I need to preface this post with a trigger warning. This chapter of Finnegan’s story is difficult, and details his final days. If you’re feeling sensitive, please take care of yourself and feel free to skip this one.
As I mentioned in the last post, I was feeling hopeful that the medication for Cushing’s syndrome would work, but on Tuesday and Wednesday nights that week, Finnegan had seizures. I immediately reached out to the vet, desperate for clarification on what to expect moving forward. The news wasn’t good. They suspected the symptoms that were continuing were in addition to the Cushing’s syndrome diagnosis, and were likely due to a brain tumor. The best course of action, they advised, was to focus on keeping him comfortable for the next couple of months.
Then, on Thursday morning, things escalated. Finnegan had an episode where he yipped repeatedly while backing up about fifteen feet. Afterwards, he was clearly distressed, crying, panting, and shaking for about 90 minutes before retreating to the dark and quiet of the bedroom. He emerged around 2pm and seemed back to his usual self, but that peace was short-lived.
I had a telehealth appointment with my psychiatrist scheduled for 5:30pm that evening. It was my first appointment since my injury, and I had a lot to discuss. About ten minutes into the appointment, Finnegan had a seizure. Twenty minutes later, he had another. In between the two seizures, I wrapped up my appointment, trying to remain calm. Dave walked through the door just as Finnegan began a third seizure. We knew we had to act quickly.
In his disoriented state, we couldn’t safely get him into my truck to take him to the vet. We started calling home euthanasia services, hoping for a peaceful solution, but all required advance notice of a few days, and Finnegan needed attention now. Finally, I reached out to our local vet’s after-hours answering service and explained the situation. Thankfully, the vet agreed to come to our house.
While we waited, Dave, in a final act of love, tried to bring Finnegan out to our paddock one last time. But Finnegan never made it. He collapsed in the driveway with a fourth seizure. The vet arrived shortly after, gave Finnegan the sedative to begin the euthanasia process, and stepped outside to take a call about a sick horse.
We gave him some peanut butter, the good Cape Peanut Butter Company kind, on his lick mat, to occupy him until the sedative took effect. About five minutes after receiving the sedative, Finnegan fell over and stayed down. Maybe a minute passed, and then he made a sound that will haunt my nightmares for years to come. You know the scene in *Braveheart* when Mel Gibson lays dying and uses every fiber of his being to yell “Freedom!”? It was basically that, but instead of yelling, Finnegan let out a gut-wrenching howl, and repeated it eight times before falling silent.
The vet heard him and rushed back inside to administer the final dose. When the light went out of his eyes, something in me broke. I cried in a way that I hadn’t allowed myself throughout this whole ordeal, sobbing and sobbing for what felt like minutes. When I finally pulled myself together, we let Albus out of his pen so he could understand that Finnegan wasn’t with us anymore. Albus poked at Finny, and then sweetly walked over to greet the vet. She looked at Albus and said, “Well, you have some broken hearts to heal, little friend”. She was incredibly kind throughout the entire process, and I am so grateful for her willingness to come to our home.
I requested a plaster paw print as a keepsake. I also asked Dave to order a small plaque denoting our paddock as “Finnegan’s Paddock” going forward. Since I was using the goal of walking Finnegan to the paddock again as my motivation for healing, I really needed a way to encourage myself to return to it without him.
About ten minutes after Finnegan passed, Albus started running around the room. He ran like he’d been holding it in for eight weeks, and it was so joyful and bittersweet all at the same time to see him let loose like that. And as hard as Finnegan’s absence has been, Albus’ sweet puppy kisses and affectionate nature are the perfect antidote to my sadness.
Finnegan was my heart dog. I’ve had many pets, and I’ve loved each and every one for their own attributes, but Finnegan and I had a special bond that I’ve never experienced with any other pet. For the past six months, I’ve been 100% convinced that something was wrong with him, but no matter how many times I had labs done, nothing irregular showed up, including the lab work done right after his first seizure. It wasn’t until my friend, Jason, mentioned the idea of Cushing’s syndrome to me that I even had a direction to go in. So, when he was diagnosed with Cushing’s, I really believed we were in the clear, and that the medication would fix things. This turn of events was so harsh and unexpected, but it also took the decision to let him go out of my hands. And while I wish I could have given him a peaceful end, circumstances dictated a different outcome.
Thank you for reading. I’ll be back soon with an update on how we’re all doing.