The dog we came to call “Pelli” was likely born somewhere on the beaches of Baja California’s eastern coastline, between Punta Bufeo and Brisamar. She’d had a litter of puppies before we met her, puppies that were taken from her by area fisherman whose camp she had been hanging around. Those fishermen referred to her as “Bandita” – the thief – for her tendency to raid their daily catch for something to eat.

Ten years ago this January, JD and I were out on our fishing boat in the Sea of Cortez just north of Punta Final, recovering from the excitement of a close-up encounter with a pair of Minke whales. Our friends Vicki and Larry, who own a home at Brisamar, were caring for a stray German Shepherd who had chosen their enclosed, sheltered front porch to deliver her litter of puppies, as well as another dog that they had rescued from a pack of coyotes in the middle of the night, just a few nights ago. Vicki had been inviting us over, to come by “just to look”. As JD and I sat in our boat, we ran through the many reasons we weren’t ready to have – or lose – another dog. But somewhere in the conversation, we wound up talking ourselves into paying them all a visit. We’ll just look, we insisted to each other.

We arrived at Vicki and Larry’s house to find a beautiful, stately Shephard named Loba laid on her side, nursing her puppies. I remember them being tiny, barely having their eyes open. I don’t recall us picking them up, but I do remember the tug of their adorable, miniature, furry faces and bodies. However, JD and I were steadfast – we weren’t ready for a puppy. As we began to leave, Vicki reminded us about the other dog she was tending to – a small, thin, female German Shephard whom Larry had found backed into a corner just outside his garage in the middle of the night, where she stood barking, preparing to fend off an attack from howling coyotes who were closing in on her. She was less social than Loba, tending to hang out under nearby parked trucks for shade, rarely coming around but for the food and water that Vicki and Larry were leaving for her just inside their garage. There’s something special about her, Vicki said. Maybe you should just meet her? They’d asked around, no one on the beach – gringo or Mexican – would claim her. She was alone.

We walked up a small, sandy rise in their drive toward a neighbor’s house, and found a dog meeting Vicki’s description lying beneath a parked truck. We knelt down, almost laying down in the sand in order to see her, and began gently talking to her. She eyed us cautiously, no other movement other than her deep, brown eyes scanning back and forth between us. After several minutes, we managed to coax her out from beneath the truck. She slowly emerged and stood silently before us; we could see how thin she was, yet how beautiful. After a few minutes, JD and I took turns walking with her on a leash that Vicki had lent us (“just in case”). To our amazement, she did not resist, heeling at our sides, occasionally looking up at us, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. At some point, we slipped the leash off of her neck, and she crawled back under the truck, closing her eyes. She’d already hooked us, and we began talking about taking her home. Our enthusiasm getting the better of us, I reached under the truck again, this time trying to place a collar around her neck. Likely because I acted too quickly, without taking sufficient time to earn her trust, she growled at me. Not a ferocious growl, not baring her teeth, but a low, gravely, unmistakable warning, nonetheless. I pulled my hands back, slowly, and looked at her, then at JD. What were we thinking? Were we really about to try and take a dog we had just met, and drive her 17 hours and across an international border? What if she isn’t the sort of dog that we hoped her to be? Then what? I needed to return to work, back in Reno, Nevada in 3 days.

Rather than giving up on her altogether, when I left for home, JD “took one for the team” and decided to remain on the beach with her, to get to know her, and, if it was working out, get her spayed at an area clinic. For the next three days, JD would drive up from our house at Punta Bufeo, located several miles to the south, feeding her and trying to coax her into his truck, in order to bring her back to Bufeo. After multiple failed attempts, he called his daughter Kara, a vet tech, who suggested he lure her into the truck with food. It worked. JD brought her back to Bufeo, where he initially tethered her to a post on the front steps, unsure if she was housebroken, if she would run off. For the first two days, JD walked her on a leash multiple times a day, teaching her to sit, stay, heel, and come. It was immediately apparent that she was smart, eager to please, and he quickly abandoned the leash, letting her wander the beach, allowing her to get further and further away from him before calling her back. At one point, on their second day together, he watched her as she slowly wandered several houses away, sniffing the sand. He called her with his powerful, piercing, distinctive whistle – upon hearing the first note, she raised her head with a start, and ran directly back. From that day forward, we only used a leash as a formality, to demonstrate compliance with a law or ordinance, or as a courtesy to other people, or dogs. After testing out several other options, JD suggested the name “Pelli”, honoring Kokopelli, a kachina or spirit character character frequently depicted by the Hopi, Zuni and other pueblo Native American tribes of the southwestern US. The name stuck.

