Oh Holy Dog — Chuck Hansen: humorist...

Our dog Bailey LOVES Christmas. She goes directly to the ottoman where her presents are and begins unwrapping them, tearing off wrapping paper and tossing it to the side, until she gets to the present (usually treats of some kind) which she’ll also tear open and begin “eating like she’s out on bail,” as Jason Isbell writes in his song Tour of Duty.

But… Bailey doesn’t really understand whose presents are whose. Like a toddler in a viral video, once she’s torn open all 3-5 of her presents and eaten enough doggy junk food to require two walks later in The Blessed Day, she tries to insert herself in the unwrapping process of everyone else’s gifts. So what starts out as 10 minutes of “Awwwww isn’t she brilliant!” turns into a hour of “Stop Bailey! STOP! Wait she’s got some scotch tape! GET THE SCOTCH TAPE OUT OF HER MOUTH! Give her a bone or something to distract her! HOW DOES SHE BARK SO LOUD?” and I swear the four Baby Jesii in the assorted nativity scenes around the room have their little holy hands over their little holy ears.

But it’s hard to get mad at her… actually, that’s not true. It’s freaking effortless to get mad at her because she WON’T STOP BARKING AT US, no matter what time of year it is, what time of day it is or how loud we’ve turned up whatever British/period/cowboy show we’re watching.

But it’s understandable, in any case, because she’s 14 ½ years old, which in dog years is a hacky joke I won’t be a part of but it’s more than 1,000. Our vet (that is to say, her vet) thinks Bailey is getting old-timer’s, meaning she is more agitated and barky (Bailey, not the vet) and there’s not a lot we can do about it except get a better sound system for our TV. We’ve had some limited success with hemp (for Bailey, not for us. Although… [insert thinking emoji face]), but she still goes on two-hour barking jags several times a day that have tested our marriage like no amount of my younger days’ dumbassery ever did.

Plus… and prepare yourself to be sad… we were informed by the vet that she is in both renal failure and liver failure (Bailey, not the vet), and the vet couldn’t say how long Bailey had left to live. The minute I heard this, I spluttered through tears, “Well, Bailey’s absolute favorite thing is to go for walks. Forget occasional walks! From now on I’m taking her for a walk every single day. [wailing] EVERY SINGLE DAY!”

That was literally 16 months ago.

As Jason Isbell also wrote, in Speed Trap Town, “The doctor said [Bailey] wouldn’t make it a year. But the holidays are over and [s]he’s still here.” Actually, she’s had two bonus Christmases since the diagnosis, which is wonderful, but it was pretty brutal over the past year to watch the kids say their final goodbyes to Bailey every time they visited from out of town. At this point, I think the kids are in Stage 4 of Grief, which is “OK already. I mean, take your time, but I can’t put myself through this every three months.”

So now, every single day, I go for a 30- to 45-minute walk with Bailey, which is peak dog fun when you’re 14 ½ years old. Walking around a neighborhood sniffing every tree, bush and mailbox is the dog equivalent of reading the Sunday New York Times. Side note: I’ve learned that some people are VERY sensitive about dogs peeing on the six inches of their yard closest to the street. This type of neurosis is new to me. I have never ever seen a dog walker in our neighborhood who could convince their canine to pee in the street when there is a yard two feet away. And I have not, in the 25 years I’ve lived here, ever sat on the front porch watching a dog on a leash peeing in my yard and thought, “Hey! What th’…?!” I guess we all have our pet peeves, though. (See what I did there?)

In any case, if that’s something that gets a person worked up, I can’t imagine how stressed they are by other challenges in life, such as the existence of gravity, the fact that the sky is blue, or the rudeness of any other human for being alive at all in their presence.

Bailey’s liver/kidney condition has a number of side effects which are [pick one: challenging; amusing]. Almost immediately after the diagnosis, she began wetting the bed at night, which would normally be a problem, except her bed was OUR bed, so it was more than a problem. The first solution was doggy diapers, but it didn’t take long for Bailey, Stacy and I to conclude that some things are not worth sacrificing one’s dignity for. [Pro tip: Incurin cleared the bedwetting right up. Ask your veterinarian if Incurin is right for you.]

Another issue: Bailey had to go on a hepatic (i.e., liver-friendly) diet, which is to say, we had to start feeding her extraordinarily expensive dog food that for some reason is only made in Italy and apparently has to be shipped here by hot air balloons and Rolls Royces. (Side note: we once ordered an 80-pound bag of this kibble gold and were shipped this office machine instead which, as I note, Bailey definitely would have thrown up.)

After about a million dollars and 3 months of that regime (and just after an 80-pound bag had arrived at our home in a Brinks truck), Bailey began refusing the liver-friendly Italian delicacy. So we tried to go back to regular dog food, under the theory that liver-hostile food is better than no food, but she wanted no part of that either.

I half suspect Bailey hacked my computer, read our emails from the vet, and realized she had an opportunity. But regardless, we had to scramble to find something she would eat, and that has been a journey. Due to the illness and possibly the old-timer’s issues (see: 1,000 dog-years old), Bailey’s taste in food changes more often than a politician’s explanation for why he was caught in a roadside motel with the wife of his chief of staff.

We’ve had brief acceptance and then irreversible rejection with: hot dogs, yogurt, McDonald’s cheeseburgers, rotisserie chicken, cheap steak, grilled cheese sandwiches, chicken nuggets… Bailey makes a finicky toddler look like Frank Bruni. We’ve recently had some sustained success alternating between peanut butter sandwiches and plates of cold cuts topped with Wavy Lay’s and featuring hidden mini-Milk Bones, but it’s just a matter of hours before Bailey comes to her senses and realizes we haven’t tried filet mignon yet.

For those Spartans among you thinking, “Well, if it was mah dog she’d either get dog food or nuthin’ and also ah don’t drink no fancy Starbucks coffee just give me Maxwell House black with a spoonful of dirt!”, I don’t know what to tell you. Starving Bailey to death is, for some reason, not an alternative for us.

All this is to say Bailey is a very very very good doggie and we love her very much and she’s driving us crazy but damn she can unwrap a Christmas present like nobody’s business.

Happy holidays, Happy New Year and, if you ever move to an assisted living facility, hold out for one that will change the menu every day for the rest of your life and doesn’t mind you peeing on the grass.