Scrawny, hunch backed, tongue lolling out with that all too perfect grin on his stupid face, muddy brown with a wicked disposition… that is how my first memory of Finch goes.
I adopted Finch from a shelter for homeless animals. When I first met the brat, he bit the neck of a towering Great Dane. Though he has never shown that side again I am sure he is just as rotten as they come.
He is as inactive as Bull dogs go. Maybe a tad bit more. Tall, dark and handsome – he has the power to make cars roll their windows down, when out on a walk. Lots have “ooohed” and “aaahed” over the brute. Not that he has ever been known to reciprocate any stranger’s mushy comments. He is a private person. Other than when it comes to food. I have undying faith in his ability to be a nuisance. Yes, he has made me a believer.
Kind, loyal, endearing like his namesake… though his gentlemanly behaviour is highly debatable. He has managed to carve a well-established niche for himself and his foolhardiness. A delusional human being, he faithfully believes the Sofas are his sole property. Many a war has been waged between my mother and the loon. None to her advantage, as of yet.
He has taught me the value of never judging anyone by their face value. His loose hanging skin over the peekaboo eyes gives one the impression of a serious personality. Which, as I have learnt the hard way, is far from the truth.
Appreciating him from a few thousand miles is not as hard as I imagined it to be. I might even miss his guttural barks. Time has yet to tell.
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