So I started this entry a little over two weeks ago and was fully prepared to give you great in-depth and insight on Finn's downfalls and triumphs during our vacation.
And then I became ill.
Not the kind of ill that leaves you anxiously itching to get out of bed because you have some sense of yourself, but the kind that punches you in the gut, filches your sammich and runs for higher ground while your left puking your insides out on unforgiving terrain. Because of that, I barely remember last week. Images flash in front of me, but most of them consist of me getting up to take antibiotics on a regulated schedule before I was left to slither back under the cave of my covers and drift back in to a coma-like state. Beyond that, if I got up at all during the day, I was just barely coherent enough to know that I was feeling incredible amounts of pain. Still, I was, more or less, a piece of sloppy decor (for any room I landed in) that groaned a copious amount.
Detached from life and often feeling rather airy when I walked, I opted for no leash that week with Finn. Sure, I was scared and somewhere in the back of my drugged mind I knew there was no way I could catch up to him on the off-chance that he decided to plot that week for his jail break. Chances were made to be taken though. I mean, there was that or I could glide around the yard with him dragging me the entire way. We would have probably, eventually, ended up at the door. Or a door, anyways.
Turns out, I'd been worrying for...well...most of nothing. Finn did just fine. In fact, Finn did more than fine. I was going to say he did supine. And then as I was typing no squiggly red correction mark appeared beneath the word and I learned that supine is a legitimate word. It means lying on the back, according to some internet researching here.
To continue: Finn followed our usual route (with a bit more gusto than normal), flouncing around the pines while he took his normal care for defecating and urinating in the bushes. He then succumbed to his innate, if not misguided, desire to run from me and toward the road. Normally, I would say I firmly called him back like the leader of a pack should, but I was exhausted, in pain and had the strangest notion I was floating on air. The "command" presumably, more accurately, sounded like a toddler's whine when something doesn't go their way. Needless to say, Finn ignored that whine. He ignores commands on a regular basis so it wasn't a huge surprise. For the record, he'll get so focused on chasing, following or sniffing something that he's too enraptured with skunk butt to listen to O great and gorgeous mother.
The area he ran to, it's not as close to the road as I make it sound, but it's at an invisible mark that I've drawn in my wee brain and perpetuated its existence in to a falsehood of absolute peril. So to me, Finn crossing that line is equal to death. And, yes, shrieking like a mad woman is appropriate beyond this imaginary point.
Well, he crossed it. This had happened plenty of times before, but each time he was focused on grabbing one of the apples or pears or whatever fruit births from the tree over there. Finn would make a dash for the aforementioned UFO (unidentified fruit object), clumsily bite it, drop it, bite it, drop it, lick it, bite it and finally, after many trials, run with it back and passed me as he triumphantly displayed that he could, indeed, cart a UFO in his mouth...before he swallowed his triumph by dropping it on the ground again.
At this point, the worry was foggy at best. I was going to follow him, but the pain in my abdomen told me better of it so I stayed put. Finn went a little farther than the UFO tree and ended up simply marking his territory on the flimsy tree next to it. Once he was done, he ran straight back to me. After I showered him with praises that would sound, both to him or any human, like incoherent mumbling, he followed my stumbling stature back in to the house.
This same routine went on for the rest of last week. Finn had been pretty amazing off of the leash. He still has his moments where he doesn't listen (I surmise he always will), but when he gets scared, instead of running off in a completely opposite direction like I assumed he might, he high-tails it to the door, urging me with his pacing and wary glances to let him inside.
Now, just because I didn't start with this tid-bit doesn't mean I want to stave you off on what happened during the beach vacation.
It was a pretty difficult journey for Finn, but all in all: I'm proud of the squirt.
The trials were pretty prevalent from the beginning. For one: I knew there would be a ton of people. Beach + Summer = People. Well, that's a no brainer. Second: We chose a pet-friendly vacation home. Chances are that one pet-friendly home, means there are quite a few within that given area. In turn, that means lots of dog-lovers around those parts. And lastly: the terrain situation. If the yard surrounding the house was just sand or grass, I was all fur it (fur...for...get it? yeah, no, moving on). Turns out we got that one yard that just so happened to be pregnant with an over-abundance of burs and, the lovelier of the two, cacti.
