Stellaluna: Hitchhiker of the Heart

Posted January 16, 2026 – Narrated by Jim

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A year and a half after losing our beloved chihuahua, Pico de Gallo, our home still felt the quietness of loss. The spaces where water dishes, beds and toys once occupied wasn’t the bonus we expected. It just looked empty.

We missed bedtime tuck-ins and his chupacabra imitation during UPS deliveries.

“Suddenly and unexpectedly” is a phrase we often hear before burying a friend, something that happens far too often these days—but without warning, a little black bundle of puppy-love dropped into our laps and brought balance into our lives, filling the silence.

Life on the Road

So, if you were hoping for a story about careful planning and making sensible decisions… then you might want to lower your expectations right now. 

Carmen and I have spent nearly a decade roaming North America in our Airstream. Think less “retired couple” and more like snowbirds with no legs. No, we have not landed. But somehow, we’ve learned to squeeze a trailer the size of a small silvery moon into campsites designed for pup-tents.

And yes, we still argue about who left the rear storage hatch open. (It’s me. It’s always me.)

This is our life—one road, one sunrise, one campsite at a time.

Our backyard changes constantly: mountains one week, desert the next, ocean after that. We collect sunsets like souvenirs. Somehow, with everything we own neatly arranged within 180 square feet of Beauty, the world feels both enormous and perfectly cozy.

Pico de Gallo: Our Tiny Guardian

For the first eight years, our little security guard, Pico, made every place feel like home.

Tiny, bossy, brave, stubborn, and hilarious (if you know him), Pico had a “size only matters if you’re stupid” life-philosophy. He guarded the Airstream door like a pint-sized bouncer, eyes sharp, watching everything and everyone with impervious judgment and unshakable devotion.

His bad-boy vibe made large male dogs cry for their mamas and lured females of every breed imaginable to his side.

Unknown camper nearby? Fangs.
Noise in the night? Full alert.
Stranger passing by? DEFCON 1.

Female in heat? Candlelight dinner for two.

Grief in the Quiet Moments

When Pico passed away in May 2024, everything changed. Suddenly, Beauty’s blinds were lowered more often. We bought a pickleball set—which can be dangerous and not recommended at our age.

On that first night, I reached for Pico’s empty spot—and only found cold blankets. Carmen pondered what to do about the worn spot on the cabinet where his water slurping had worn off the finish.

At the same time, the ache came with this odd sense of freedom—one we didn’t ask for. Chicken was back on the menu. We could pound-out breasts on the countertop and bread a pan of Chicken Francese and tuck in without fear he’d snap up a tiny bite – enough to trigger a severe allergic reaction.

Grief hands you these small wins, then dares you to feel guilty about them.

So we kept moving—that’s what we do—but the wheels seemed to roll thick and slow with just enough oomph to keep us from sinking.

What Loss Brings With It

Even while celebrating fifty years of marriage in Vienna, Pico’s absence was right there with us, especially when we saw couples with their dogs. Anniversaries have a way of doing that—they remind you of all the love you’ve shared and the pieces of your heart that never quite made it.

You don’t celebrate in spite of those losses. You celebrate because of them.

We weren’t looking for another dog. Taking on a new lil’ hitchhiker would be a major project.

That’s when our son called.

The Call That Changed Everything

He calls, normally, to check in or share family news. This time, he and his wife, Cyndy, were fostering a puppy rescued from Mexico.

We listened together on the iPhone’s speaker option, “Mom… Dad… there’s a puppy,” he said. “She’s adorable. Want her? I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t think she was right for you.”

He told us she startled easily and was very jumpy, uncertain about everything. She’d curl up against him to sleep but leap at every sound, and look at him like she was asking, “Is this safe? Am I okay now?”

“Go on,” we said, as we silently shook our heads ‘No’ to confirm one-another that we were on the same page.

We responded in a reasonable, uncommitted way.

“Send photos,” we said. “We’ll think about it.”

One look at those photos and we were doomed—just like people who say they’re ‘just browsing’ in a bakery.

Stellaluna: The Puppy Who Ambushed Us

When we finally met Stellaluna, she lifted her head just a little—and my throat tightened as if the world had paused.

Carmen knelt down. Stellaluna wagged her tail, then pressed her entire body against Carmen’s chest like she’d finally reached shelter after a long, confusing storm.

Something broke open in that moment. And something else quietly began to heal.

She wasn’t Pico. She could never replace Pico. But this tiny soul needed us—and it turned out, we needed her too.

A Gentle Bravery

Stellaluna is shy where Pico was bold. Careful where he was fearless. But her gentle trust is its own kind of bravery and we celebrate its growth day-by-day.

One minute she struts up to strangers as if she owns the campground. The next, a passing vehicle terrifies her, and she plants those Ginger Rogers legs firm as a mule.

And when she runs!? Pure joy. She skedaddles like a tiny deer, barely touching the ground. We just stand there laughing.

Campgrounds are big classrooms for a puppy like her—new smells, unfamiliar voices and sounds, normie-dogs on vacation who think they own the place. Each change of location asks her to trust the world just a little bit more.

Every day, a little more emotionally steady. A few more steps further than usual on the path. A sunbeam nap at the Airstream door. A sprint across the dog park with a new friend. Each small win, a quiet leap of faith.

Sometimes on walks, she mistakes strangers for one of us—tail wagging wildly—then casually pretends she meant to sniff that flower all along. 

When she sleeps—her little chest rising and falling—the Airstream feels alive again.

Rescues like Pico and Stella will always have a mysterious past, and that mystery is part of their allure.

Love Doesn’t Replace. It Expands.

We still talk to Pico sometimes. We thank him—for the years of joy, the laughter, and for opening our hearts wide enough to welcome Stellaluna.

Love doesn’t vanish when someone’s gone. 

It shifts, widens, and makes room for new beginnings.

She’s turned our grief into something softer, gentler—and brimming with hope.

Each day, she discovers what it means to trust, to be cherished, to have a place in our hearts.

One morning, she quietly claimed Pico’s old spot behind the recliners. Carmen froze mid-sip of coffee, and I just stared, as grief and memory pressed close around us, watching her claim a piece of his legacy.

Stellaluna is our fifth dog. Like all of our pups, we allow her to lead and now she’s leading the next chapter of living in Beauty.

Some nights, with moonlight washing over the Airstream, it almost feels like Pico is still with us—watching this new chapter unfold, tail wagging his blessing.

A Road That Keeps Going

After nearly ten years on the road, we thought we’d seen everything.

Turns out, we were wrong—there are still surprises. Still small miracles. Still stars to be found in unexpected places.

With Stellaluna’s growing confidence and gentle courage, our Airstream feels like home again—filled with the pitter-patter of tiny paws, the warmth of little victories, and the familiar slurp spot on the cabinet where the varnish is gone.

If you’ve ever loved and lost a pet—or found healing in an unexpected place—we’d love to hear your story.

You can see our exact route on this map.

*photos in this post (unless otherwise noted) were taken and copyrighted by Living In Beauty.

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