Paws In Heaven

Finley was the epitome of a good dog. From the moment we saw her in the shelter, we knew she needed to be ours. The only dog not barking and bouncing at the bit to get out of her kennel, she was as relaxed in the shelter as she continued to be throughout her life. She didn’t let being a tripod slow her down, at least in her younger years, and she was always down to chase the opossums and squirrels in our backyard. She even caught a rat once! (Gross, I know). Finley loved lounging outside, no matter the temperature, as a typical Pyrenees does. She was almost always calm, but when she had something to say you definitely heard her. We remember the first day we brought her home, hearing her bark outside, we looked at each other and said “Is that our dog with that big bark?!” We definitely did not expect her bark to be so loud and deep.

Finley was our faithful girl for 10 years. Through 3 different houses, one move across the state, to bringing home our newborn son from the hospital, she was there for the bulk of our adulthood so far. She gained a dog sister in 2019 and that gave her a spark of life as she began to age…we think that kept her “young” for a little while longer. Steadfast, supremely sweet, and full of affection, she would let anyone cuddle her and she didn’t know a stranger. We always called her “Mama girl” because she just had that aura about her, that ability to be this constant calm whenever there was change or chaos. She was the best girl, and we were so lucky to be able to call her ours. A piece of our hearts are with her resting now, and we will always miss her. It was an honor to be able to love her so deeply, and while we only had what feels like a short time with her, knowing we gave her a full life to live that was safe and warm and loving is one of the greatest joys of life.

Tysen: The Dog Who Adopted Us

He arrived in 2014 as a foster. He left in 2026 as the undisputed ruler of the household. Everything in between was his masterpiece.

Tysen was a pittie mix with the separation anxiety of a velcro strip and the determination of someone who had already decided, long before we did, exactly where he belonged. He made his position clear early and often. Closed bathroom door? He'd fix that with his face, his paws, and apparently a significant amount of focused rage, leaving behind a hole that served as both a remodeling project and a personality statement. Cattle gate between him and his people in the front yard? Merely a suggestion. A temporary inconvenience. He'd be over it in seconds, literally, because if you were out of sight for more than a heartbeat, the situation required immediate correction.

By 2015 the paperwork was irrelevant. Tysen had adopted us. It was a done deal.

He was, among many things, a natural athlete and a relentless personal trainer. He motivated Travis through an entire half marathon training program with the kind of zero-tolerance, no-days-off coaching philosophy that no human trainer would dare attempt. He kept walks non-negotiable daily, consistent, rain or shine, right up until the very last one. He didn't ask. He didn't suggest. He scheduled, and you showed up.

His standards were, to put it gently, exacting. Meal timing was precise. Ingredients were non-negotiable. Treats were specifically his beloved chicken wrapped sweet potato, essentially canine crack, curated and procured to his exact specifications. His blanket was not just any blanket. It was the blanket, extra soft, impossibly fluffy, perfectly positioned alongside his designated pillow on the bed, near the window where he held his daily post. From that perch he greeted delivery people with authority, scolded squirrels and rabbits with genuine moral outrage, and regarded deer and fawns with the deep suspicion of a dog who had seen things and was not prepared to be naive about the deer situation.

Birds, however, were personal. Whether it was a grudge born of being dive-bombed by a hawk or the singular indignity of being shat upon by a turkey vulture, with Tysen, either was entirely plausible, he pursued them with the focused vengeance of someone settling a very old score. Tennis balls received similar athletic dedication. He'd snag one mid-air and tumble into a full somersault on the landing, with the casual precision of an Olympic gymnast who wasn't particularly interested in your applause.

A romp in the grass was always welcome, naturally followed by a thorough tick inspection that he had cleverly engineered to be indistinguishable from a full body massage. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He hadn't always had it easy. He came to us carrying the evidence of a harder life, ripped apart and sewn back together more times than a Build-A-Bear, a thyroid that quietly quit on him, a serious limp that he refused to acknowledge as a limitation, and a bark so sharp it could rattle glass and rearrange furniture. He had once been part of a pack, which is to say he had once shared his world. In his later years, as an only child, he accepted that arrangement with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had always known this was the correct configuration. He took full advantage, as he deserved.

He kept us active. He also kept us home. He was the reason we scheduled around him, planned for him, and thought of him first. He was the warm weight at the foot of the bed, the reason the sofa was covered in fur, the reason laundry happened constantly and snacks were never fully your own. Now the sofa is hair free. The sweatshirt is clean. The laundry piles are smaller. Half a sandwich went in the trash today because there was no one to finish it, and that small, ordinary moment broke something open all over again.

We haven't quite found our way back to the walks yet. The grief is still too large to walk around, and that feels right, because the size of the sadness is just the love with nowhere to go. We know the smiles will come. We know that someday the memory of his somersaults and his cattle gate escapes and his deeply personal war on birds will make us laugh until we cry a different kind of tears. We're not there yet, and we're allowing ourselves that.

Tysen taught us to show up every day, to make adjustments, to love without reservation and without holding back. He did all of that, every single day, for over a decade.

He didn't find us by accident. He found us on purpose.

And we are so glad he did. 🐾

It’s been a while since I moved on to my next life, but I still think of you every day. My last days were pretty uncomfortable but I really appreciate everything you did for me. Your handmade meals were great but I really don’t feel hungry anymore. I gotta tell you, I don’t miss the storms and I see that you’ve had a lot of them this Spring. You remember my teeth chattering and now that I’m above all of that I have to tell you that I’m much calmer. I’ve gotten to meet all of your other pups from long ago and they are interesting new friends. They say to tell you that they are doing well too. Roxy and I are chasing squirrels again and I’m much quicker than I used to be. I know you’ve thought (usually in the middle of the night when I visit your dreams) that you waited too long to help me out, but that’s just not true. The timing was perfect and Angela is an angel (well named I think). I need to get back to goose chasing and barking at nothing so I better go. We’ll see each other again, when you’re ready. But until then,

I’m Okay.