Brisa: The Gentle Wind That Found Us

After the mysterious disappearance of our beloved Avión, the house felt hollow—as if a light had gone out and left a quiet, aching space behind. We were still adjusting to that absence when, almost as if by divine choreography, another presence stepped softly into our lives. Her name is now Brisa, but at first she was just a gentle shadow wandering the village streets who looked uncannily like Avión—as if she might be his surviving sister.

A few nights after Avión’s death, we went to the small pizzeria down the road, run by a friend in our little village. A handful of neighbors had gathered for a birthday, the usual warm mix of laughter, candles, and night air. As we sat talking, Amy suddenly rose and walked to a nearby empty table. A dog had caught her attention.

The dog came straight to her—unafraid, deliberate—and sat at her feet. She looked deeply into Amy’s eyes and gently lifted her paw, as if greeting her with a shy “hello.” The resemblance to Avión was startling. The pizzeria owner mentioned that he fed her every night and believed she was homeless. Hearing that struck something tender in both of us. Here was a dog who looked like Avión, who lived like Avión once did, wandering the same streets he used to wander.

That night at home, we talked quietly, both knowing the same thought had taken root:
If we could find her again, and if the stars aligned, we would bring her home.


Two days later, on our way into town for a dinner engagement, we kept a watchful eye on every dog along the roadside. Once, we even stopped to check on a dog in the shadows—many look similar here—but it wasn’t her. After dinner, we drove home in the dark. Near the pizzeria we searched the corners and doorways, but there was no sign of her.

Then, just beyond the local gas station, Amy suddenly shouted, “There she is!”

She was lying quietly by the curb, as if waiting for whatever came next.

I pulled over. Amy climbed into the back seat, and I lifted the surprisingly calm, gentle dog and placed her on Amy’s lap. She did not resist. In fact, she seemed relieved.

Getting vaccinated at home

Back at home, Mali—our xolo dog—and Oso, the neighbor dog, rushed to meet her with a burst of excitement. Brisa held her ground with quiet strength. She has street wisdom in her bones, the kind that comes from surviving by instinct and confidence.

Now she has had her vaccinations, is wormed, and will soon be spayed. And she has a name: Brisa, meaning gentle breeze. And that is exactly what she is—a soft, steady, calming presence moving through our lives just when we needed it.

Avión took over a year to be unafraid. Brisa is affectionate and composed from the start. She quickly learned the safety of the indoors, though she also races joyfully around the yard with Mali and Oso. When I enter a room where she is resting, she thumps her tail with a warm, welcoming rhythm. She gives both Amy and me an abundance of love, as if making up for lost time.



She isn’t a replacement for Avión—nothing could be.
But life has a mysterious way of balancing its losses.

Sometimes, when one door closes painfully, another opens with gentle paws and an offered hand—reminding us that love, in all its forms, finds its way back to us.

Ears Spread Like Wings

Last Monday, we woke to a shock that still hasn’t settled in our hearts—we found Avión mysteriously dead. This, the morning after joyfully writing about our dogs in last week’s blog.

As always, Amy prepared breakfast for MaliNalli and Avión—they eat when we do. Mali, who sleeps indoors, was already waiting by her bowl. But Avión, our faithful watchdog who slept on the front porch, didn’t appear. He always came running. This time he didn’t come at all.

After a few uneasy minutes, our neighbor’s dog, Oso, showed up for his usual treat… but still no Avión.

Then I heard Amy cry out from the front, “He is dead! Avión is dead!”
My heart dropped. She had found him lying just outside our front gate.

Moments later, Oso seemed to reveal what might have happened. He trotted to a small opening in the fence on the steep hill beside our driveway and pushed his head under the chain-link. Avión was a master escape artist—our little Houdini—forever squeezing through tiny gaps to patrol the perimeter. It seems he may have tried slipping through that opening, become caught, and strangled.

I lifted him gently and laid him on our front porch table.

Amy sobbed. We ran our hands over his stiff body—no wounds, no bruises, no sign of violence. His tongue protruded slightly. We kept asking ourselves how this could have happened. Maybe someone found him earlier and moved him. Maybe something else occurred. Life in our village holds both kindness and cruelty; we’ve seen both.

Just the day before, I had taken all three dogs for a walk. Everything had been normal. And the night before, I had written about him and Mali—about Mali’s new portrait and Avión’s shy, soulful presence.

Today our hearts are heavy. We called him Avión—“airplane” in Spanish—because of the two big ears he stretched out like wings. He was our adopted “boy,” full of love, vulnerability, and quiet devotion. We rescued him as a terrified street puppy, and over time he became part of our family.

I posted a short tribute on Facebook yesterday. More than two thousand people responded. Their kindness helps, but the silence he has left behind is immense.

