The Healing Years

If you had seen her that first day, you might have turned away.

Bailey was so thin you could count every rib. Her skin was raw—burning hot from infection. Her fur, if you could call it that, came off in patches when you touched her. Her eyes were glassy. Not afraid, not angry—just… tired. Like someone who had waited too long for help and stopped believing it was coming.

She didn’t sleep much in those early days. She couldn’t get comfortable. Couldn’t rest. Couldn’t trust the world enough to close her eyes.

But we stayed with her anyway.

We whispered gently. We stroked her back. We brought out soft blankets and a low light and tried to create peace out of nothing. It felt like caring for a soul just barely tethered to this world.

And then, quietly… she slept.

Just a few hours at first. But it was something. It was everything.

We got her CBD treats to ease her nerves. Sat with her on the kitchen floor late at night. Counted the hours between feedings, hoping she'd eat just a little more.

But the real treatment? It was love.

Love in the way Melanie said her name like it meant something. Love in the way we waited—patiently, day after day—for trust to take root. Love in the rituals, the tone of voice, the steadiness. Love without fanfare. Love without agenda.

That’s what saved her.

Little by little, the impossible began to happen.

Bailey’s skin cooled. Her appetite returned. Her tail started to wag—just a little, like it was remembering how. The fur came back—not just thin and wiry, but thick, downy, unbelievably soft. Her ears, once believed to be permanently bald, filled in with velvety waves.

And for the first time in what must’ve felt like forever—she relaxed.

She found her favorite spot in the house, a sunlit patch on the floor, and made it hers. She started to play. Her eyes brightened. Her head lifted. She walked a little taller.

Two years after we thought we might be holding her through hospice, we took her on vacation.

The photo says everything. Bailey, Misty, and Cocoa—sisters in spirit—lying peacefully on the deck in Port Bolivar, Texas. The sun warming their backs. The wind off the gulf rolling in.

Bailey is in the middle.

She looks like a dog who has always known love. Always had security. Always belonged.

But we know the truth. And that’s what makes the picture so powerful.

Because that transformation didn’t come from medicine. It didn’t come from money. It didn’t come from some miracle product on a shelf.

It came from love. Patient, intentional, unwavering love.

That’s what brought her back.

PS: I’ll share more of Bailey’s story tomorrow. But today, just let yourself sit with this:

Have you ever seen someone become whole again—not because they were rescued, but because they were loved back to life?

I have.

And I’ll never forget it.

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