Live your dream and share your passion: What a legend : Fynn

I never thought I would dedicate a blog post to a dog, but fourteen years of dog life is one hell of an adventure. When I got the news last night from Michael, I felt numb. Fynn was an old dog; I had been expecting this sad moment and thought I was prepared for it. Until I started looking for photos. Until I went down memory lane and relived all the adventures we shared together.

On an autumn Saturday around lunchtime, after finishing my morning calls as an equine vet, I drove past the dog pound in Western Sydney. On impulse, I decided to stop “just to have a look.” Outside the entrance there was a whiteboard covered in photos of dogs on death row—dogs who would be euthanised if no one claimed them or offered them a forever home in time. That’s where I saw Fynn’s picture. I went inside to ask about him. His carers clearly loved him. They told me he was about six months old, but in hindsight—with his oversized pig paws and the size he eventually grew into—I believe he was barely four months old when I took him home.

the photo of Fynn on the white board

Fynn was a sad little pup. The first time I let him off the lead in a seaside park, he ran to the middle of the field and wouldn’t let me come near him. Our journey began with me sitting as close as he would allow for hours, waiting for him to eventually come back, bribed with snacks I luckily had in my pockets. When I tried to throw a ball or stick, he would drop to the ground, shaking, as if expecting to be hit. Fynn didn’t wag his tail for the first six months. He slept outside under bushes, trusted children more than adults, and would often roll onto his back for them, happily accepting pats—and occasionally sneaking a lick of their ice creams when they weren’t looking. Somehow, he already knew how to high-five when I jokingly gave the command. Slowly, day by day, he began to trust me, and with that trust he grew happier and happier.

During his early years in Sydney, Fynn joined me on most of my runs and mountain bike rides. He showed what an incredible swimmer he was by following me into the ocean and swimming a full two kilometres alongside me. He grew into the softest, gentlest giant—slightly wary of strangers and capable of climbing impressively high fences if it meant not being left alone. Once, a neighbour found him standing on the roof after he’d climbed through a window trying to follow me. Eventually, Fynn became my veterinary assistant, and on days when it was too hot in Sydney to take him along, I always made sure he had someone to stay with.

When I decided to move back to Europe, the decision was never really a decision—Fynn was coming with me. I paid twice as much for his plane ticket as I did for my own.In Scotland, he became part of the crew at Thrums Veterinary Group, where I also found my home. He grew a coat suited to Scottish temperatures, far removed from Sydney’s climate, and started to look more like a husky cross than the German Shepherd mix he was. He fell in love with Michael just as quickly as I did, and the two of them formed a bond I couldn’t compete with. Fynn was always my dog, but what they shared was something special.

love at first sight

Hearing Michaels car and waiting for him to come home

the lads

Michael was convinced that since Fynn was part husky, he should howl. After two years of being almost silent—and two solid weeks of Michael howling at him—Fynn finally joined in. From then on, he howled at every ambulance, every police car, whenever Michael encouraged it, and showed a particular love for Taylor Swift by breaking into a howl every time Shake It Off came on the radio. Fynn was clever, often pretending he hadn’t been fed and successfully getting double breakfasts from both Michael and me.

Fynn joined us in the Scottish mountains, where we lost him a few times chasing deer—ending his off-lead adventures. He accompanied Michael on many Munros and me on my daily runs. He spent nights in front of fires in Scottish bothies and weekends sleeping in the van. Fynn was never alone, and even then I watched him grow happier and happier. As he began to age, we decided to bring little baby Mac into his life. Mac was a terror; Fynn was endlessly patient. We often discovered cuts and grazes hidden deep in Fynn’s thick coat from Mac’s sharp puppy teeth, yet Fynn never hurt him. He raised Mac, and I truly believe Mac is as obedient as he is because of Fynn.

the best big brother Mac could wish for

Fynn was incredibly sensitive and had no respect for personal space when he sensed sadness—pressing his beautiful big head as close as possible, his soft coat soaking up tears. Wherever I went, he went, stealing hearts along the way. Not always the easiest dog, but one with the biggest heart.

When I decided to move to France, leaving him behind was incredibly hard. But Fynn was an old man by then, a little grumpier in his later years, and I knew taking him away from Michael would do more harm than good. Keeping him with Michael was the least selfish choice I could make. Even without him by my side every day, he never left my heart. I knew he was deeply loved and well cared for, and I would see him whenever I returned to Scotland.

I didn’t expect Fynn’s passing to affect me like this—to move from one tearful moment to the next, to want nothing more than one last cuddle, to hold fourteen years of memories in my heart and thank him for all the joy he gave me.

To say it in Michael’s words:
What a legend.