Day of arrival might as well have been shot. Because of both of our inexperience and me attempting to find a nice cushy spot without cacti or burs, Finn ended up with a horde of burs all over him and a few cacti needles driven in to his paws. If that doesn't sound unpleasant enough, it was worse to look at. I felt effectively like the worst dog owner in all of the world as I watched Finn helplessly gimp back to the house, shaking like an earthquake had bloomed from inside of him. He wasn't allowing me to yank the needles out of his paw outside, so I rushed with him back inside and tore those spindly brutes out of him as gently and as quickly as I could before allowing him to hide. On the bright side, he urinated while we were out there. It was just a little difficult to see a happy side to his pain.
The following morning, my father took us out to the Petco nearby and we found these rubber-soled little booties. He and mom were equally upset about Finn having to tread on needles and wanting him to suffer no longer, we bought the boots, eager to try them as soon as we could.
Finn, as expected, was pretty put off by ever going outside again. Ever.
And as if I purposely enjoyed adding to his stress, now there were odd things on his paws, hampering his ability to feel beneath him.
Trying out his new fashion, he looked like he was rocking the runway. Just with suction cups on his feet. We had our share of giggles and I got my video clip, still, in all seriousness we were praying that these boots stood up to the cacti needles.
I had to take him out at night as that often results in less people walking to and from the beach. Any voice would have him darting back to the house, not that I let him back, but I needed him to feel comfortable enough to use the potty. Luckily, he did. He even met a person (who only said hello and wouldn't touch him at his obvious reaction of fear), before making it back inside.
Aside from going to the beach, visiting mine and my mother's favorite coffee place, Morning View Coffeehouse (it's become a tradition of ours for about four years now. We weren't able to go one year...and almost died...for cereal), and going fishing with my dad, that's pretty much how Finn's routine fit in to place. I'd take him out once in the morning, once at night. Until I developed food poisoning.
I was on the up-side of getting over that when my dad asked me if I wanted him to go with me and Finn for the potty routine. Recently, my dad has become more of a "protection" figure for Finn and whenever we go out anywhere near people, he tends to feel safer by my father than by me. Maybe it's his towering stature, whatever it might be, my dad's presence actually tends to calm him down rather than stir him up.
Of course I happily obliged to the notion, especially since I still felt like royal muck from occupying the commode all night and day. Then he suggested that we try walking toward the beach this time, since it was almost our last day and I hadn't been able to give Finn the chance yet to step outside his comfort zone. I was pretty excited to try, but after seeing all the people come and go from the beach, I held no candle to the success of this mission. Really, my father didn't either. Just one person, one dog even, is all it takes to send Finn flying and stump any further progress.
We walked our way towards the beach, hanging to the side of the road, by the grass, in case Finn needed to go. He did end up needing to and, excuse me for my bluntness, peed out in the open. No bushes, no thick coverage to hide his derriere or anything. Dad and I were giddy with pride just for that.
As we got closer and closer to the beach, we became more open to the idea that Finn might just make it. Low and behold he did!! I was so excited! My dad and I were praising him left and right, planning to take him to the water as he didn't seem perturbed in anyway by the crashing of the waves.
Taking him further across the sand, we had just breached the clearing of houses, open sand and waves ahead of us, beckoning, when Finn made a precarious move, his derriere hunching. Sure enough...he was pooping. In the sand. On the beach. The beach with obvious public access. And who didn't bring her doggy bags? This giiiirl.
"Daw crap." Literally. While dad and I were holding our stomachs at the hilarity of it all (not to mention from the "of course this happens when you don't plan for it" scenario shoved in our face), I knew I had to go grab doggy bags before someone decided to step on the beach. Telling me that he thought Finn had accomplished enough for one night, dad handed the leash back to me, told me to take him back to the house while he stood watch. Over poop.
Still stifling chuckles, I ran back to the house with Finn, grabbed the bags, ran back and cleaned up the mess.
Unfortunately I have no proof that this ever occurred aside from mine or my father's account of the event because I also left my phone at the house, assuming Finn wouldn't make it far.
What can I say, he knows how to prove me wrong.
We tried the same thing for the next night to no effect. Too many people were coming and going, making the journey much more difficult and taxing on Finn's already short nerves. We were able to walk quite a ways to the beach before Finn had a mini meltdown where I needed to drop to the ground and hold him.
