned most of the commands, but in a half-hearted way. You were stubborn and independent and clearly did not see the point in sitting for a biscuit; you knew that eventually I'd give you the biscuit anyway. Similarly, any time I threw a ball for you to fetch you'd look at where it landed, look back at me, and lay down, as if to say, Why should I run after something you just threw away? On the other hand, you had me well-trained: Every time you went to the back door to go out, you'd stop right at the threshold until I gave you a treat. I don't think you every crossed the doorway without a biscuit in your mouth.
You had a purple cow with a crazy-sounding squeaker that was your very favorite thing.
The four or five times we got a really good snowfall, you were in heaven.
You lost a lot of attention when the girls came along, but you never seemed to mind. You loved the girls due to their habit of dropping food around the house, and you were so patient with them, enduring fur-pulling and attempted pony rides with nary a twitch or a growl.
You always picked the worst spot to lay down in -- in front of the refrigerator, at the very bottom of the stairs, right behind the kitchen chair someone was sitting in.
And then you got sick, and then you got sicker. We could see that you weren't getting much pleasure out of life anymore. A night or two ago, I found you laying in the grass. I asked you if you wanted to come inside, and you thumped your tail once and sighed, as if to say, "I'd like to follow you, but it's gotten too hard." This morning, you barked -- a weak, frightened bark -- every time I left your sight. I think you were saying, Stay with me. Help me.
So I helped you the only way I knew how. I sat with you on the deck and stroked your head. I fed you crusts of toast and Snausages and popcorn. Then I took you to the vet and I stayed with you until you were gone.
"You did the right thing," the vet said. I'm not sure. I wonder if you would have preferred hanging around for a while longer. But Chris and I decided that we'd rather let you go a day or two too early than have you linger here, hurting, for too long.
We'll miss you, Finn. We'll miss your fluffy tail and your pretty brown eyes and especially your funny roo-roos. I hope you're in a place now where you can have all the biscuits you want, and a nice spot to nap in, and someone to scratch your chest in just the right spot all day long. You're a good, good girl.
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Mom
-Chris