A few days after getting her vaccinated and spayed at a vet clinic in San Felipe, JD declared Pelli ready to travel, and loaded her up in our F350 Super Duty truck, headed for Reno. Well north of the border, they stopped to fuel up at a gas station. JD eyed a nearby grassy area, and walked Pelli over to it. She was hesitant to step up on the soft, green surface, clearly never having encountered before. But she eventually stepped onto the grass, dramatically and slowly raising each paw high off the ground with each step, before tentatively placing it back down. The first of many new experiences. A few miles up the road, the road winding up into the Sierra Nevada mountains, JD and Pelli stopped again. JD walked her down off the highway to a nearby river, expecting her to drink, but she was again hesitant. Realizing that Pelli expected the water to be salty, it took him several attempts of scooping his hand into the running water, and bringing it to her lips, before she would drink.

From then on, we never struggled to get Pelli into the truck again. If she suspected we were leaving, and we left the truck door open, she jumped in behind the passenger seat, and would lay there for hours, resisting our pleas to get out for food or even water. Thus, JD and I learned never to keep the truck doors open – or she would covertly jump inside. One summer, we forgot for a few scant minutes, while unloading something or other from the truck bed. An hour or so later, after we’d closed up the truck and headed inside for supper, we realized we hadn’t seen Pelli in awhile. Sure enough, after a frantic but brief search we found her, curled up and perfectly content, in her spot behind the passenger seat – seemingly oblivious to the heat. She was determined never to be left behind, and she went everywhere we did – multiple return trips to Baja, several cross-country treks to help my parents back in South Carolina, and countless hunt camps, KOAs and Walmart parking lots in between. Even when traveling with our truck camper, Pelli preferred her place in the extended cab of the truck, behind my seat. When going down the road, she would sleep for hours, curled up in a ball, emerging on rare occasions to stretch and look out the front window. Pelli loved that truck: it – with JD behind the wheel – rescued her from a life of starvation and loneliness, giving her a life filled with safety, security, adventure, and love.

When JD and I married, a year and a half after Pelli entered our lives, he acknowledged Pelli’s influence on us both in his vows to me – saying he promised to always try to be more like Pelli, by being loyal, forgiving easily, playing often, loving much.

Years ago, I found myself talking to a friend about Pelli, telling her about the struggle that JD had in getting her into the truck at the beginning, and contrasting that with the difficulty we had keeping her out of the truck once she had experienced where it could take her. As I said this, I realized that Pelli and I had similar experiences. I found myself telling my friend about my own leap of faith, a year and a half before meeting Pelli, when I flew out to Las Vegas to reunite with JD for the first time since meeting him during a work assignment a few months prior. Although my friends back home in North Carolina worried about my sanity as well as my safety, I landed in Vegas and hopped into JD’s truck, headed for Baja for the first time, and never looked back. And that leap of faith has since taken me to places I could never have dreamed of, and given me more love, and family, than I ever thought possible. My friend just smiled, and said with a grin: “Sometimes you just gotta get in the truck! What a life mantra!” She gave me a small toy figurine of a truck from her windowsill, to remember the lesson.

On Monday, January 31, we said goodbye to Pelli. After nearly a year of fighting against kidney failure and an array of other health problems, after months of watching her slowly decline, we gently awoke to the realization that it was time to let her go. JD and I spent our last day with her thanking her for gracing our lives, and showing us how to live. We sat with her on the floor in front of our fireplace, gently brushing her fur, telling her we loved her and reminding ourselves of our various adventures. As we reminisced, we crafted this tribute, which we wanted to share, as a reminder to us all of the powerful impact of being, and having, a loyal, forgiving, playful, and loving companion. And, of the rewards that can come when we follow our heart, take a leap, and just get in the truck.