In the end, we never were able to get him to the ocean. Still, the accomplishments were daunting enough and Finn has time to grow.
It was a good thing I cut his hair before taking him on that trip though. Otherwise he might have turned in to one giant bur-ball.
And now to blast you with photos of his hair cut, by yours truly!
Amaze-balls right?!
Are you prepping for the upcoming holiday? I know I am. Maybe it's too early, but if you're looking for a little inspiration click here In all honesty, I'm just trying to be a view-whore and get me some luvin :P
Detached from life and often feeling rather airy when I walked, I opted for no leash that week with Finn. Sure, I was scared and somewhere in the back of my drugged mind I knew there was no way I could catch up to him on the off-chance that he decided to plot that week for his jail break. Chances were made to be taken though. I mean, there was that or I could glide around the yard with him dragging me the entire way. We would have probably, eventually, ended up at the door. Or a door, anyways.
Turns out, I'd been worrying for...well...most of nothing. Finn did just fine. In fact, Finn did more than fine. I was going to say he did supine. And then as I was typing no squiggly red correction mark appeared beneath the word and I learned that supine is a legitimate word. It means lying on the back, according to some internet researching here.
To continue: Finn followed our usual route (with a bit more gusto than normal), flouncing around the pines while he took his normal care for defecating and urinating in the bushes. He then succumbed to his innate, if not misguided, desire to run from me and toward the road. Normally, I would say I firmly called him back like the leader of a pack should, but I was exhausted, in pain and had the strangest notion I was floating on air. The "command" presumably, more accurately, sounded like a toddler's whine when something doesn't go their way. Needless to say, Finn ignored that whine. He ignores commands on a regular basis so it wasn't a huge surprise. For the record, he'll get so focused on chasing, following or sniffing something that he's too enraptured with skunk butt to listen to O great and gorgeous mother.
The area he ran to, it's not as close to the road as I make it sound, but it's at an invisible mark that I've drawn in my wee brain and perpetuated its existence in to a falsehood of absolute peril. So to me, Finn crossing that line is equal to death. And, yes, shrieking like a mad woman is appropriate beyond this imaginary point.
Well, he crossed it. This had happened plenty of times before, but each time he was focused on grabbing one of the apples or pears or whatever fruit births from the tree over there. Finn would make a dash for the aforementioned UFO (unidentified fruit object), clumsily bite it, drop it, bite it, drop it, lick it, bite it and finally, after many trials, run with it back and passed me as he triumphantly displayed that he could, indeed, cart a UFO in his mouth...before he swallowed his triumph by dropping it on the ground again.
At this point, the worry was foggy at best. I was going to follow him, but the pain in my abdomen told me better of it so I stayed put. Finn went a little farther than the UFO tree and ended up simply marking his territory on the flimsy tree next to it. Once he was done, he ran straight back to me. After I showered him with praises that would sound, both to him or any human, like incoherent mumbling, he followed my stumbling stature back in to the house.
This same routine went on for the rest of last week. Finn had been pretty amazing off of the leash. He still has his moments where he doesn't listen (I surmise he always will), but when he gets scared, instead of running off in a completely opposite direction like I assumed he might, he high-tails it to the door, urging me with his pacing and wary glances to let him inside.
Now, just because I didn't start with this tid-bit doesn't mean I want to stave you off on what happened during the beach vacation.
It was a pretty difficult journey for Finn, but all in all: I'm proud of the squirt.
The trials were pretty prevalent from the beginning. For one: I knew there would be a ton of people. Beach + Summer = People. Well, that's a no brainer. Second: We chose a pet-friendly vacation home. Chances are that one pet-friendly home, means there are quite a few within that given area. In turn, that means lots of dog-lovers around those parts. And lastly: the terrain situation. If the yard surrounding the house was just sand or grass, I was all fur it (fur...for...get it? yeah, no, moving on). Turns out we got that one yard that just so happened to be pregnant with an over-abundance of burs and, the lovelier of the two, cacti.
