Pat Bean's blog

Pepper and I spent the first eight months of our lives together in my small RV traveling the country. Shown here, just a few weeks after I adopted her, is the time we visited Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas. The ranch is a motley line of buried old Cadillacs that people spray paint when they visit. Pepper found, and insisted on carrying back to the RV, one of the paint can caps.  — Photo by Pat Bean

“When we adopt a dog or any pet, we know it is going to end with us having to say goodbye, but we still do it. And we do it for a very good reason: They bring so much joy and optimism and happiness. They attack every moment of every day with that attitude.” —  W. Bruce Cameron

Seven Short Years 

Pepper spent a morning running back and forth through a sprinkler, then arrived back in front of me with a fern bow on the top of her head. — Photo by Pat Bean

          Her shelter name was Kenzie. She was a four-month-old, 14-pound black ball of fur giving all the bigger dogs in the yard at the Second Chance shelter in Plano, Texas, a good workout when I first saw her. She was full of energy and joy and not the kind of dog I was looking for to replace my long-time canine companion Maggie.

I wanted a two or three-year-old dog, preferably a cocker spaniel mix, who was already house trained. But Kenzie, an energetic Scottie-mix, took one look at me sitting on a bench, jumped into my lap and gave me a no-nonsense look that said: I’m going home with you. And so she did.

On the ride back from the shelter, I decided she didn’t look like a Kenzie, so I started thinking out loud about other possible names. When I said Pepper, she gave a little joyful yowl, which I interpreted as Yes! That’s my name!

She thoroughly enjoyed chewing up her toys for the entire seven years of her life. — Photo by Pat Bean

From that minute onward, for the next seven years, until this past Wednesday, we were rarely apart. She loved other people and dogs with enthusiasm, but made it clear that she never wanted to be out of my sight. She was a barker when she played and chased other dogs, or when anyone came to visit. I called her my loud-mouth Texan, a trait she and I shared when excited.

My son-in-law, Joe, whom she twisted around her little paw, called her the Queen Bee because she bossed the family’s two, much-larger, male dogs around after their Great Dane alpha female went over the Rainbow Bridge. The nickname stuck here at my apartment complex. One dog-owning neighbor called her the social director because of the way she got all the dogs up and running around in the dog park.

Pepper made the cover of PetSmart’s magazine after one of her recent every 10-week groomings. But because I was not in her sight, she was an unhappy dog, easy to see by the down-turned ears. She would cry like a baby when I left her for her bath and hair cut.

Pepper loved belly rubs, and in no uncertain terms would let all humans she came into contact with know she wanted one. She also had this unbelievable stare when she wanted something, clearly expecting you to know if that something was a treat, a walk or just attention.

Her bestie BFF was a dog called Dusty who belongs to my dear friend Jean, both of whom have been grieving along with me the last few days. Dusty, also a rescue, goes bonkers if she’s left alone. It was because Jean was looking for someone to walk and babysit her dog during the day while she worked that the four of us came together five years ago,

Every weekday morning, Jean would drop Dusty off at my apartment, where the two dogs eagerly greeted each other, then spent the day playing, begging for treats, walking together, or simply curled up with each other behind my recliner, a place that they allowed no visiting dogs to enter.

Me, Pepper and Dusty in my recliner. The two dogs were besties, and now Dusty wants to know where her friend is — in doggie heaven I tell her.

Pepper’s barking was her most annoying trait. Sort of funny, but it’s now what I miss most about her.  I also miss her stare, our early morning bed cuddles, and her simply joy of life.  OK, I miss everything about Pepper. I suspect it will be many days yet before I make it through a 24-hour period without tears. But I wouldn’t take back a single one of those tears in exchange for not having the seven treasured years Pepper and I had together.

She had more enthusiasm for life in her little body than anyone I have ever met. And if there is a doggie heaven, which I believe in more than I do in a heaven for humans, she’s sharing it with all the other dogs who once were loved by a human as much as I loved Pepper.

I’ll never stop loving or missing Pepper. But in the meantime, perhaps there is another dog out there who needs rescuing, and needs me as much as I need her.  I’m a glutton for joy, even if it ends in sadness.

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Pat Bean is a retired journalist who lives in Tucson. She is a wondering-wanderer, avid reader, Lonely Planet Community Pathfinder, Story Circle Network board member, author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon, enthusiastic birder and is always searching for life’s silver lining. She can be reached at patbean@msn.com