One last walk: Goodbye my little goofball

Saturdays were our day. They often started the same way. I would get up and head to my office, and soon after, Gina would leave for work. A few moments later, I would hear a soft thump as Bailey jumped out of bed, followed by the familiar jingle of his collar as he gave himself a shake. Then, he would prance into my office, with a pep in his step and tail wagging. I was always so excited to see him. I'd prepare his breakfast and ask if he wanted to go outside — he always did. When he came back in, he would settle on a small table by my desk, where he could stretch out and watch outside. While we waited for the day to warm up, I would often work on this column or get some work done for Black River Audubon. Bailey waited patiently. Around 10 or 11 a.m., it was time for his walk. He always knew. As soon as I opened my dresser drawer to grab a pair of socks, he would start bouncing around, barely able to contain his excitement. It was the best moment of our week. Over the years, we walked at Beaver Creek in Amherst, Bacon Woods in Vermilion and Elyria's Elywood Park. Strangely, Bailey didn't like car rides, so I always chose the closest park — but he tolerated the trip when he knew we were going to the park. Our walks through the park were famously slow. Bailey loved to sniff, and it was his walk, so I let him take his time. I even posted some of our leisurely strolls on social media. On those trips, there was no birding. Of course, I was always aware of the birds around us, but there were no binoculars, no camera — just a cell phone for emergencies. I wanted to be completely present with him. That was our time, doing what he loved. It breaks my heart when I see dogs pulled along on a leash, not allowed to stop and sniff. Saturdays were also a day of chores around the house, and he followed me everywhere. We often turned the music on and danced from room to room working on our "to do" list. When I did laundry, he would wait for me at the top of the stairs and give me a "high five." That was the only time he ever did that — he was quirky that way. I called him "Goofball Bailey." He also loved to play games. Our favorite was "Whiskers," a game of anticipation where I teased him before finally playing with his whiskers. The closer my hand got to his face, the more excited he became — until he finally let out a playful yelp. He also loved guessing which hand had the treat, always choosing quickly without even bothering to sniff. And then there were the zoomies. When he got really excited, he would take off — sometimes in the yard but mostly racing wildly around the house. At some point, the mail person would stop by, and Bailey would momentarily lose his mind. Every single time. After work was done in the office, we would head to the living room to cuddle contently, usually to take in a game on television, until Gina got home. I miss him so much and Saturdays will never be the same. We got Bailey in 2014 through an unlikely series of events. At the time, I was president of Erie Shore Greyhound Adoption of Ohio, and we were setting up for a fundraiser and adoption event at a large barn in Medina. The facility had a kennel, and inside we heard a young dog crying and whining, desperately trying to climb out of his cage. The next day, during the event, it was the same. He could hear all the other dogs, but he remained locked away, alone. As we were leaving, perhaps in a moment of fate, we ran into the facility's owner. We asked about the dog and when his owner would be coming back for him. That's when we learned the truth — he was a stray. She had found him running down the highway and had tried everything to locate his owner, but no one had come forward. The next morning, my wife looked at me and said, "I have to go get that dog." "I know," I said. "Go get him." I think he knew she was the one who rescued him, he always looked at her differently. At first, we thought we would just foster him — we already had two dogs. But we failed at fostering, and we failed very quickly. He came to us without a name. The woman who had rescued him just called him "Little Man." But somehow, he just felt like a "Bailey." We had a tradition of giving our dogs baseball-related names — there was Easton, and Shea (after the Mets' former stadium). So, we officially named him Bump Bailey, after the fictional ballplayer in The Natural. It turned out to be the perfect name because Bailey loved to gently bump us for attention. He was our fifth dog, and it's interesting how each one represents a different chapter of our lives. Our first two were there when we got married and navigated our early years as a young couple. The next two came along when we had settled in Lorain, through family losses and my long nights in law school. Bailey was different. He was an only dog — unwilling to share our home after our others had passed. He got all of our attention and all of the responsibility. There have been many difficult times since 2020. It all started with COVID, of course, bringing emotional challenges that felt overwhelming at times. But through it all, Bailey was there for us. After 20 years in Lorain, we built our dream home in Amherst, only to leave it a year-and-a-half later because of an unkind neighbor. A second move in three years was tough, but Bailey loved our new split-level home, so it worked out. Then came the issue with Cromwell Park and the cancer diagnoses. Over those four years, I worked from home often, and Bailey was always there — sitting by my desk, a constant source of comfort. When I wasn't working, he was there comforting me through my treatment and recovery. It wasn't just the emotional weight of confronting mortality; it was also the heartbreaking realization that the world isn't always as we hope — kind, respectful and moral. Instead, I saw selfishness, cowardice and greed, a world governed by a lack of ethics and principles. During those moments, I needed him more than ever. He was the one presence in our lives that was truly innocent and pure. No matter what kind of day we had, he was always there, tail wagging, ready to play or cuddle up with us. I think that's why we love animals so much and why we feel such a deep responsibility to protect them. They live and love unconditionally, without ulterior motives, expectations or hidden agendas. They simply exist in the moment. They don't judge or hold grudges; they don't manipulate or deceive. Instead, they teach us about kindness and patience. Bailey wasn't just my best friend; he was a glimmer of reassurance that there is still good in this world. Everyone loved Bailey, he just had that infectious personality. And Bailey loved everyone. He loved it when people visited, the more the better. We often host Black River Audubon meetings at our home, and Bailey would sometimes sit on a bench at the table, fully engaged like he was a board member. It's the little things that are the hardest now. I used to leave the garage door open when I got home, knowing we'd be heading out for our evening walk. Now, closing that door feels unbearably final. Even something as simple as tossing a water or pop bottle —because I used to save them for him, knowing how much he loved popping off the caps before we recycled them. It is hard to come home and not see his smiling face. Our home feels a little colder and a little lonelier without Bailey. In the end, his little heart gave out, leaving us no choice but to say goodbye — breaking our own hearts in the process.