What Happened.

As most of you already know, we put our Bailey to sleep on Friday. I had typed out the entire story leading up to our decision, but posting it felt really wrong. I edited the story and took some details out...and  didn't feel any better about posting it. I started to wonder why I'd typed it out here in the first place. Did I feel like I needed to justify myself and our decision? Maybe I did...but then I realized that anyone who knows Brian and me at all knows we loved Bailey. And anyone who knows us well knows the intensity with which we loved her. So I don't feel the need to tell the story here. And I feel that doing so would be a kind of betrayal to Bailey.

So without telling the entire horrible story, here are the basics: Bailey attacked Jensen on Thursday. I do not use the word "attack" lightly, nor do I substitute it for words like "bit" or "snapped at." The attack was unprovoked; Jensen was not even close enough to touch her. I was right there beside them, fortunately, and saw the entire thing. Jensen is fine now but has bruises, bite marks and scratches to the top and back of his head. We, with the help of our trusted vets, made the decision that our only option was to put Bailey to sleep.

We took Bailey to the vet on Friday. The tech immediately took us to a room and we filled out some paperwork. Our vet came in and once again confirmed that this was really our only option. And just like that, it was time. We both stayed with Bailey the entire time; we knew it wouldn't be easy, but how could we leave her? The procedure seemed to take forever; I fought back the urge to yell, "Stop!" several times. I held Bay's face in my hands and we stroked her beautiful fur. We told her a few lies: That she was a good girl and everything was going to be okay. We told her some truths, too: That we loved her. That we were sorry. And we both told her thank you. I cried harder than I have ever cried before. And then it was over. Our girl was gone. We stayed with Bailey for a little while, just petting her, talking to her, and crying. And then we said goodbye. I now wish we had stayed longer, but I doubt it ever would have been long enough.

I know, in my heart, that we did the right thing. There are a lot of "if onlys" that might have changed the outcome: If only I hadn't seen the whole thing and could convince myself that somehow, Jensen had provoked her. If only it had been just a single snap. If only Jensen had been pulling her tail, or crawling too close to her dinner bowl. But Bailey has always had certain unpredictable behaviors. Our veterinarians have been doing this for a long time, and one of them told us that in his 26 years of practice (even with the help of dog psychologists, behaviorists, etc.) he has never seen a dog do something like this and go back to normal and never do it again. He said that even though we thought of Bailey as healthy, she was not. She was sick. I could not live with myself if anything like what happened to Jensen ever happened to anyone else or their child. Having seen the entire incident, I am amazed that the outcome was not worse for Jensen. For every tear I've cried over the past few days, I have probably said almost as many prayers of thanks: That I was right there when it happened. That somehow, whether through luck or some self-preservation instinct, Jensen remained face-down for the entire incident, leaving his only injuries to the top and back of his head and his perfect eyes and face unmarred.

But even though I know it was the right thing to do, we are still dealing with incredible grief. I know some people would find it odd to be so grief-stricken over "just a dog" but we loved her so much. We are spending most of our time in alternating states of shock, denial and sadness. In alternating states of anger at Bailey (Why did she have to do that?) and the knowledge that she did it because she wasn't well. In public, I'm okay...but as soon as I'm back at home everything comes back. I start reliving the worst moments of the past few days and my mind is filled with the pictures of Bailey's last minutes and the sound of Jensen's cries during the attack.

My mom took Bailey's toys to her house; I think she thought that it would be too hard for us to see them and think of her. It was a nice thing to do, but we don't need to see Bailey's toys to think of her. She's everywhere. Every time I feed the babies, I expect to see her lying under their highchairs, awaiting a scrap of their dinner. Every time I stretch my legs out at night I expect to feel her head at the foot of the bed. Every time the back door opens I expect to see her run inside. When the doorbell rings, there is quiet where there once was barking. We decorated the babies' nursery with pictures of Bailey; their birth announcement read that they were "Welcomed with love by Brian, Marcy and Bailey." One of the main reasons we bought our house, the biggest purchase we have ever made, was that we knew how much Bailey would love the backyard. She was our family. And now she's gone. I try to keep reminding myself that she was sick and now she is well. But that doesn't change the fact that she's gone, and we are so sad.