What my dog taught me

A month ago today I had to say goodbye to my sweet, practically perfect Bailey Ann. She had been in my world 12.5 years. Longer than my children have been.  Longer than some of my closest friends.  It was definitely time well spent and more of a gift to my world than any human really deserves.  Good thing God doesn't give us what we really deserve.

Many will see a dog as just that. A dog. Ever since I was a child, I had this incredible love of animals, but this deep bond with dogs. My family always had a dog around, sometimes two if we were lucky, and I believe my connection began one night as I lay in bed sobbing about some hormonal teenage thing I'm sure.  Our dog, Ginger, came sauntering in my room, jumped up on my bed and leaned against me.  Weird, but it was exactly what I needed at that moment.  She stayed until I calmed down and eventually fell asleep and even though I woke up and she was gone in the morning, I was hooked on this dog and what she represented to me that night.

Bailey was an abandoned puppy in a park not far from where I live now. I found her at a shelter and she was, as all puppies are, adorable and exceptionally rambunctious. Within nine months though, I found out she was incontinent. A puppy who pees is normal; a puppy who pees when she is asleep, not so much.  My wonderful vet began what turned into many years of testing and medicines trying to help me get through having a dog that peed in her sleep. As with all illnesses, the problem would come and go with intensity, but ultimately, it was a part of who Bailey was. What many didn't understand, especially because this involved quite a bit of vet bills and I had already had a dog with cancer, was this was the SMALLEST part of who Bailey was.

The blue heeler/border collie/mutt mix was the first dog who ever talked to me. Seriously.  I could look at her and wink from across the room and she would answer with, "booooof." I would ask if she was hungry and she would answer with, "boooof."  I would walk in the door and she was usually there with a little loving howl to welcome me. Whenever I would sit, she would walk over to where I was and put her head on my knee.  Sometimes she would stand there for a really long time, too.  One of my most precious visions I have of Bailey is when my dad was going through chemotherapy and he was staying at my house. He would sit in the recliner and Bailey would always go over and put her head on his knee as he slept or as he just watched TV.  In fact, he loved her and up until his last week of life, he would allow her to do this.  Dad always wore a baseball hat during chemo.  After he died, Bailey would go to his recliner that was in my house, stand there and put her head on the recliner. She also never allowed any man with a baseball hat near her without barking at them.  Before dad, she didn't care about whether a guy was around or whether or not he wore a baseball hat, but from the moment dad died on, she barked every single time.  And not just a "boooof" but a repetitious and quite annoying bark to be frank.  I found that connection she had with Dad quite cool.

If you're not a dog person, you probably can't fathom sleeping next to a hairy beast that sometimes smells funny. To me, it's no different than what most of you call marriage, but I digress.  To me it was comfort.  It was literally and figuratively warmth.  For me, many years of pain that accompanied being single was eased when I felt a living, breathing being beside me. She didn't care what baggage I carried, how much I weighed, whether I had cute pajamas or ugly ones.....she just wanted to be near me.  She asked nothing in return except for some food and water. If I didn't pet her, no grudge was held.  If I ignored her excited greeting because I was busy with something at the moment, she wouldn't say, "Fine, I'm done greeting you."  Whether I could spend a minute with her or an hour with it, it didn't matter because she was thrilled with anything I could give her.  To me, she was an example of grace that humans couldn't quite give me.

Deciding that the time had come to say goodbye was heart wrenching.  I agonized over it for almost two months. My vet had pretty much declared every option tried and failed.  It was now a matter of whether or not I could live with the mess that was increasing daily.  When the answer was no, instantly my heart shuttered at the thought of what was next. I could barely walk by her from that moment on without tearing up.  She simply looked at me with those eyes of hers assuring me that the love she had for me surpassed any I had physically known (yes, I know God's does, but I'm talking tangible love right now) and it would never, ever change no matter what I had to do.  She knew that wearing diapers and spending more time locked up in her kennel than ever before wasn't fair nor right, but she waited for me, her human, to make the decision for her, even though it hurt to the core of my being.

On that Friday morning, I sobbed when I woke up. I sobbed when Thing 1 and Thing 2 hugged her before leaving. I sobbed as I drove to the vet.  I sobbed through the entire process, which was incredibly beautiful.  She walked over to me as the vet had the sedative ready to go and she laid against my chest.  I hugged her tightly to me as she slowly went to sleep.  Within minutes she was snoring the most peace-filled snore I had ever heard.  A deep, joyous sleep. Then the final injection was administered as she was still against me tightly and again, in minutes her breathing stopped and she crossed the rainbow bridge, as they say.  I sat with her for another half hour before I could leave her side. My heart was broken, my spirit was sad yet my heart was so grateful for the 12.5 years of unconditional, pure love Bailey gave me.  I still miss her.  I always will.