A Breeze Causes a Stir

One dark night not long ago, we scooped a tan, medium sized dog up off the streets and made her part of our family. She arrived with an open heart and an eagerness to belong, as though she had been waiting for someone to say, All right then, come in—you’re home now. We named her Brisa, which in Spanish means Breeze.

Of course, we knew nothing of her past, so our first concern was her health. A veterinarian from our village came by and gave her a couple of injections to ease the pain in her injured foot and ankle. Soon after, we took her into the city for a full checkup, vaccinations, and to have her sterilized.

That was when we were told she had already been spayed.

This came as a surprise. We had inspected her ourselves and found no sign of it, but the veterinarian felt what seemed to be a scar—although slightly higher on her abdomen than expected. Relieved, and more than a little grateful, we took Brisa back home, believing the matter settled.

Then, about a week later, it happened.

Small drops of blood appeared on the floor in a trail. We checked both dogs for injuries—nothing. Brisa, meanwhile, was licking herself and being her usual affectionate self.

It slowly dawned on us.

Brisa was in heat.

We had no idea we weren’t just rescuing a dog, but welcoming a princess—one whose arrival would summon admirers from every corner of the neighborhood.

Our household was instantly thrown into a kind of quiet, frantic disarray. It is a good thing we don’t have wall-to-wall white carpets! Our floors are Saltillo tile, which means they can be mopped—and so they are. About thirty times a day.

There were other complications. A neighbor’s dog, Oso, lives on our property, and he became very attentive to Brisa’s new condition. So did several other dogs, who began showing up outside our fence whenever we took her out on a leash for her business. This was a new arrangement. Before, she wandered our property freely, alongside Mali—and Oso.


She has shown a little curiosity about the other dogs, though she’s gone toward the fence, as if she is wanting engagement. She is not quite ready yet. Oso tried mounting her once, and she snapped at him sharply, as if to say, "Not so fast, mister!" But we can sense what’s coming. Soon enough, she will be wanting to be, as the old song goes, “where the boys are.”

A couple of days ago, a particularly determined neighbor dog made it through the barrier, resulting in a fierce and noisy altercation with Oso. I feared the worst for the other dog—and dreaded having to explain it to the vecinos. To separate them, I had to employ the large wooden staff I now carry. And this—all before Brisa has even reached the most intense stage of her cycle.

Apparently, the whole affair lasts about three weeks.
Ughhh.

Still, every time I look at her—tail wagging, eyes bright, heart wide open—my own heart responds in kind. Like her tail, it starts thumping all on its own. We remind ourselves that all things pass, even the messy and inconvenient ones, and that soon enough we’ll find a good clinic and get this little chapter of chaos resolved.

In the meantime, we mop, we watch, and we laugh when we can. Brisa, blissfully unaware of the trouble she has stirred up, simply continues being Brisa—sweet, loving, and very much at home.

A Breeze at the Door

 

Brisa, breeze in Spanish, has swept into our lives with charm, and grace—as if she always belonged.

I wish I could talk with her and hear the story of her life before we met her on the streets near our home in San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, in southern Mexico. Who did she ever belong to, if anyone? Where did she sleep? What paths did she walk before crossing ours? How could she be so good-natured?

When we first noticed her, she bore evidence of a small mishap, favoring her front right paw. Even so, she lifted it to “shake hands” with Amy—a polite gesture that suggested she still believed in people. Aside from that, she seemed healthy—no collar, no signs of a home, no hesitation in her step toward us. From the start she showed nothing but affection and friendliness, without fear. Everyone who has met her thinks she is about three or four years old. Her story is a mystery.

It took a few days—coming so soon after losing our former street adoptee, Avión—but one evening we gathered her up from in front of a gas station and brought her home. It felt less like a decision than a recognition, as though something already understood simply needed to be acted upon.

Now she is home and fully part of our “pack”—Amy, our dog Mali, and me, and now Brisa. She is so well-mannered and loyal that my heart thumps with gladness—like her tail, which begins wagging even when she is resting and knows I am entering the room.

She comes when called, racing back to the house from the yard as if responding to something urgent and joyful. She eats enthusiastically alongside Mali, then checks Mali’s bowl, just in case something important has been left behind. And she gives what can only be described as hugs—sitting up and wrapping her front legs around ours, gazing upward with bright, uncomplicated happiness. It is a gesture that feels both earnest and disarming, and resistance proves futile.

Brisa has already had several veterinary visits. She received injections to ease the pain in her paw, which may have been the result of a severe bruise. We took her to a clinic in town for examinations and to schedule sterilization. During the exam, several clinicians felt along her underside and said she appeared to have a scar, indicating she had likely already been spayed.

When I heard that, my heart sank. A cloud formed over our happiness. My God, I thought, what if she belonged to someone? The possibility had crossed our minds before, but a friend who knew her—and had been feeding her scraps at night—assured us she was a street dog.

The veterinarian explained that it is common here for street animals to be neutered and then returned to their familiar territory. That explanation brought some relief. Brisa received three vaccines, and we decided not to pursue further surgery.

On the drive to the clinic she shook the entire way, her body tight with worry. On the way home she was calm. And when we arrived, she leapt from the car and raced into the house, joy restored and fully operational.

Her past may always remain a mystery. But her present is clear, and her future, at least for now, feels certain. Brisa is here. She belongs. And like a gentle breeze, she has brought something quietly refreshing and life-giving into our days.

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.

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.