Happy Birthday Finley

I have no idea where Finley was born. Cold doesn't seem to bother him much, so I've always envisioned him being born outside a decrepit barn or drainage ditch in the late winter in the hills of West Virginia. I picture him being a scared and confused puppy sitting in a cold box in a cold truck bed. Along comes a woman who volunteers to help rescue dogs. She can only take so many dogs with her to the adoption center. I can not even fathom such a job. What characteristics does she look for in choosing? How often does her heart and gut override practicality. I was told by this woman that Finley was the last dog chosen that day. That there was just something about him. I'd already adopted him at this point, so it seemed genuine, almost as if she wanted to tell me more things that were too sad to say.

I was completely deflated in the days before we decided to drive 30 miles into Virginia for a dog adoption. Liz and I had spent weeks on deciding and looking for a dog. Then we found one at a shelter in northern Maryland. He looked like your typical golden retriever. But like many adoptions, we just clicked from the start. There seemed to be something special about him, about this dog named Max. All we had to do was get an 'ok' from the apartment complex manager. The shelter gave us his paperwork and that's when it fell apart. Whoever dropped this dog off said he was a Pit Bull Lab Mix. I argued that there was no way in hell this dog had pit bull in him. They insisted that legally they could not alter it.

Our complex saw 'Pit Bull' and said NO! We pleaded with them, showed them several pictures of the dog, paid a professional dog trainer to test the dog for his temperament and write a letter of her findings for the complex. Evil Melinda, the iron fisted ruler of the complex, would not budge. I was so frustrated with all of that. I hope Max found a good owner. I'm certain he did.

So I really didn't want to go to an adoption center a week later, but we went. We found Finley pretty quickly. A little girl said if I adopt him, I should name him Super Precious Fluffy Princess or something similar. And to think I wanted to name him Little Corn Sausage!

Liz must have carried Finley around for about an hour straight since we didn't want to put him down for fear someone else would scoop him up in the frenzy. Then a week or so later he was brought to our apartment at age roughly 12 weeks. So I just counted back, and it ended up on this date Feb 5th. And so it's his birthday.

Liz was making a soup base today with a ham hock and so we saved some savory parts for him as well as a small bone. This was his birthday dinner and he even gave us his rare, always cool, gro-dle ( a half growl half yodle) after eating his meal.

Here's a silly pic that my daughter took with her camera. She managed to get her elmo hat to stay on him. Funny. Btw he's 6 now.