Bailey’s Moment

By Laura Glenn

3rd Place Winner, Prose Category

                Life is measured in years, but lived in moments. I type the words on my computer as the opening sentence for my English assignment. I ponder the supporting structure for my thesis when I’m distracted by the appearance of Bailey, my pudgy, six-year-old Beagle. He stumbles into the room brushing up against my leg. His eyes are bulging and bloodshot. He frantically turns his head left and right as he pushes his nose into the carpet. I notice blood on his front paws.

“Bailey boy, what’s wrong?” I ask, as he pushes his head down and paws at his face and neck. He looks up at me with his droopy brown eyes pleading for help. A sense of urgency rises within me and I know that each moment counts.

I run into the hallway and yell at the top of my voice, “John, help!”  The TV volume from the family room is too loud and I’m certain John, my husband, can’t hear me. I dash down the hall to the doorway of the family room. “John, come quick!” He looks away from the TV and begins to protest my interruption.

“Something’s wrong with Bailey!”

Immediately, he jumps up from his comfortable chair and follows me down the hallway. “What’s the problem?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I quickly reply. As we enter the study, we see Bailey pawing at his face and collar and pushing his nose into the base of a chair. He coughs and sputters.

“John, I think he’s hurt. See the blood on his paws?” I point to his front legs.

“It sounds like he’s having trouble breathing.” John assesses the dog’s dilemma with a tone of concern. “Maybe he’s choking on something.”

John kneels on the floor and pulls Bailey close to his chest with one arm while he attempts to pry the dog’s jaws apart with his free hand “Can you see anything in his mouth?”

Bailey pulls away from John’s hold and shakes his head, coughing and sputtering. Again, John pulls the squirming dog close to his chest and cradles him in one arm. He again opens Bailey’s mouth. I hunch down close to the floor, straining to get a better look.

“Do you think we could do the Heimlich maneuver on him?” I feel an adrenaline rush rise through my chest as my heart pounds in my throat.

“Let’s save that as a last resort. Maybe his coughing will dislodge whatever’s caught in there,” John replies.

Bailey continues to cough and sputter. Foamy saliva drips from the corners of his mouth. He looks at me with his big, brown eyes now wide from fear or pain.

“Oh my god, John, he’s getting worse!”

“Tell me if you can see anything in the light.” John remains as focused as a paramedic in a medical emergency.  He adjusts his hold on Bailey and shifts the angle towards the overhead light.

“There it is, John. I can see something wedged across the roof of his mouth,” I exclaim.

Bailey struggles and coughs as John again adjusts his grip. “Come on, Bailey. Let’s get it out.” John attempts to grasp the large item stuck in the dog’s mouth, but Bailey struggles against John’s efforts and jerks back, raking his teeth against John’s hand.

“Damn,” John mutters under his breath. “Come on Bailey. We’re trying to help you.”

“Be careful not to push it back any further,” I interject. John tosses a stern glance at me and then turns his attention back to the dog.

Bailey seems to realize we are trying to help him and relaxes for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, John thrusts his finger into Bailey’s mouth and grasps the object securely. Between his thumb and forefinger, John dislodges a large bone. With a sigh of relief, he curtly remarks, “Never again, old buddy,” as he tosses the bone into the nearby trash can. Earlier that evening, he had given Bailey a bone from our dinner of spareribs.

Worn out from the ordeal, Bailey climbs onto my lap. I stroke his belly and scratch his ears. “Good boy, Bailey. You’re okay now.”

We relax in the family room for a short while. Bailey hops from my lap to John’s lap and nuzzles his nose into John’s shoulder. His expressive brown eyes, floppy ears, and wagging tale communicate his thanks and love. After a while, he ambles to the water dish in the kitchen and gulps down all the water.

I return to the study and Bailey trails behind me. The computer screen flashes shooting stars and I touch the keyboard to awaken it. As I settle into my chair and organize my thoughts, I hear the comfortable rhythm of Bailey’s snoring. He sleeps curled up at my feet where only moments before he was gasping for breath. I stare at the monitor and watch the words materialize, “Life is measured in years, yet lived in moments.” Inspired, I begin to type my paper.