Finn

I grew up in a small town.Every Saturday growing up I would drive 30 minutes dow. gravel roads to a sheep farm for my violin lesson. Shep was the border collie that lived on the farm. He was smart. My teacher would talk to him like he was a person, and he seemed to understand ever word she said. Sometimes we would get to my lesson early and I would take Shep on a walk, and talk to him. I’d ask him if he liked his job, if he thought I should go away for the summer. We’d saunter through the trees, with me throwing his ball every 10 seconds. Shep was smart. We would head back to the house and he w would walk me in and sit by the piano for the duration of my lesson. Every once in a while he would let out a soft howling roooooo as I was playing. I always took it as a compliment.

Shep was the first border collie I ever loved.

Finley was the second. She lived with my friends and worked the horses. She was sweet, stunning, focused, and blonde. Finley never pushed. She wasn’t neurotic or demanding. She listened. And when you looked at her, she saw you. She had empathy. She was thoughtful. There was no dog in the world like her. I wished she was mine.

A few years later I was working on my master’s degree, competing in cross-fit, working full-time levelling up my career, and getting married. We had plans for a house on a small acreage and were going to live happily, small, and simply. My life was going to be everything I wanted and I knew it was finally time for a dog. It had to be a border collie. After I got married we found out Finley was pregnant. I made sure my friends knew I wanted one of her puppies. October 2 in the wee hours of the morning, he was born.

The puppies were all nursing when I went over the next day. Whimpering and blind, all six of the pups were perfect. But he was the first to catch my eye. He was the fattest puppy in the litter, had a perfect stripe down the middle of his nose and a white collar in the shape of a flying bird. After a couple hours, I picked him up. And I just knew.

I went out to visit all of the puppies twice a week for 6 weeks. He always came to me. I didn’t notice it at first. He was rolly-polly and quiet. I would sit in the field watching the pups explore, figuring out gravity, fighting each other. But he would always want to be on my lap. And then he’d roll off, bite my shoelace, cry a little. I noticed had these sweet blue eyes. I’d talk to him and he’d tilt his head side to side, trying to figure out what I was saying. He’d follow me, plop down and whine. He would always want to be where I was. Every time I went out we got to know each other and I fell in love. When it was time, I took him home. And named him Finn.

The first couple of weeks Finn was home I obsessed over him. I had time off and we played and trained. He was smart. So smart. He hardly left my shadow. We went for long walks. The first time it snowed he dove into a drift head first. He was hilarious and accident prone and perfect. He would bark in his sleep. And he would lay on his belly with his legs splayed out behind him, posing like a swimsuit model on a beach. Finn was just like his mom. Sweet, stunning, focused, but red instead of blonde. I couldn’t wait to give him land, sheep, adventure, and everything he could ever want.

A month later, I got sick. Shopping in the grocery store, I got lost and couldn’t put words together. I called my husband in a panic and he picked me up and took me to the doctor. Over the next few weeks I deteriorated fast. It looked like MS. I slowly lost the ability to walk without help. I couldn’t sleep or stay awake. My muscles were always aching. We didn’t know what was going on, only that things were bad. My time with Finn was not full of play and training any more. In the early days I would talk to him and cry. I could barely lift my arms, let alone take him for a walk. I was headed for a wheelchair. We couldn’t have a farm with a small house and sheep for Finn if I was in a wheelchair. I was ashamed. I felt guilty. I felt like a burden. I couldn’t work or take care of myself. I could hardly move. I dropped out of my master’s program, lost friends, and disappeared from the world. I was out of sight and out of mind. Life was hell. After several months I wanted it to end. But Finn was there. When I would panic he would bring me a toy and put his head on my legs, and give me a short grunt, which I realized meant “maybe this toy would help.” Everyday Finn played my bed with empathy and gentle eyes, never once asking me how I was or if I was feeling better. He would just stay with me. On the dark days when I would grieve my future and couldn’t imagine carrying on, he would be there sleeping beside me. Most days it was just Finn and I. On good days, we would train from bed and I would toss his toy 2 feet of the bed and he would bring it back. On bad days I would weep in his fur and hug him while he put his head on my shoulder. Finn saw it all. He was there in the dark, and never once asked more of me than I could give.

It was 2 years before I was able to get out of bed without help. I found a treatment and it started to work. After a few months Finn and I started to walk together. It was a few minutes at first. And then it was 30 minutes. Then an hour. After 2 years of not walking I wanted to walk the whole earth. So did Finn. So we walked. Everyday. In minus 15, when it was raining. We went to parks. To the river. We threw frisbees. We trained and Finn learned words and how to move. We learned patience from each other. We went to the Rocky mountains. Our first mountain wasn’t very big. A couple kilometres in length and only a couple hundred meters of elevation. It was just a mountain. It wasn’t particularly high, but to me it was better than Everest. So we did another one. And another. Each one a little longer and a little higher. We were getting somewhere.

Finn was sensitive. If I was frustrated, he would shut down and hide. I wouldn’t be able to bring him out of hiding unless I had let go of my hard emotions. I would lay on my back, apologize, look at him and he would eventually come out and lick my face. I learned that I needed to be safe for Finn so I learned how to let go of my hurt so I wouldn’t hurt him. Finn knew how to focus and how to work and how to play intrinsically. As I taught him new words, he taught me how to live life freely. Finn had to be true to his nature. He was brilliant and modest and patient. He began to bring it out in me. I learned how to let go of the future I once had, and be playful in the present. While treatment began to heal my body, Finn began to heal my spirit. He was my medicine. My partner. My person.

My illness had taken a toll on my marriage. In the first month of 2020, I started a business and my marriage ended. In the second month of 2020, I moved out and Covid hit. I was starting my life over while the world was ending. I had no idea what I was going to do. I felt lost. But Finn didn’t. Finn knew exactly what to do. Walk. We just needed to move, once step at a time. Everyday, we walked forward. We didn’t have to conquer mountains. We just needed to show up and move. One step at a time. On dark days we would rest and he would lay on my bed with his head on my legs, and then we would walk on brighter days. Everyday, Finn would remind me that it was okay to rest and it was okay to move even if we didn’t know where we were going. We walked for miles along dirt roads with no one around. We trained with new words. We fetched. We played. We would We let go of the future and showed up each morning ready for whatever the day had for us. And we did it together.

Life is wild. It is full of mountains and valleys. What makes it worthwhile is the company we keep. Finn is not just my dog. He’s my person. My soulmate. He has been the reason I’m still here and sometimes he is the reason I keep going. This life is rollercoaster of ups and downs and twists and turns. It’s rarely what we would expect it to be. That’s what makes it an adventure. We go foward into places unknown, trusting the ones that are walking alongside of us, and in the process learning to trust ourselves.