I’ve always judged people by how they reacted to Bailey, whether they were walking into my house or passing me by on the street. If you were capable of showing any level of indifference to my happy, little 4 1/2 lb Yorkie who just wanted to love you, then you were not welcome in my life.
Bailey was the best dog in the world. He was, without a doubt, the man of my life. If I had a bad day at work, or was sick with the flu, or crying from a broken heart, he was always the guy beside me showing me that he cares. Whether it was one of his infamous stares while standing on my lap, or just a tiny warm body snuggled into me, he never ever failed me. That’s the incredible thing about dogs – if you give them love, they will repay you a thousand fold with an unconditional love and devotion that simply cannot be measured.
My dog stinks.
He is a little 4 1/2 lb Yorkshire Terrier that has been in my life since he was 7 weeks old. He’s almost 9 years old now.
Bailey is his name, (or Bailey-Boo, or Bubbly-Boo, or Bitsy-Boo, or Beezie-Boo, or B-B.). What I call him depends entirely on my mood, generally speaking. But what’s great is that he answers to all of the ridiculous petnames I have bestowed upon him, and then some.
And even though he stinks (generally to high hell, no matter how often I bathe him), I love him to bits and pieces. He is, without a doubt, the most reliable man I have ever met in my life. And before you start questioning the men I have had the great pleasure of meeting throughout my glorious 37 years (though I wouldn’t blame you), know that itsy-Bitsy-Boos are a gal’s best friend.
…or at least, that’s what I keep telling Shelby.
For those of you who don’t know who Shelby (aka Shel) is, she’s my beautiful, witty and sometimes-fierce 14 year old teenage daughter. And for those of you who don’t have a 14 year old daughter, I envy you….I really really do.
Sometimes I think Shel sees me as this crazed mother who stresses and frets about every little thing under the sun. And maybe, to some degree, I am that person. But in my defense, there’s method to my madness…….and trying to get a teenager to understand that is about as easy as trying to milk a dry cow.