It was 7 years ago. We received the worst phone call you can receive as a pet owner. The lump that was removed from Baily’s abdomen was cancerous. Not just any cancer, a super aggressive cancer. 

I remember sitting on the bathroom floor bawling my eyes out. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like someone had reached inside my body, ripped out my heart, and stomped on it. 

All I wanted was to hold my beautiful bulldog, but she was at the vet recovering. 

I cried for the next several days. I was a mess. I would have done anything to help Baily. I would have done anything to take away her pain and to go back to 6 months prior when she was living her best bulldog life. 

Baily was given 3-6 months to live. 

Luckily, we were in a position to give her the absolute best care. But unfortunately, we were in uncharted territory and things were not looking good. Baily had a heart murmur which meant she was not a candidate for the top chemotherapy drug. Her oncologist had to get creative. 

That heart murmur ended up saving Baily’s life and gave her the title of “Miracle Dog” by the vet staff and her doctors. The work Baily’s oncologist did with this medication became the standard of care for this particular type of tumor. I would like to think that Baily has helped save hundreds of other dogs’ lives and will continue to do so.

By this point, Baily had her very own oncologist, ophthalmologist, internist, and countless vet techs who took the best care of her during her chemo and radiation treatments. Baily never spent a second in a kennel, instead, she hung out with the techs and her oncologist. Sitting under their chairs or next to their desks. She was such a chill dog. I’m not sure if there has ever been a dog that loved going to the vet as much as Baily did. She was a superstar there! She was treated like the queen she was! (If you had the honor of meeting Baily, you know, this “special treatment” was actually no different from her everyday life, but let’s face it, she was a little diva that thrived on attention!)

Craig and I decided that the next 3-6 months of Baily’s life would be the best we could offer her. We came to terms that her cancer would likely return and come back with more power. We came to terms that our sweet girl wouldn’t be in our lives much longer. We agreed that any time we had with Baily was “bonus” time. 

Well, that was back in 2016. 3-6 months my ass. Baily was a fighter and not ready to let go. We got a lot of bonus time with our girl!

One year ago, on February 25, 2022, the day after my birthday, we lost our precious Baily at almost 14 years old. She was my best friend. Up until her last day, she was always there for me, waiting with her giant bulldog tongue. No matter how shitty my day at work was, I always knew I was coming home to a wiggly pup that was beyond excited to see me. 

Baily was one of those dogs that comes into your life and ruins every other relationship you will have with another dog. She was perfect.

She traveled everywhere with us. She sat under the table in my booths at art fairs. She loved going to see the fireworks. She worked on cars with Craig, even putting her little paws on the bumper to see better. She ran down the snowmobile trail for about a half mile at our house in Superior, making me chase her in over 12” of snow, wearing only slippers. 

Baily ran way ahead of us on hiking trails so she could lay down, stretch way out, and wait for us, panting the entire time. She knew the names of most of her toys - her baseball, turtle, worm, frog, and her pig. She knew sit, lay down, so long, kisses, roll over, give me five, and speak. Oh, the speaking….She stole baseballs when we took her to games. She swallowed those long rawhide sticks in one bite and then threw them back up to give them another try. She threw up, a lot.

She ran through not one, not two, but three screen doors. She chewed up all my books on the lowest bookshelf. She wrapped herself around the toilet to cool off. She so-longed. She knew her chair, her couch, and her bed and learned how to jump up onto all of them when she was blind. She jumped off a 5’ tall stone wall because she was so excited to see Craig when he got home from work. 

She hunted house flies and loved to play with her sisters. She gave the best kisses and always cleaned her sisters’ ears. She loved her wrinkles being cleaned almost as much as she loved her ears being cleaned. She fell asleep when getting her nails trimmed. She slept on our necks until we fell asleep then went to the foot of the bed until morning, when she returned to sleeping on our necks, like she never left.

She went swimming once. Didn’t care for it. Then sank the next time because she didn’t want to swim. She chased Craig to the end of the road at our house in Gordon, which was about a half mile, just to chase him on his bike. She fit in the center console of the trucks. She loved to lean into the curves when riding shotgun. She learned to pee on the bottom of the coffee table two days after we brought her home. She potty trained herself and her sisters. She looked like a badass in her spikey collar and sweaters. She loved sitting an inch or two from fans to cool off and laying on top of heat vents to warm up.

But above all else, she was a part of our family for almost as long as Craig and I have been together. Not having Baily around every day was such a difficult adjustment. I still look at her chair and expect her to be there, stretched out, snoring as loud as can be. 

I miss that blind, deaf miracle dog.

When Baily left this world, I was devastated. We knew it was coming. She was having seizures several mornings each week. Her chest CT showed her lungs were filled with fluid. She was slowing down and was in pain. But I still wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

We weren’t sure what was wrong. The cancer might have come back. Or it could have been a severe infection. Or something completely different. It didn’t matter. 

At that point, we decided not to try to find out. We didn’t want Baily to go through any more tests or procedures. Being blind and deaf, all that attention from the vet that Baily used to love, just wasn’t the same. I couldn’t put her through unnecessary tests.

