All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before: Duchess von Bailey Written by Megan R. Laughinghouse

All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before: Duchess von Bailey e

The year my younger sister was born changed my life in many ways. I had maintained the role of baby of the family and was none too pleased to have my position replaced with a screaming crying blubbery little thing that everyone else seemed to adore. The months leading up to her birth were agonizing because we had said goodbye to our last family dog, and I felt more alone than I can describe. I begged my parents for another dog, but they knew a six-yearold could not care for an animal alone and the new baby would take too much time for them to split up the responsibility. A few months after Olivia was born my dad could see the resentment growing and decided to make a deal with me. He was a gear head and said if I could find a German Shepherd puppy in one of his car magazines, he would buy it for me. Little did he know that at six-years-old I had become so obsessed with replacing my new sister that I had spent hours scouring through newspaper classified ads and any other pet finder paper I could get my hands on in search of my new companion. I could have told him I already knew of a litter that had been listed in the back of the penny magazine, but that would have spoiled my plan. That evening when we were sitting down for dinner, I made the announcement that I had found my dog. My mother laughed and said we’d talked about this, but my dad couldn’t hide the terror in his eyes. He was facing a hailstorm for making a deal with his devilish daughter, unbeknownst to the rest of the family. Being a man of his word, he took the ad from me to ensure I wasn’t mistaken, and said sure enough, I think you found your dog. We drove to Greensburg as a family to pick out our pup. The breeder had a beautiful home with a large fenced backyard. I remember pulling up and nearly jumping out of the car before we had come to a complete stop. I ran as fast as my little legs would take me only to be stopped by a very large man who began scolding me for running up to the dogs without permission. My dad, who had been hot on my trail explained to the man, I had no fear of dogs because I had never met one that didn’t instantly fall in love with me. The man may have been skeptical until he turned around to see his giant working dog, King, rolled over on his side pawing at me for more scratches through the fence. After that the man allowed us to enter the backyard to meet the two remaining pups he had for sale. I had never been allowed to pick out a dog before, and this great honor was serious business. I looked to my father for guidance because I wasn’t sure how to choose; they both seemed so perfect. He suggested I throw a ball for them for a little while and then told me to sit on the ground to see which one came to me first. Of the two 6-week old sisters, the larger of the pup came to snuggle with me first. She clomped around my tiny lap with her oversized feet and puppy awkwardness until she felt comfortable enough to doze off. With tears of joy streaming down my face, I looked up to my dad exclaiming, this is my girl! My dad signed over a deposit and a few weeks later we returned to retrieve my forever friend, Bailey. Bailey was truly my dad’s dog. Although she was brought into our home as the family pet and vigilant protector, she cherished the ground he walked on. He gave her rules, and unlike
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his daughters she never gave him any attitude about them. She respected him, but she loved me. I would spend hours with her, telling her stories, teaching her tricks, and our favorite of all, going on adventures. I was once grounded from “practicing medicine” when my dad came home to find Bailey had a large section of hair cut from her side. I tried explaining to him she had to have an operation and I was only prepping the area that needed cut out, but he said my license was being revoked until further notice. When we moved, Bailey was the last to make the transition. While we were busy unloading the moving truck, she decided to show herself around the new neighborhood. That afternoon, my grandparents called to let my dad know our dog might be missing. I heard panic in his voice when he asked if they meant something terrible had happened. While our new house was in a small neighborhood with speed limits maxing out at 20 MPH, there was a main highway with only a small grass median separating it from the outskirts of our town. The highway could be very dangerous for any dog, but it would be especially dangerous for a dog who was wondering aimlessly and alone. My grandmother giggled as she told my dad nothing was wrong, just that the man at the beer distributor needed for us to come see if it was our dog scaring off all his customers. Sure enough, Bailey made herself at home in front of a beer cooler taking in all the coolness it and the concrete floor had to offer. After that my dad only had to do a single lap through the yard with her to explain the boundaries. Bailey was about three at this point and felt she had to keep a more watchful eye on the property. She would bawl at the door for hours wanting to be let out to patrol the yard. It broke my dad’s heart to think he was making her suffer so he and I built her a doghouse and started letting Bailey sleep where she was the