Day of arrival might as well have been shot. Because of both of our inexperience and me attempting to find a nice cushy spot without cacti or burs, Finn ended up with a horde of burs all over him and a few cacti needles driven in to his paws. If that doesn't sound unpleasant enough, it was worse to look at. I felt effectively like the worst dog owner in all of the world as I watched Finn helplessly gimp back to the house, shaking like an earthquake had bloomed from inside of him. He wasn't allowing me to yank the needles out of his paw outside, so I rushed with him back inside and tore those spindly brutes out of him as gently and as quickly as I could before allowing him to hide. On the bright side, he urinated while we were out there. It was just a little difficult to see a happy side to his pain.
The following morning, my father took us out to the Petco nearby and we found these rubber-soled little booties. He and mom were equally upset about Finn having to tread on needles and wanting him to suffer no longer, we bought the boots, eager to try them as soon as we could.
Finn, as expected, was pretty put off by ever going outside again. Ever.
And as if I purposely enjoyed adding to his stress, now there were odd things on his paws, hampering his ability to feel beneath him.
Trying out his new fashion, he looked like he was rocking the runway. Just with suction cups on his feet. We had our share of giggles and I got my video clip, still, in all seriousness we were praying that these boots stood up to the cacti needles.
Aside from going to the beach, visiting mine and my mother's favorite coffee place, Morning View Coffeehouse (it's become a tradition of ours for about four years now. We weren't able to go one year...and almost died...for cereal), and going fishing with my dad, that's pretty much how Finn's routine fit in to place. I'd take him out once in the morning, once at night. Until I developed food poisoning.
I was on the up-side of getting over that when my dad asked me if I wanted him to go with me and Finn for the potty routine. Recently, my dad has become more of a "protection" figure for Finn and whenever we go out anywhere near people, he tends to feel safer by my father than by me. Maybe it's his towering stature, whatever it might be, my dad's presence actually tends to calm him down rather than stir him up.
Of course I happily obliged to the notion, especially since I still felt like royal muck from occupying the commode all night and day. Then he suggested that we try walking toward the beach this time, since it was almost our last day and I hadn't been able to give Finn the chance yet to step outside his comfort zone. I was pretty excited to try, but after seeing all the people come and go from the beach, I held no candle to the success of this mission. Really, my father didn't either. Just one person, one dog even, is all it takes to send Finn flying and stump any further progress.
We walked our way towards the beach, hanging to the side of the road, by the grass, in case Finn needed to go. He did end up needing to and, excuse me for my bluntness, peed out in the open. No bushes, no thick coverage to hide his derriere or anything. Dad and I were giddy with pride just for that.
As we got closer and closer to the beach, we became more open to the idea that Finn might just make it. Low and behold he did!! I was so excited! My dad and I were praising him left and right, planning to take him to the water as he didn't seem perturbed in anyway by the crashing of the waves.
Taking him further across the sand, we had just breached the clearing of houses, open sand and waves ahead of us, beckoning, when Finn made a precarious move, his derriere hunching. Sure enough...he was pooping. In the sand. On the beach. The beach with obvious public access. And who didn't bring her doggy bags? This giiiirl.
"Daw crap." Literally. While dad and I were holding our stomachs at the hilarity of it all (not to mention from the "of course this happens when you don't plan for it" scenario shoved in our face), I knew I had to go grab doggy bags before someone decided to step on the beach. Telling me that he thought Finn had accomplished enough for one night, dad handed the leash back to me, told me to take him back to the house while he stood watch. Over poop.
Still stifling chuckles, I ran back to the house with Finn, grabbed the bags, ran back and cleaned up the mess.
Unfortunately I have no proof that this ever occurred aside from mine or my father's account of the event because I also left my phone at the house, assuming Finn wouldn't make it far.
What can I say, he knows how to prove me wrong.
We tried the same thing for the next night to no effect. Too many people were coming and going, making the journey much more difficult and taxing on Finn's already short nerves. We were able to walk quite a ways to the beach before Finn had a mini meltdown where I needed to drop to the ground and hold him.
In the end, we never were able to get him to the ocean. Still, the accomplishments were daunting enough and Finn has time to grow.
It was a good thing I cut his hair before taking him on that trip though. Otherwise he might have turned in to one giant bur-ball.
And now to blast you with photos of his hair cut, by yours truly!
Amaze-balls right?!
Are you prepping for the upcoming holiday? I know I am. Maybe it's too early, but if you're looking for a little inspiration click here In all honesty, I'm just trying to be a view-whore and get me some luvin :P
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