The Day She Chose Us
I still remember the way the autumn air felt that day in
Albuquerque, crisp enough to promise change, gentle enough to soften the edges
of whatever came next. October 16, 2016 — the day Dakota stepped into our
lives, quietly, tenderly, and with more grace than I ever expected from a young
dog who hardly knew us.
She walked toward us with that soft chocolate coat catching
the late-day sun, her eyes deep and steady, as if she were measuring our souls
with a glance. She wasn’t in a hurry. She wasn’t uncertain. She simply looked
at us the way only a gentle spirit can — as if she already knew we were hers.
That first lean became her trademark. A full-body, melt-into-you lean, the kind only a dog with a generous heart gives. She didn’t just sit beside us; she joined us. In that moment, without a word spoken, she became family.
Dakota was young, but there was something ancient in her
gentleness — a quiet understanding that life is best lived close, close enough
to feel someone’s breath, close enough to hear their heart. And she was a
talker, too. Little grumbles, soft sighs, the occasional opinion offered with a
glance or a nudge. From day one she had something to say, and somehow, we
always understood her.
I didn’t know then how many miles she would travel with us.
I didn’t know she would see more of the world than most people ever dream to.
I didn’t know the way she would change the rhythm of our days, or how her
presence would soften even the hardest stretches of the road.
All I knew was that she felt right.
Right at my side.
Right in our home.
Right in our hearts.
Looking back now, I believe she chose us long before we ever
signed a piece of paper or clipped a leash to her collar. Some friendships
begin with fireworks. Ours began with a lean.
And in that simple moment, a journey started — one none of
us could have imagined, but one we would come to cherish more than anything.
Her First Miles
I can still picture the first time Dakota stepped into the
RV — hers and Tilly’s home on wheels, though she didn’t know it yet. She
paused at the doorway, ears perked, nose working overtime as she tried to sort
out this strange, rolling house we were inviting her into.
She let out a soft little “hmmph,” one of her many
conversational sounds, as though she were saying, Well now… what is this
thing?
I smiled, because even then she made her opinions known — gently, politely, but
clearly.
With a cautious step, then another, she climbed aboard.
Little did she know this funny, boxy home would carry her over 50,000 miles
of life.
And then came her first ride. Well there was a discussion on who rides in the Co-Pilot Seat.
When the engine rumbled to life, Dakota lifted her head,
ears twitching. She gave me a look — half curious, half concerned — and let out
another one of her soft, talkative murmurs.
“It’s alright, Dakota,” Susan and I told her, reaching back to give her
a gentle pat.
She leaned into my hand, trusting me completely, and then —
with the bravery that would come to define her — she stood, braced her paws,
and watched the world start to move outside the window.
The moment the RV rolled forward, Dakota’s tail started a
slow, steady wag.
Not wild, not frantic — just a thoughtful little rhythm, like she was saying,
So this is what we’re doing now. Okay. I’m in.
And that was Dakota.
Gentle.
Adventurous.
Ready for the road the moment it came alive beneath her feet.
As we pulled away from Albuquerque on that first little trip
— just a short drive to let her get her bearings — I didn’t realize I was
watching the beginning of something extraordinary. She stood beside us like a
quiet guardian, her eyes following every tree, every sign, every flicker of
sunlight on the windshield.
With every mile, she seemed to grow a little lighter, a
little happier.
This wasn’t just a ride for her — it was a calling.
By the time we returned to our home base, she was already an RV dog.
And she knew it.
When the engine shut off, Dakota trotted to the door, looked
back at us, and made another one of her “talking” sounds — this time an
unmistakable, hopeful little whine.
As if to say,
That was good. We should do that again.
And over the years — through deserts and coastlines, through
mountain passes and border crossings, through quiet mornings and long, winding
highways — we did.
Oh, did we ever.
Her First Big Journey
A few months after Dakota settled into life on wheels, we
decided it was time for her first real trip — not just a shake-down drive, not
a weekend hop, but a true journey. The kind that stretches out on the map like
a promise.
I remember loading up the RV, the way the morning sun leaned
in through the windshield, and how Dakota circled with anticipation, her tail
tapping softly against cabinets and legs as she followed us back and forth. She
knew something was happening. She could feel the excitement humming in the air.
Dakota had a way of watching us pack that made the simplest
task feel important. Every bag loaded was observed, every cabinet closed was
approved with a small nod of her head. And each time we walked past, she’d lift
her eyes and make a quiet little sound — her version of,
Are we ready yet? Are we going? Tell me we’re going.
When the final latch clicked and the door swung closed, she
settled into her spot with a proud, patient sigh. She had waited all morning
for that moment.
