Friday Andy and I decided to give Finnegan until Monday to make a turnaround, despite all the animal doctors’ advice. They continued to tell us that all signs pointed toward no, and we were still praying yes.
Nearly an hour after making that decision, the doctor called to tell me that Finnegan was declining. Declining? “What does that mean?”, I asked. “Does that mean we are at the point I have dreaded? The one when I will have to decide for him whether he has given it his all?” So, I went to see him. They led me back to where he was kept, and tears streamed in a torrential flood down my face at first glimpse. Not because he looked worse to my eye, or because he looked like he was hurting. Simply because there he was, looking at me like I should take him home. Looking at me like he didn’t understand why I kept leaving him there.
I talked with the doctor while standing there, and she told me his “prognosis” is not good. She doesn’t have a lot of hope for any recovery at this point. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to let him go. So I left, determined to give him at least until later that evening. Around 9:30pm I called, and a new doctor was in (but one who was with him the previous night), and she didn’t have better news. In fact, she told me it was time to think about euthanizing him.
I went in, and after crying for 30 minutes while talking with the doctor, I made the only decision I thought I could make. I let him go. I rubbed him the whole time, and as he left, so did a tiny piece of my heart. Then, as my tears seemed unending, I walked away. I drove home alone with his little collar in my lap wondering why on earth this happened. What purpose did it serve. Knowing that I may not ever have the answers, and that oftentimes the answers aren’t even for us to understand.
So Finnegan is gone, and our home is missing a family member. While he was only with us a short time, he made an indelible mark. His little paw prints are planted firmly on our hearts.