"Being 'Bailey'"

 Dogs have been part of my life, since aged two when I crawled into ‘Rollo’s dog house. He was my grandmother’s Great Dane. At about 150 pounds, he was roughly six times my weight – me, a tasty morsel! While my parents were unnerved they knew they planned to have plenty more children, so weren’t overly concerned. At any rate, I escaped unharmed. As a child our dogs were, ‘George,’ an Irish Terrier and ‘Mopsa,’ an Irish Setter. Caroline and I had a total of five dogs – from ‘Susie,’ a Dachshund to ‘Dakota,’ mostly a Lab. Our children have (or have had) five dogs. While we no longer have a dog, we are happy that many of our neighbors do.   

 

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

More Essays from Essex

“Being ‘Bailey’”

October 24, 2026

 

“Now, I’m a mixer. I can’t help it. It’s my nature. I like men. I like the

taste of their boots, the smell of their legs, and the sound of their voices.”

                                                                                                                       P.G. Wodehouse (1881-1975)

                                                                                                                       “The Mixer”

                                                                                                                         The Man With Two Left Feet, 1917

 

To start, I was born a Beagle – or, more precisely, mostly Beagle; my heritage is a mystery. I come from Virginia’s Appalachian hills and was consigned to an animal shelter. Unexpectedly, at least to me, I gave birth to a litter before the age of one. It was a rough start.

 

But my luck changed when a young family in Greenwich, Connecticut adopted me; though I had to leave my offspring. The year was 2014, and the family had four children, aged five to twelve. Two cats resented my appearance. Once, when confronted by a hissing ‘Clover,’ I simply slipped away. The children and their parents, however, are wonderful, but Greenwich was a culture shock. Other dogs in the neighborhood looked down their snouts at my country accent. After a year or so of being snubbed, I prevailed upon the family to move to rural Connecticut. The town I chose was Lyme, which is where we now live. Here I chase squirrels, observe deer, and avoid the occasional coyote. While it isn’t western Virginia, neither is it suburban Greenwich. 

 

Most days I go for a walk, bringing with me whoever is available. In off-season I go to the beach, anywhere from Hammonasset to Watch Hill. If the weather is bad – and humans dislike being out in the rain, cold, or snow – I take them to the end of Ely’s Ferry Road, or perhaps a short walk on Smith Neck where the children’s grandparents once lived.

 

Now I am getting older – 14 next month. My hearing is going; my sight is not what it was, nor is my stamina, and the family still insists I use the outside loo. Nevertheless, except for the two cats, I remain content. I enjoy looking at the pictures of my cousin ‘Snoopy’ and thinking of the missed opportunity to go after the Fed Ex driver. And I do miss the four children who are working or in college, and I can never remember who is where. 

 

But I am thankful for my life. My eyes may look sad – and sometimes guilty – but I am not sad. Years ago, when a pup, I read Mark Twain’s Pudd’nhead Wilson, and I have always remembered his line: “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.” And that is a lesson I have followed.

 

So I spend more time on the sofa, and even – sometimes – invite whoever is around to join me. After all, next month I will be 98 in human years. Nevertheless, I am positive for the future. I look out the window, wonder about my pups and dream of past chases. I cherish the family that took me in, and I think of the Appalachian hills where my journey began so many years ago.