Monday, October 22nd, 2018, 11:10 a.m.
My name is Amy Beth Baker, I’m five years old and I’m a black German Shepherd.
I am the guard dog for Sherry and Don and my pals, two white Swiss shepherds, who prefer to play more than protect. I stare down packs of coyotes, chase black bears off the property and inform roaming mountain lions to hunt elsewhere.
I don’t allow humans to come through our front gate unless Sherry or Don officially let me know it’s okay. Then I keep a wary eye on them. That is my job, and I do it well.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a soft side. I particularly love Sherry. I’m often at her side getting appreciative pats on my head as we hike up the mountain. She likes to wrestle with me too. We roll around in the grass like a big battle is going on, and then I flop on my back, and Sherry rubs my belly.
Today I’m at my least favorite place, the animal hospital. I’m in lots of pain. They call it cancer. Sherry has tears in her eyes while she cradles my head as I go to sleep.
Note from Don: Amy Beth Baker taught us that it’s not about how many years you live but how loyal and steadfast you are toward those you love.