Inspired by our friend, Carlo Rossi

When Darren and I decided we wanted to include a furbaby into our family, we knew we wanted to adopt. We were moving to Mexico, and there was an abundance of stray dogs. We knew we would find our “meathead”.

Two months before we left, we started our online search. It was Darren who sent a link with more than 30 dogs and said, “I think I found him.”

I emailed back about an hour later and said, “As long as it’s Leo.” Two months from when we contacted the Los Cabos Humane Society, we picked up Leo. Our “meathead.”

The 10-Day Road Trip Home

After renaming him Miller—in honor of our favorite beer—we loaded up our Jeep Rubicon and trailer with two motorcycles and a pizza oven. We sold, donated, or packed the rest of our two homes, arranged for transport for the remaining items, and set off on a 10-day road trip across North America to bring Miller home.

The transition from a crowded shelter to a quiet house can be overwhelming for a rescue dog. As we watched Miller take in his new surroundings—the grass, the quiet, the ocean breeze, the sand, heck, his very first real bed—we couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind.

I’ve decided to tell his story the only way it felt right: from Miller’s perspective.

The Ride

Wow! I’m sitting up high, the window of the white Jeep Rubicon cracked just enough to let the wind push back my ears and jiggle my lips. The only time I had been in a vehicle before, I was in a cage, surrounded by the smell of fear, dogs, and sweat. No air, no freedom, no knowing.

Now? Now I know I’m going home.

As it turned out, home was not far from the shelter—just ten minutes north, heading away from downtown. Dad says it’s a golf community with lots of room to run. I’m pretty tired, my stomach is rumbling, and I am a little scared. What if I get too excited and pee? What if I’m not always a good boy? I’m reminded of Israel’s voice whispering in my ear.

The Arrival

We pull up to a gate where a man stops us. Mom and Dad talk to him, the window rolls down, and the man smiles at me. Huh? Does he live with us? Mom is talking really, really fast, her voice bright with excitement as she explains that they finally arrived from Canada to pick me up. Then Dad shakes his hand, and off we go.

What is this place? We have our own security. There aren’t metal chain-linked cages to keep us in; these people are here to keep us safe. Down and around the winding road we go, passing beautiful homes and acres of cacti. It is beautiful. The green desert is vibrant against the deep blue of the sky.

When we pulled into the driveway, my eyes couldn’t believe what they saw. A house with a yard made of soft sand and real grass to dig my “shovels” in and kick up my heels, framed by flowers and tall, swaying palms. There are so many new things to mark my territory! Inside, the rooms are filled with comfy furniture and pillows to cuddle.

Water Bowl & Bitter Sweet Goodbyes

But bowls? That’s my first stop. Ahhhh. I was so thirsty. I drank until I was full, amazed that this heavy ceramic bowl didn’t flip over when I nudged it. My neck didn’t hurt from straining, and when I stepped back, there was still water left inside.

It had been hard to say goodbye to Israel at the shelter. But there was something about his final hug that made it feel right—happy instead of sad. I could tell I made him proud. I was a good boy.

My New Kingdom

My new home looks right over the 11th hole of a golf course, just 1,500 steps from the Pacific Ocean. Even from inside, I can hear the waves crashing into the sandbanks, sending a gentle breeze across the cool marble floor. Dad says that in the early months of the year, whales can be seen jumping and splashing just off the shore.

Mom has filled the living room with a soft, circular bed—nothing like the cold, rectangular cot I became used to. And toys! I think she thinks I know how to play. There are plush, fuzzy shapes and hard plastic rings stacked in a basket. Israel had taken one picture of me in the shelter yard holding a ball on a rope, and I guess that convinced Mom I was an expert. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I don’t actually know what to do with them. I never had a squeaky toy on my rooftop.

As I wander through the quiet rooms, the weight of the day catches up to me. I decide to climb onto the couch. Awww. I am a lot more tired than I thought. The smells here are entirely different. The air doesn’t feel heavy with stress. It is so quiet without the echoes of barking and whining bouncing off cement walls. I close my eyes and sleep.

Dinner and a Sunset

I’m not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, Mom and Dad were ready to take me for my very first walk around the neighborhood. Everyone we pass seems so nice, petting my head and commenting about how cute—and how skinny—I am. They ask Mom if I am from Canada, too.

Mom was anxious about my weight, worried she wouldn’t know how to properly nourish a malnourished dog. But my first dinner is heaven: a perfect mix of crunchy kibble and real meat. Chicken, I think, tossed with carrots and warm potatoes. It is delicious. I try to eat as slowly as I can, but it is hard. Mom smiles from ear to ear when she sees a perfectly clean, licked bowl.

Everything is new. The smells have changed from sterile bleach to completely fresh air—the exact same scent carried by the strangers who visited the shelter. I am the only pet in the house; this kingdom is all mine!

Tonight, I stand on the balcony off the master bedroom. Looking out past the golf course, I watch the birds fly free against the sunset. I finally know how they feel.

My name is Miller, and I am from Mexico. I am one-ish years old. I was abandoned on a rooftop, rescued by Israel, and chosen by my Mom and Dad who drove all the way from Canada. My life is here now. This is my furever home.

What Miller Taught Us About Resilience

Watching Miller settle into our home has been one of the greatest learning experiences of our lives. Every time he peacefully watches the birds from the balcony, enjoys a walk through the neighborhood, or deep-sleeps on the couch without a care in the world, we are reminded of the resilience of animals.

Miller is just one of millions of dogs waiting for a second chance. If you have been thinking about adding a furbaby to your family, we encourage you to adopt, not shop. Shelter animals aren’t “damaged goods”—they are simply waiting for someone to show them what safety feels like.