Could it have given her a few more months? Probably. But at what cost? She was in pain. She was tired. She told us it was her time.

The absolute worst part of having animals is the responsibility to know when to say goodbye. I told Craig from the very beginning that I never want our animals to be in pain. We were and are always very conscious about not prolonging an animal's life because we are not ready. 

You always worry that you’re making the wrong decision. That maybe things will improve and they will move past it. But they don’t. Sure there are miracles. Baily saw her fair share of miracles. 

If you’ve ever been in the position to make this decision, you know how difficult it is. Your heart and soul are pulled in two very different positions.

What I have learned over the past few years after having to go through this process with several other animals, is that they tell you when it’s time. As their guardian, it’s your job to pay attention and recognize it, as awful as it is. 

There’s a look, deep in the animal’s eyes. It’s peaceful, it’s strong, and it’s oddly comforting. It stops your heart, makes you scream out in pain, and cry like you’ve never cried before. It’s hauntingly beautiful. It’s like they’re saying, “I have to go now. I’m tired but I’m at peace.”

I remember the day Lakey gave me that look. He didn’t get up to greet me the way he normally did. His eyes were locked on mine. It was silent, neither of us wanting to move. He wanted to be clear. He wanted to make sure I understood. He was tired. Lakey’s last breaths were in our arms, just like Baily’s, under his favorite oak tree on a perfectly sunny day.

I remember Annie’s look. That beautiful alpaca was sick for a few weeks. We tried so many things, but one day, on the sunniest, warmest day, she got up and went to the far pasture with her alpaca, donkey, and goat friends to graze. A little while later she made her way back to the close field, right by her feeder, and laid down, by herself. 

Craig and I tried everything to get her up and cool her off, thinking she overheated. Craig was running to get the hose while I held Annie’s head. She looked me deep in the eyes. Those big, black eyes. I yelled to Craig to get back to us right away, it was her time to leave this Earth. Annie passed away in our arms surrounded by her herd.

On Billy the billy goat’s last night, we sat with him, petting him, and talking to him for hours. He kept wanting to get up. He was in pain. He ate a little which we were excited about. Looking back, Billy wanted to be alone, the look in his eyes told us so. He wanted us to be at peace so he could leave his body on his terms. We said goodnight to him and told him it was ok to leave. 

These are not just animals. They are family members. Each time, it does not get easier, but we do get better at managing the pain. I’ve learned so much about love, life, and emotions. I hope it never gets easier. If it does, it means that a part of me has died. It would be easier to not be a part of this, to just let nature take its course and let the vets handle everything. But that’s not what I signed on to do. As painful as it is to feel an animal’s heart stop beating in your arms, it’s more painful not to be there. 

Our poor Henry, the blackest of black cats, passed away over the summer. He was hit by a car. It kills me to know that he died alone, on the side of the road. One of our neighbors put a shovel next to him. I’m not sure how long he was alone. It haunts me the way the neighbor treated him. Like he was trash on the side of the road. We were able to eventually give him a proper burial.

I have animal-shaped pieces of my heart missing. They may never heal, but I don’t want them to. These missing pieces each mean that these sweet souls are always with me. I carry them around in my broken heart. They help me through my days. They are there when we welcome a new kid into our herd and they are there to help me to walk them through their transition from our physical world. 

People always tell me that they don’t think they could go through this so many times. That losing a dog was so hard that they don’t want to go through it again. That’s fair. 

But what if we all said that? Who would be the voice for the voiceless? Who would be a comfort for them in their darkest hour? Who would fight like hell to get them out of horrible situations and stop the abuse? Who would give them the space to be themselves? To live life as special beings, no more deserving of cruelty, abuse, or neglect than our own dogs?

I believe I was put on this Earth to help people learn to open their hearts. To be a voice for those in need. To be a fighter for the forgotten. To give homes to the homeless and neglected. To hold them in my arms as they take their last breath. 

Confronting death is difficult. This makes many people uncomfortable. I’ve lost several friends because of this. Several of them walked out on me when Baily passed away. But that’s ok, I don’t do this for other people. I do this for our animals. 

People ask me why we chose not to have children. My purpose in life was not to have children. It was to be a voice and to stand up when others sit down. 

My only regret is that I cannot help all the animals. It breaks my heart to think about all those souls who live their entire lives being treated as disposable products, like a shoe. 

I’ve learned, through this process, that there is so much more to life than the physical body. There is so much deep within each and every one of us.

My last words to Baily were, “It’s ok sweet bulldog. You can go now. Lakey is waiting for you.”

And with that, Lakey took over. I have do not doubt that Lakey, Baily, Annie, Billy, and Henry are watching over us and our herds right now. He keeps them safe. He keeps us safe. And he’s probably hanging out with some of your beloved animals as well. He has the biggest heart, that gentle giant.

And when it’s time to say goodbye to each of our animals, just like our super-star Baily, Lakey will be waiting, ready to take over, because that’s what family does.

Until we meet again, sweet bulldog. Until we meet again. ❤️🌈