dogs – Pamela Helberg

When I sold my home and bought a van in late 2021, my primary mission was to minimize my responsibilities. I’d shucked my mortgage and utility bills, given away my lawnmower, and stuffed my storage unit. I looked forward to an unfettered future—just me, my van, and my mountain bike.

Indeed, for a few months things unfolded pretty much as I envisioned. I chased a girl to Austin, bought a #vanlife van, and moved in, never imagining that I would soon have a four-legged traveling companion. Not to be cold-hearted, but my kids were both launched and my old old cats had finally died (RIP Kai and Mittens, truly, we loved you), and my mother was safely in the care of Brookdale and my brother. The open road beckoned.

There’s no cut and dried way to explain how Bodhi ended up a #vandog, how I ended up with a dog in my van, but here we are, counting down to nearly a year together in June. Long story long: I met a woman on Match.com early in the pandemic. She had just rescued a Mexican street dog she named Bodhi. I fell in love with that dog, and even when the woman dumped me, I pined for Bodhi.

Bodhi is the perfect dog. He’s indifferent to food. He could care less what I’m eating and rarely, if ever, begs. He’s low-key, not jumpy, not barky, certainly not yippy. He’s loyal and loving, and though he can be incorrigibly needy at times, he can also be independent. He is as cute as a button and unimaginably personable.

I went on Match.com and fell for a dog. Unfortunately, the dog’s owner and I did not part as friends, and when she went away, so did Bodhi. Then, fast forward two years to last June, and quite by accident, I discovered that Bodhi’s owner had recently fallen seriously ill, and, upon reaching out to a mutual friend, I learned she was not expected to live.

I asked after Bodhi. “Where is he?” “Is he going to be okay? Are you guys keeping him?” I figured our mutual friend would keep him—they already had one dog and two kids who knew Bodhi well. I just wanted to make sure he would be well-cared for.

“Do you want him?” she asked, laughing as if she in no way expected me to say yes.

“Yes!” I said without even hesitating. Not a second to contemplate how I had just complicated my life. “Yes. I want him.”

“Seriously? But you just sold your house to live in a van!”

“Yeah, but I love that damn dog! Where is he? When can I get him?”

Reader, I picked him up that very afternoon in June, and he has been with me ever since (except for a few weeks here and there when I just couldn’t have him with me). In fact—he’s the reason I ended up going to Mexico, now that I think about it. Had I not left him behind with my friend and her dog, she of the wine-addled international travel planning in my previous post, I probably would not have spent the past three months in Mexico).

Life sure takes some interesting turns, doesn’t it?

Last summer, after a couple of bottles of wine, and addled by the summer sun, a friend and I decided it would be a great idea to spend the winter in Mexico. She had spent six weeks the previous winter on the Caribbean side in Porto Morales, and I had spent several short vacations north of Puerto Vallarta over the last decade visiting my father in Rincon Guayabitos. We both knew we’d rather walk our dogs on the beaches than in the snow and rain.

Initially we thought we would drive my van down, meeting up in Austin (where I had spent November and December), and departing from there, winding our way to the Nayarit Riviera. Our friends and families, however, had strong opinions about why that might not be a good idea:

“That van would make a nice cartel drug van!” “Two old ladies alone in a nice van? Are you nuts?” And so on. I remained undeterred.

Our original rental in Sayulita. Pictures can be deceiving!

We scoured Airbnb for affordable places to stay and finally settled upon two that looked suitable. One in Sayulita for six weeks and one in a sweet little beach town up north called Chacala. We put our money down. But as the summer days dwindled into fall, my courage waned. I was mere days away from departing the Pacific Northwest for Texas, but I didn’t know how to tell my friend I was chickening out on driving. I didn’t want to get killed by the cartel. I didn’t want them to steal my van. I didn’t want to be a headline. And neither of us spoke Spanish which made the drive seem even more reckless.

It felt like chickening out, but I gathered my courage and confessed my fears. Turns out my friend was thinking the same things but was also afraid to tell me, sucking up her fears and putting on a brave face. After all, she had navigated around the world on her sailboat. Why would she be afraid of a little drive to Mexico? But, age does funny things to us. As does the news media.

We laughed and reconfigured our travel plans. My biggest challenge was figuring out how to get my dog, Bodhi, down there, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to worry about it yet. I still had over 2000 miles to drive, camping sites to secure, work to do, sites to see. I would have to fly now, and my dog, Bodhi, too big to travel under the seat, would have to fly in cargo. I’d figure it out, I told myself. Shouldn’t be too hard Dogs fly all the time.

I didn’t have the bandwidth to worry about it yet. I still had over 2000 miles to drive, my sweetie and a rental awaiting me in Austin, Texas, camping sites to secure, work to do, sights to see.