Notes from the Sideline

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 jus...

This is Bailey. We didn’t know how long she’d be with us when we picked her up. Honestly, we thought we were stepping into a hospice situation—a last act of kindness for a dog who had been through too much, for too long. Bailey once knew love. She had been cared for. But then her primary caregiver passed away, and she was left in a house with two physically disabled people who, despite their best intentions, couldn’t take care of her. When Bailey started going to the bathroom indoors, they didn’t have the capacity to get her out in time. And so—because they didn’t know what else to do—they stopped feeding her regularly. They limited her water. They hoped that would help. It didn’t. By the time she arrived in our arms, Bailey was in bad shape. Her fur was thin in patches, and her skin was hot to the touch—ravaged by infection and malnutrition. She looked frail. And underneath all that… she just seemed so tired. Not sleepy tired. Soul tired. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones w...