Finnigan: Let's Begin Again

The mail came yesterday, and there was a note of condolences. Here is what is said:

Dear Rose and Scott:

I am writing to say how sorry I am on the loss of your lovely Ming. You made the best decision for Ming. She was really struggling to breathe and her quality of life was significantly compromised. She was a lovely dog and I know she will be fondly remembered."

The note was from our veterinarian, Dr. Morgan who set Ming free a little more than a week ago. Ming was our 12-year-old pug, my best friend in the whole world. This is her, with my granddaughter, Skylar.

Ming entered my life at a very difficult time. I was trying to raise three kids on my own and get over an acrimonious divorce. I was deeply depressed, and drinking my way through a nervous breakdown. Ming made me feel special, like I was her one-and-only. She slept tucked down beside me every night and soothed my utter loneliness and despair. She taught me how to love again.

Over the years, my life has gotten much better and happier. I have three wonderful grown children, Nick, Stefan and Marissa. Nick and his spouse, Shyla, live in the basement with Skye who will turn four months old next. Stefan is a swinging server about town. Marissa works as a social media ninja and lives with her boyfriend, Jeff, who is a Francophone hip hop artist originally from Paris.

I was fortunate to find love nine years ago and I am now married to a wonderful, patient man named Scott who once covered the news for CBC as a cameraman, but now sells Subarus to make ends meet.

Here is my family.

 I am loved and I am blessed.

Ming was with me all the way, wheezing me on.

A year after Ming entered my life, Marissa brought home an ornery new pug named Gordie who looks like a baboon. He is disrespectful, pees everywhere and barks incessantly, but Gordie is well loved just the same.

At 11, he is here in spite of himself and continues to live a crotchedy life. This is him in an unfortunate pose.

Last week, he and Ming went in for dental surgery and only Gordie came out.

We were grief stricken, not just because of Ming but because we also lost our third dog, the lovely Hannah who died of cancer just before Valentine's Day. We thought she had a toothache and took her happily trotting to the vet, only to be told her condition was "catastrophic" according to Dr. Morgan.

I watched, sobbing, as Hannah was led away to the lethal injection site.

This is Hannah in better days.

Last week, we decided on happiness.

So we adopted a puppy. His mother is a Bernese Mountain dog. His father was a local lothario suspected of being a black lab.  This is his mother.

The puppy's name is Finnigan and he is nothing like his mother.

 If you believe in reincarnation, this is who he was in a past life.

He comes disguised as this.

Only a week in, and Finn has already left his mark. He has chewed my favorite sandals and is working on my good leather sofa and chair. He ripped up the carpet in the den like an expert contractor.

He has left Gordie cowering in the corner.

Me, I'm wounded all over, scratched and gnawed by tiny, sharp puppy teeth. He bit my nose last night then went after my lady parts.

Sleeping with Finn is like diving bum first into a pit of alligators.

A hungry seething pit of alligators.

Laced with spiders.

And that's why I decided to write this blog.

I'm in desperate need of some sharing.

So let's go on this journey together. Maybe you have words of encouragement. Perhaps sage advice. Perhaps you'll recommend pepper spray.

We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll drink.

And here's a promise.

This diary will not end with the death of the dog, as almost all books on dogs do.

It began with death and it will end with joy, frustration and great memories.

See what I did there?

I switched it around.

See you next time.