On May 31st I said goodbye to my best friend.
Age and disease had finally caught up to him. I had known for a long time that it was something I’d need to deal with but I kept thinking maybe, just maybe, he’d rally and I’d get another few months. Maybe a year. It was a selfish idea but I couldn’t imagine life without him by my side.
Hope floats. Reality is down below.
Two years ago, Finn was diagnosed with laryngeal paralysis which became geriatric onset laryngeal paralysis polyneuropathy. A mouthful of big words that meant as the disease progressed his world shrunk to our downstairs living room. There were days where he couldn’t walk without dragging his rear feet. They would sometimes curl under as he stepped and he’d stumble. His breathing could become ragged when he exerted himself, so over a few months his walks got shorter until last year we stopped all walks except for the very short jaunts around the yard. I hated that for him but he was still happy, though he moved slower and was less steady on his feet.
I constantly think about how a dog’s life parallels a human life in fast forward. From the goofy, awkward puppy phase to the confident young adult, to the dignified older person whose hair begins to turn to silver. Then comes that last stage where the clock stops and Father Time wins. I wish you could slow that process down for a dog but time has that uncanny ability to slip gently through your fingers when you’re not paying attention. I notice it myself when I look in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back.
I was in the deep south of Indiana on May 30th and my wife texted me that morning around 6am to tell me he was in bad shape. I sat on the corner of my hotel room bed full of anxiety with thoughts of him passing before I could get back north to say goodbye. After the event, I pointed the car north and pushed it a bit more than I legally should have. Speed limits be damned, my buddy was in a bad way.
I got home as soon as I could and honestly I wasn’t sure he’d make it through the night. We scheduled Weeping Willow Vet to come to the house on Sunday morning and put him to rest. There were no more options left and to prolong his suffering would be cruel. This was the second time Dr. Amsler had done this for us, the first time was a year or so prior with Sadie. Dr. Amsler is a true blessing to have in our area. To be able to put your dog or cat to rest in the place they’ve known love their entire life is worth any price.
Sunday morning came and Finn wanted outside to go to the bathroom. He walked around the yard, his breathing labored, and collapsed in the grass near the back porch. He never got back up. I laid with him from 8:30am that morning until Dr. Amsler arrived around 11am. Minutes later, he was gone. He didn’t fight it. He relaxed for the first time in a long time and slipped away to the next adventure.
Finn spent years on rivers around the Midwest with my friends and I. He was in the Orvis blog that Phil Monahan ran a few times. He was in magazines and there are photos of him in books. He loved to kiss a fish before it was released back into it’s watery domain. He hated squirrels and tried to chase them to the very end. He never caught one but it never stopped him from trying.
He was a friend to everyone he met. He was a gentle soul. As a puppy he tore his toys to shreds. As an adult, he’d carry around his toys like they were his most prized possessions. His last toy, a caterpillar, he had for a few years. It went with him to be cremated alongside him.
He was my comfort in the worst of times and a stalwart companion through the best of times. He had a million nicknames and earned every one of them.
It’s been almost a month and I still feel like part of my heart has been torn out and I’m not sure that will ever lessen nor do I think I want it to. I have times when I see something that reminds me of him and I break down into a sobbing mess. The only good thing is that at this stage of my own life I don’t run from the pain or hold back the tears. I walk with it and though I don’t embrace it, I let it be what it will be.
What I will say is that he lived a good life. A full life. He was loved by many and had some of the most amazing adventures with me over the years. That’s all any good dog can ask for. That’s all I could give him.
My boat will feel empty the next time I’m out. I’ll miss those ears flapping in the wind as you stood proud on the bow, the captain of your ship.
Rest well, Finnegan. Thank you for all those years. I love you and I’ll see you later on down the road.
January 8th, 2014 – May 31st, 2026