Life here in the village is raw and unpredictable. One moment everything is ordinary—the next, the world tilts. Losing Avión has reminded us, painfully, how fragile the beings we love truly are. But it has also reminded us of something deeper: that love, once given, does not end. It remains, like a quiet flame, illuminating even the darkest corners of our days.

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Do animals continue on?

In the hours after burying him, I found myself asking a question I’ve never felt so urgently: Does a creature like Avión continue on in some way, as human souls do?
Across spiritual traditions, there are gentle yet meaningful hints that the answer may be yes.

In the Bahá’í writings, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá describes the animal kingdom as a sign of God’s perfection—beings who feel love, joy, loyalty, and sorrow. Creation, He says, does not simply vanish but transforms, and nothing that reflects divine qualities is lost.

The Hebrew scriptures remind us that humans and animals “share the same breath,” and humbly admit that no one truly knows the path of an animal’s spirit. Christian mystics wrote that animals return to the embrace of the One who fashioned them, because love is never wasted. Islam teaches that all creatures are “communities like you,” and that all will be gathered to God.
Eastern traditions speak openly of the continuity of animal consciousness beyond physical life.

And then there are the countless individuals who, in moments near death or deep vision, have spoken of meeting beloved animals again—whole, luminous, and free of fear.

I do not pretend to know the architecture of the next world. But I know this: Avión lived with love, and love is never extinguished. Whatever spark animated his gentle eyes and anxious heart came from a divine source. And what comes from that source, I believe, returns to it.

If there is a meadow of light in the next world, may he be running there now—ears spread like wings, finally free.

Here is our Xolo dog Mali and Avión (gold color) adopted from the street, during a happy time:  

Painting a Portrait of MaliNalli

 Our Xoloitzcuintle dog, MaliNalli Copali, is about four and a half years old now. Each day she brings us joy—along with her soul-brother, Avión, a mongrel we saved from certain death as an abandoned puppy around the same time Mali came to us. The two could not be more different. Mali is sharp, alert, protective, extremely loyal to Amy, faster than a greyhound, and does not like being left behind—but has adapted to it when we must go into town.

Avión was very afraid for several years. He didn’t like being touched, for fear of being hit. He sleeps outside at night, is protective of the home and property, and is a medium-sized, short-haired dog. The kind that is very commonly seen roaming the streets here in Mexico. Over time he has gradually overcome his shyness and now sometimes comes forward for affection. He has always had the most soulful eyes I have ever seen in an animal—big brown pools of moonlight, oozing love.

Just today I finished a painting of Mali. An oil on canvas, 40 × 40 cm. Since she could not pose for hours on end, I worked from a photo. The first step was to make a drawing. I transferred the photo from my phone  to my computer and created a square format, then in Photoshop, made a grid on top of it. In the studio, on my square canvas I made a matching grid in the same proportions, which helped me to draw with the proportions right.

Once the drawing was finished, I added a circle behind Mali’s head—an idea that came as I worked. Gold metal leaf was fixed inside the circle. An underpainting of brown umber established the values and fine-tuned the drawing. At last the colors were applied.

It came about without too much fussing. The result was satisfying, without second-guessing. Amy saw it and said, “That stays with us!”

Want a pet portrait done? Visit Steven Boone Fine Art and contact me.

Alive Among the Dead

The days approached steadily, as they do each year—filled with anticipation, hope, and a tinge of sadness. After all, Día de Muertos is a time to honor those we have “lost.” Yet nothing is ever truly lost—and that is why this celebration overflows with life in Mexico.

The fields of marigolds—cempasúchil, the flower of the dead—burst into golden bloom. Their color, like small suns, symbolizes the eternal cycle of life and light, guiding returning souls home with their glowing hue and pungent scent. Alongside them, the deep crimson cresta de gallo (cockscomb) blooms in velvety folds, representing the blood of life and the enduring vitality of spirit. Together they speak a language of remembrance—sun and heart, light and love intertwined.



Armfuls of flowers are carried to home altars and gravesites. Marigold petals spill across store entrances, and hotels glow with candles and color. Parades surge through the streets—comparsas of every kind—people of all ages marching, drumming, and laughing. Happiness abounds, as if the dead were truly alive again.

This year’s grand comparsa wound through the streets for over an hour, lined on both sides with cheering crowds. Bands played in wild rhythm, costumed marchers paraded alongside dancers balancing baskets of marigolds on their heads, and bright floats rolled past in a joyful burst of revelry.

3 min. video

From our village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, we drove into Oaxaca City to join the festivities and take part in our own small way. My camera, of course, was always in hand—this is a photographer’s dream come to life.

Our ofrenda

Barbara and Russ

By chance we met Barbara and Russ, a lovely couple visiting from Vermont who collect my artwork—a sweet coincidence amid the celebration. The festival draws to a close this evening, with a band playing at the Zócalo, the heart of town. Amy and I will meet our collector friends there, savoring the last notes of music before the candles fade and we begin to wait again—for next year’s return of the spirits.