Bailey: My Best Friend

I first met Bailey at church. A member had brought in a box of six pudgy, blonde Labrador puppies, soft little puffy hairballs with shiny black noses. I had just finished a long day as a youth minister, and though Tim is not an animal person (some people are and some aren’t), he knew I had been wanting a dog. With a roll of his eyes, he agreed to let me choose one.

The breeder pointed out the runt, sitting quietly in the corner of the box, looking unimpressed with her siblings. He lifted her by the scruff, turned her upside down, and when she didn’t fight him at all, he said, “If it were me, I’d pick this one.” I took her in my arms, and when she nuzzled into my neck with a deep sigh, I was hooked. She came home with us that night.

Our other dog, Allie, a short-legged Corgi, wasn’t thrilled at first. Allie was the queen of ball fetching, a true addict. Throw a ball for hours and she’d bring it back, eyes shining, legs dancing, demanding more. Bailey, though, was quick to learn. She figured out fast that chasing the ball was fine, but letting Allie actually retrieve it saved her from getting nipped on the ears. From then on, even after Allie was gone, Bailey would still run to the ball but never pick it up. She’d just stand there, tail wagging, looking around as if Allie would appear any second to claim it.

Losing Allie was the first heartbreak. She had developed diabetes and Cushing’s disease. Despite injections and every treatment we could try, she eventually lost the use of her back legs and went completely blind. She whimpered with every attempt to walk, and the vet told me it was time. I wasn’t prepared. I sat in that office, holding her as they placed the IV in her paw, whispering into her fur, “Thank you for taking care of us all, Allie, especially my children.” She took her last breath in my arms. I left with her pink collar and a heart shattered into pieces.

Bailey searched the house, sniffing for her companion, while I cried into her fur. She rested her head in my lap and wagged that strong tail, her way of saying, “I’m still here.” From then on, she became my shadow.

Bailey grew into a beautiful companion, loyal, gentle, and steady. I went through many painful seasons while she was with me, but she was always there, always ready to lay her head in my lap, always ready to listen. And she loved the water. The first time I took her to the lake, she swam out so far I thought I’d lose her. You could see the pure joy in her face, Labradors were born for water. Their tails are designed like a rudder to steer them, their coats have a thick underlayer that repels the cold, and their webbed paws push them faster than you’d expect. Bailey had all of it. That tail, though, it could knock things off the coffee table, smack your legs, or bop you in the face if you were sitting on the floor. Dangerous as it was, I loved it, because it was her way of saying, life is good and you’re home.

But she never would retrieve a ball or a stick! A retriever she was not. Maybe Allie really did break our Labrador.

When Bailey turned ten, things began to change. She started bumping into furniture when she turned left. The vet confirmed she was blind in one eye and sent us to a dog ophthalmologist. When he couldn’t find the cause, he sent us to a neurologist for an MRI, thousands of dollars later, still no answers. Around the same time, her hips began to fail her. I watched as she struggled to climb the stairs to the yard, then one day dragged her back legs behind her.

The vet told me gently that it was time to start thinking about letting her go. But I couldn’t do it. Not Bailey. Not my shadow. I told myself she’d be better tomorrow.

But the next morning, she had an accident right where she lay. She looked at me with sad eyes, as if to say she was sorry. She wouldn’t eat, not even her favorite treat. That’s when I knew, it wasn’t fair to keep her alive in pain just because I couldn’t bear to let her go.

The vet’s office was ready. Candles lit. A blanket on the floor. They gave her an IV to relax her, then brought her back to me. Bailey laid her head in my lap, just like she always had, and looked up at me. She knew. I stroked her ears, whispered comforting sounds to her, and told the doctor I needed one more minute. I looked at him and said, “It’s my job to take care of her. I feel like I failed her.”

He shook his head gently and said, “You did everything you could. You were an amazing owner. Sometimes, we just don’t know.”

And then, with one final injection, she was gone.

I sat there frozen, still petting her as if she were only asleep. But I could feel it. her life force was gone. When I finally left, all I carried was her collar and leash. The truck ride home was quiet, her hair still clinging to the blanket in the back seat.

When I walked into the house, it was too quiet. Tim was home from work and opened his arms, I collapsed into them, sobbing. My sweet Bailey. My best friend. My shadow.

She never once brought back a ball. But she brought me something far greater: unconditional love, loyalty, and the kind of companionship that stays with you long after the leash is empty.

Even now, years later, I am still crying as I write this.

Still brokenhearted.

Still missing my sweet Bailey…