My Dog
This is Finn. Chief morale officer, professional stick collector, and the reason my passport has paw-print stickers.
Finn came into my life on a rainy Tuesday in Portland when he was eight weeks old and already convinced the universe existed for belly rubs. I was editing travel features at a magazine then, dreaming about the road but telling myself responsible adults did not disappear for months at a time with a puppy.
Finn disagreed. Loudly. With chewing.
Why we travel together
Golden retrievers were born for joy, and Finn treats every new smell like breaking news. Traveling with him slows me down in the best way. I skip the frantic sightseeing and find the meadow, the quiet cove, the bakery with outdoor seating and a water bowl.
He is not a prop in my stories. He is half the story. People stop to talk when Finn is involved. Those conversations became some of my favorite material.
Forest mornings
In the Pacific Northwest, Finn disappears into ferns and reappears with that guilty-grin look that means he found something wonderful and possibly muddy. Mornings like these remind me why I write about place at all: not monuments, but atmosphere.
Ocean days
Give Finn sand and a stick and he achieves a level of happiness most humans spend years in therapy trying to reach. Our beach days are simple: run, splash, collapse in the warm light, repeat.
Mountain air
High trails are harder with a dog: more planning, more water, more rest stops. But the view at the top when Finn flops down beside me, tongue out, world below us? Worth every step.