‘My best friend': JP Finlay mourns his dog Banks but will hold onto a holiday memento

I parked at Dulles Airport and sat in my truck sobbing. I’d traveled on Thanksgiving plenty before, and I was confident the Washington football team I’d poured my youth and adulthood into would get its ass kicked yet again by the Cowboys the next day. 

That’s not why I cried. 

About 20 minutes earlier, I got the call from my wife that there was no choice but to put Banks down.

Even as a pup, nearly 12 years ago, Banks was always a finicky eater. He would leave food sitting for hours, only to finally devour it and stare with those big, beautiful brown eyes asking for more well after what should have been his bedtime. I fed him. I always fed him. 

But over the past few weeks, something wasn't right. Finicky became famished – not because there wasn’t enough food or because he was saving it for later, but because he couldn’t eat it at all. To watch that was heartbreaking.

Banks was always strong. Always running. Any damn rabbit that entered my yard was chased. Any silly squirrel that walked on our front steps was harassed. And any body of water – ocean or creek, bay or pool – he was going swimming. 

And then, he was gone.  

The cancer wrecked him. On the last night, my wife made him bacon. I don’t care what the experts say or the PETA folks say, that dog deserved bacon and he couldn’t even stomach it. 

That trip to the vet was haunting. He knew. I knew. I could barely speak to the good people at the vet's office. They knew, too. 

They asked questions. Between fits of tears and oozing snot, I muttered what I hoped were intelligible answers. We all knew they weren’t. This wasn’t Hollywood crying. Nothing pretty or manly about it. This was pit-of-the-stomach, gut-wrenching, I-can’t-control myself bawling. 

And the tears came because it was Banks. 

No other mammal on Earth has loved me more than he did. My wife. My daughters. My parents. Nothing on Earth will ever love me like that dog. 

With your loved ones, there’s inevitably disappointment. Big and small. There’s always that time I forgot to turn the laundry or read a book or return a call. 

With Banks, there was none of that. 

No matter what happened on a given day, I drove home and that dog was elated to see me. He loved me so wholeheartedly that you wonder if the hole in your own heart can ever be patched. We woke up every morning, and he looked at me ready to go outside and see the world like it was brand new, even if it was just the same old suburban mile loop. 

That look gave me strength. Hell, that look gave me more than I’ll ever know. 

We walked. Lord, we walked. We walked miles and miles. We loved the woods and the trail and the big creek and especially getting to the river. But we walked in the city, and we walked in parking lots, and we walked along the side of the road because God knows he could make any setting into a bathroom.  

So many poop bags. So many ruined shoes. So many times my girls and my wife yelled at me to pick up the poop in the backyard because my man Banks had a way of going right underneath the swing set. 

I’d pick up every poop pile on the Eastern seaboard for another month with Banks. Another week. Another day. Another walk. 

But that’s not how our planet is. Life is finite. Even the best, sweetest, most earnest and kind lives are finite.

It’s beyond cliché, but that dog was my best friend. Lauren used to tell me that, after a long trip, she knew when I had gotten off the Beltway and was close to home because Banks would move to the door. He was always there for me. 

The guilt is haunting because I wonder if I was always there for him. I knew he was sick in the last month, and we did what we could, but what if I knew sooner? What could we have done? One more walk? One more trip to the creek? What could we have done?

The docs say nothing. 

Some things are not fixable, but when it comes to the best of the best, you’ll never stop wondering. He deserved everything. He gave everything. 

The love of a dog is not calculable.

Holding onto memories and mementos

Banks will never leave me. He will never leave my family. My girls were wrecked to hear the news. My oldest, Shelby, 8 years old now, was inconsolable. 

She knew the love. She felt the love. My little one knew it, too, but had a harder time conceptualizing it. She’s only 4. Sometimes I think God spares the little ones from fully understanding the pain that comes with loss. 

But at the end of a terribly long day, after flying back from Dallas and dealing with a coaching firing, we had to explain that Banks had gone to heaven. 

Of all the questions my kids asked, my 4-year-old asked directly and sweetly and sadly what we would do with Banks’ Christmas PJ’s. Every year, I grumbled about putting those Christmas PJs on Banks. He’s a dog, he’s not meant for a sweater, Christmas or not. But my wife and kids pressed on. He wore it for that Christmas morning picture each year. 

When she asked, I knew the answer. There was never a doubt. 

We won’t do anything. 

They’re staying with us. Forever. He’s not physically here, but any being that can make that type of impact will never leave your family. And those PJ’s will stay in the Christmas boxes for as long as I carry them up from the basement. 

There are far worse stories on our planet than an 80-pound dog leaving us after almost 12 years. But that doesn’t change the hurt. The heartache. The loneliness. 

In the years Banks was in my life, I went from single to married, from idiot to father (and possibly still idiot), from a blogger in the void to a voice with some impact. Banks was my constant. He cared nothing about social media or Commanders wins and losses. He just cared about me. 

Every night I pulled up to the house and he wanted a few simple things. Some cuddles. A walk. And maybe some leftovers in his bowl. 

His passing made me think again of my father. My dad passed in 2017. I had to go to Florida for about 10 days to tend to him and his affairs. 

When I returned home my wife and young daughter hugged me and cried with me. They consoled me. But in the necessary moments when they were asleep or at school or at work or simply at the grocery store, in those darkest moments, Banks was with me. He was always with me. When I would drink too much and listen to sad Irish ballads thinking of my dad, Banks was with me. We’d lay on the floor together. We grieved together. 

He was my coping mechanism. We’d walk. We’d always walk. He sniffed and peed and my internal monologue voiced contempt and sadness. Sometimes anger. He was there for all of it. 

As my life evolved, we welcomed another daughter and my work life expanded, I could always count on Banks to be happy to see me. At various times the city I love and call home split down the middle between liking and hating me, only Banks didn’t care. He wanted a belly rub, a walk, and maybe some steak. And not always in that order.

There’s great beauty in that simplicity. 

That dog loved me, and definitely my family, because we were his family. We were his world. My world was large and complicated and his was simple and happy. 

I’ll never stop loving him. My wife likes to keep a very clean house, and over the years as Banks aged, she relented. The water bowl got sloppy. His long black hairs stuck to the side of more and more furniture. 

It didn’t matter. 

I’ll never forget when we drove down to Norfolk to adopt Banks. His was a litter of three, and the adoption group told us we’d have our pick. We got there and two pups were going crazy, playing and fighting and nearly jumping out of their fenced-off living area. Another pup sat on the side, cool like Joe Montana in Super Bowl 22. He made eye contact with me. He was ready for his new home, ready to share his love and ready to start a new life. That was in 2011.

His life is over now. The hurt will subside, but the loss will never be made whole. Banks was my dude. My guy. My dog. 

His blessings and legacy will remain forever. 

I love you, bud. I hope you know it.