happiest. Every morning I would wake up and run outside to check on her. She would be safely tucked inside her box as excited to give me good morning kisses as I was to receive them. One summer when I was about 10, the neighbor boys were playing stickball in the yard beside us. As I recall, they were not the nicest kids, although their mothers would argue they were angels on earth. One of the older boys named Jared had always had a thing for harassing me and my sisters. He would often throw baseballs at us or rocks; anything he could get his hands on that might hurt us. While Bailey and I sat watching so they didn’t cross over into our yard, Jared decided to take his tormenting up a notch. He waved the stick toward Bailey and I, threatening he was going to get us. Bailey was not a fan of hotheaded boys or threats to her girl’s safety, so she lunged from atop her dog box to take down the menace. She did not maul Jared as his mother had described to the Animal Control Officer. She actually just used his shoulder as a springboard to launch herself high enough to grab the end of the stick, but when she jumped off him her nails tore into his shoulder. The emergency room doctors agreed that if they had been repairing a bite from a dog as large as Bailey, then Jared would be in for more than a few stitches. Nonetheless my father was given two options to resolve the situation; he could either confine Bailey on our property in a secure area for 10-days or she could spend her quarantine at the pound where he would have to pay a daily rate to board her. He opted to purchase an outdoor dog run complete with a padlock and all so that no one but he could enter. I was devastated. I spent each of the 10-days sitting outside her pen, longing to let her be free. After her stint in
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lockdown was up my dad said we had to confine her to the pen at night or when we couldn’t be with her. He said the incident had put her on some kind of dangerous dog list and she would not get a second chance. While I was infuriated by the new restriction, I was overjoyed to let her lick my face and to be reunited with my best friend at last. Bailey had always been the best dog I could ask for. Whenever I was sad or had a bad day, she would listen to me tell all about it. When my rants and raves seemed so meaningless to others, she sat steady with unjudging ears taking in all my concerns and only asking for pets and scratches in return. As she aged, she never seemed to slow down. I remember hiking with her during what turned out to be her last week on earth and not noticing so much as a limp or stumble from her 10-year-old body. She was so full of life, until she wasn’t. One afternoon I had a particularly bad day at school. When I got home, I dropped off my backpack and went out to see my girl. My heart sunk when I saw her laying on her side barely able to move. I called for my dad to help but then quickly realized no one else was home. I laid down beside her and I cried for her, but I also cried for me. I knew the end was coming and selfishly I was not ready to let her go. My mother phoned my dad at work to schedule her euthanasia for the morning. Later that night he also called a friend who owned heavy equipment and arranged to have him help us with the burial. Bailey left us that night before we were ready. She took with her a piece of all of our hearts, but it hit my dad the hardest. He turned very angry toward dogs after she passed away. He didn’t want to see dogs, didn’t want to hear about dogs, and in no uncertain terms did he ever want to own another dog again. By the time I graduated high school, my dad was slowly accepting the idea that we would again one day have another dog in our lives. First came Velvet, an abused female Doberman Pinscher that I happened to walk out of a fraternity house with and we never looked back. My dad felt sorry for this beautiful creature who was truly terrified to make a noise. She wouldn’t cross the threshold to the kitchen because the sound of her nails clicking on the tile made her nearly jump out of her skin. My dad tried to make her understand men weren’t all bad and would share eggs and bacon with her every morning despite my mother’s harsh criticism. Then came Bella, an over-priced English Bulldog that was full of sounds and smells that could take clear a room. Finally, there was Charlie Mint Socks, a petite female German Shepherd my husband and I bought for my parents in honor of their 30th wedding anniversary. My dad liked Charlie, but he could not find it in his heart to love her. When a friend at work came in visibly upset because he had just put down his cancer ridden GSD, my dad knew what he had to do. That night he called me to discuss rehoming Charlie to his friend. I was angry at the very thought of getting rid of a dog, but once he explained how happy she was when she met him and how much this man needed her, I understood it was for the best. I never again pushed a dog on my dad. He loves that as an adult I’ve taken on German Shepherds as my breed of choice. He spent many nights talking me through training and reassuring me that one day they would be perfect despite all the frustration they caused. I don’t ever tell him this, but he was right. Even though each dog has been very different in personality, I have always been lucky enough to share my life with the very best of them.

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