Bailey was, for all intents and purposes, my best friend. My father had adopted him when he was just two months old and I was 14. My mother and I went with him to pick a dog out. When we first saw him he was lying on the concrete floor and a vet tech, in passing, told us he wasn’t one for beds or toys and he didn’t do much but sulk. But little did we know, that was the furthest thing from the truth. As soon as we got him into the meet room, he got into the dog bed and began to play with a toy with me and my dad. The worker went out to sign the papers. My father had named him Kody. For whatever reason, I kept calling him Bailey. Much to my father’s dismay, it was what he responded to. That night he slept in my bed. He continued to do the same nearly every single night for almost seven years. He saved me from some pretty dark times. He was a happy, sassy, loving dog, and had lived a very full life up until he fell ill. Eventually he lost his eyesight and more than half his body weight. Even then, Bailey still had the sassiest, larger-than-life personality that everyone who had met him, came to love. It was hard having to let him go, but I find peace in knowing he feels better and is probably waiting for me to bring him a pup cup.
