CENTRE LIFE

Final days to dread, cherish

By Chris Arbutina

For months my husband, Mark, and I have discussed a question in which the words are weighted with much love and anticipated loss.

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“How will we know it’s time?”

We’re talking about our beautiful, hobbled, achingly sweet dog, Bailey. We aren’t yet able to answer the question — or frame into more specific words the “it” we are dreading.

So, with no easy, clear, direct answer, we clean her up and clean things up and moisten her food and stroke her back. And we wait.

There are people in Bellefonte who don’t know me but know my dog. She’s a Dalmatian, a real beauty. My sister-in-law who works for Elizabeth Arden has always favored Bailey’s eyes, perfectly rimmed in black, the ultimate eyeliner. Me, I’ve always been partial to the two dots that bridge her nose, the lone symmetry on her polka-spot coat.

Ah, the fur. Judging by the amount of dog hair I’ve swept up off the floor and that which is permanently woven into virtually every article of clothing I own, Bailey should be bald as an egg. Those masking tape lint rollers? They are as much a staple on our shopping lists as milk and sugar.

It’s been months since Bailey has been able to accompany my friend Ginny and me on our morning walks. For years, her stops set the tempo and her tugging made the climb up Parkview Heights Boulevard a bit brisker.

One of the last times she made the walk, she started to limp about two-thirds of the way through, and it was evident she wouldn’t be able to make it home. I tied her to a tree in the backyard of a vacant house with a For Sale sign out front. At that hour of the morning, it was dark and quiet, and she just patiently stood there, tail wagging, trusting, tired. I went home and got the car and cried. A lot.

What else should I tell you about my girl? That she sleeps on my side of the bed. That my cat, Sam, adores her. That we used to unleash her during walks in the woods and that when she would run, a long, lean streak of white, I’d catch my breath at her speed and power and beauty. That most nights she still greets me at the door, nudging her head under my hand, her tail gently wagging.

Years ago, we decided to celebrate her first birthday with a party. The two boys across the street were the invited guests. One of them suggested that we have a surprise party, so Mark took Bailey for a walk around the block, while the three of us hid behind the living room sofa. In honor of the occasion, the boys and Mark and I had cake and ice cream on “101 Dalmatian” paper plates. Bailey had dog biscuits.

The boys are now grown up. One is finishing his second year at the Naval Academy. The other heads to West Point later this summer. Bailey, for now, isn’t going anywhere.

One night in late March, I looked into her brown eyes, now misted by the faintest of clouds, and said, “Hang in there, Bailey — you’re six weeks away from cake.”

Which is why on Wednesday night, I cut into a single-layer vanilla birthday cake. I placed a thin slice on a paper plate and set it on the kitchen floor to celebrate another year of licks and paw prints and barking in the night. Because it’s just about time.