She could jump up on all fours to an ungodly height, enough to slam the lower jaw of Teresa, the UPS driver. The heights to which she jumped were in direct proportion to how much she loved you. The only problem with that was that she loved everybody, very much. So she jumped high for everybody, all the time.

To a new person on the street she begged to be turned loose from her leash. She would look at me and say, “I know I know her, if you’d just let me go and remind her. Or maybe I don’t know her, but probably I do. Yeah, I do, for sure! Please let me go and tell her how much I’ve missed her! Please?”

This happened on every walk. Rabbits, mildly interested. Other dogs? Ever since an unfortunate encounter at a dog park, other dogs were not an object of much interest. Well, she was interested in other dogs, only because if there were dogs, that meant the dog’s human must be nearby. And the human was probably, no definitely, somebody she knew, who would no doubt want to be greeted by her.

When we were out running she’d tug on the leash and want to stop and smell a strange weed, the name of which I never learned. I knew what it looked like because of how much she wanted to sniff it. Other dogs had not left their scent there. It was something about the weed itself. They were in two places, on the pathway east of Sheridan and about a quarter of a mile up Stone Canyon Road, after the turnoff for Eagle Ridge.

Or maybe there was nothing special about that particular weed at all. Maybe it was all a trick. She’d always want to stop and smell that particular type of weed, and unless I was timing my run for speed, I’d let her. But on far too many occasions she would only feign interest in a weed. The true object of her interest was a dead something in which she could roll. She’d get a couple of good rolls in, rubbing her back against the thing in all of its deadness before I realized I’d been duped and would yank her away.

I live in the foothills, where there are bear, mountain lions, foxes, bull snakes, rattlesnakes, prairie dogs, skunks, and the occasional stray elk. On the day she’d arrive for a visit, every inch of the side yard was carefully studied by her considerable olfactory system. She usually found something in which she could roll. Then it was a trip to the giant bathtub, which for 18 years has had only purpose – to remove smells from overly curious dogs.

She could grab the poop of a strange animal and swallow it before I could say, “Nope!”  I’d forget about it until later that night, when she’d give me a kiss. She found my breath as fascinating as the dead things in which she’d roll. That always concerned me a bit.

She was not technically my dog. She was Kristie’s dog, and then Kristie and Mara’s dog. I think I may not have been the only one who felt like she was my dog. In my heart I loved her as much as Lilly, our golden/border collie mix who left us for the other side back in 2011.

I taught her never to bark when clients came to the door for counseling. She did bark in the middle of the night when large things lumbered into the backyard. She hated the windstorms. She’d lean hard against me on the couch, glancing at my face to make sure I was good with it all.

Finn was in my life for seven years. She will be in my heart for the rest of my days. Her ears, neck, belly, and the outside of her hind legs begged to be scratched. I got in trouble for it. Kristie would send us out onto the back patio where the hair could be blown toward the heavens. Cathy let me scratch her, but also made me schedule the cleaners for the day after she left. Hair was everywhere. I’ll never get it off of the back seat of my car.

She ran with me every day we were together. The last time we ran together she did the last mile in an 8:42. I hadn’t run that fast in years. Her last few visits she was restricted to walking. Still, I let her off the leash when she heard the UPS truck. She’d hear it long before I saw it. She’d take off like a streak of greased lightning, jump in the truck, and slobber Teresa with kisses. Then she’d sit on the passenger floor facing forward, giving me the tiniest side glance as if to say, “You can go ahead and go home. Teresa and I have got this for now.”

At every meal in every location we shared, she sat immediately next to me, not because I’d sneak her food, but because she knew I was the messiest person at the table. By my feet is where she could reliably count on the most crumbs to fall.

When Kristie told me yesterday that she was gone, I could not stop weeping – not just gently crying, but weeping. My God, how I loved that dog.

She slept by my side, sat next to me on the couch, and spent hours in the oversize chair pictured above, her favorite place when she was at my house. I took this picture four weeks ago.

Dogs were domesticated 30,000 years ago, so we’ve been able to watch them evolve along with us. No wonder they evolved to love us unconditionally. They knew that was our greatest need. Finn loved me like there was no tomorrow. And my love for her was the same.

I will miss you, sweet baby girl. And Kristie, thank you for sharing your pup with me. I will be forever grateful.

And so it sadly goes.