Then the engine rumbled to life.
Dakota lifted her head, ears alert, her eyes glowing with
that mixture of calm trust and eager curiosity that only she could blend so
perfectly. She leaned forward slightly, steadying herself as the RV began to
move, and let out a soft, talkative grunt — her way of saying she approved of
this new adventure.
We headed north first. Up through the high desert, where the
horizon stretches wide and the sky feels big enough to hold every dream you’ve
ever had. Dakota watched it all with quiet wonder, her nose lifting to the
scents of new places drifting through the cracked window.
At rest areas, she hopped out with that delicate grace she
always had — not bounding wildly, but stepping into each new patch of earth as
if it were meant just for her. She’d sniff the air, look around, and then turn
back to us with a soft “hmmph,” satisfied.
That first big journey wasn’t about the destination.
It was about learning the rhythm of travel together.
The long hours, the gentle swaying of the coach, the hum of
the road beneath us.
The way Dakota would sit beside me, leaning her warm weight against my leg
whenever the landscape changed.
The way she’d tilt her head when passing trucks made the windows rattle.
The way she’d sigh contentedly when the sun came through just right, warming
her coat.
By the end of the first week, she had already become more
than an RV dog — she was a true traveler. A companion of the road. A soul meant
for movement.
I didn’t know then that this was just the beginning.
That she would go on to cross borders and oceans of highway.
That she would see Alaska’s glaciers and Mexico’s beaches, Canada’s forests and Florida’s endless shoreline.
That she would become the quiet heartbeat of every mile.
But even on that very first big journey, I could feel it starting — the story we would write together on the open road.
A story of trust, adventure, companionship…
And love that traveled farther than any map could ever show.
Her First Big Journey Lasted a Lifetime
Looking back now, I realize something I couldn’t have known
then — that Dakota’s first big journey never really ended. What began with that
early trip out of Albuquerque grew into something far greater than any one
destination, any one adventure, any one memory.
Her first big journey lasted a lifetime.
From the moment she set her paws inside that RV, she stepped
into a story that would keep unfolding as long as she walked beside us. Every
mile after that first one simply joined the last, stitching together the map of
her life — a map drawn not on paper but written in love, trust, and
companionship.
Dakota became a traveler not because we took her places, but
because her heart understood the road in a way that surprised me. She embraced
it with a quiet confidence — gentle, curious, and ready. And with every mile, I
learned a little more about who she was.
She had the spirit of an explorer, but the soul of a comforter.
She sought adventure, but she carried peace.
She loved the wide-open world, but she stayed close — always close.
It didn’t matter if we were driving through mountain passes
or rolling across long stretches of desert. Whether the sky was full of
northern lights or southern stars, Dakota felt at home anywhere, as long as she
was with us. She didn’t measure time in years or miles. She measured it in
presence — in being there, faithfully, for every step and every sunrise.
Her journey took her farther than most people will ever see:
to Alaska’s icy peaks,
Canada’s forests and lakes,
Mexico’s warmth,
the winding western coast,
the heart of the central plains,
the Rio Grande Valley,
the beaches of the Florida panhandle,
Lake Worth’s palms,
and back to Arizona again and again.
But the truth is, those places were only the backdrop.
We were the home.
The road was the thread.
She was the heart.
Each destination became a chapter, but the journey — the
real journey — was her life with us. Every mile was a memory. Every stop was a
moment. Every turn in the road carried the steady rhythm of her presence, soft
and sure.
And now, when I look back on all those years, I understand
something deeper than I ever did while we were living it:
Dakota didn’t just travel with us.
She traveled us through life — guiding, comforting, loving, and
reminding us that every moment matters.
Her first big journey lasted a lifetime…
And so did her love.
The Final Journey
The miles of Dakota’s life were full and rich, but every
journey — even the greatest ones — has a final stretch. Ours came quietly, on November
2nd at 11 a.m. A moment I had hoped would remain far off in the distance,
just another bend in the road we hadn’t reached yet.
That morning, the world felt still. The kind of stillness
that presses softly against your heart, as if it knows what is coming before
you do. Dakota lay close, her breathing gentle, her eyes carrying that same
deep understanding she had from the very first day we met her.
She looked at me with a sweetness I will never forget — not
fear, not confusion, but a calm acceptance, as though she was telling me, I’ve
loved this journey. I’m ready for the next one.
I held her, feeling the familiar warmth of her coat beneath
my hands, the weight of her head resting where it had rested a thousand times
before. She gave one of her soft little sounds — the kind she used when she
wanted reassurance or when she was reassuring me. I’m still not sure
which it was that day.
At 11 a.m., Dakota took her final step of the journey
she had walked with us since 2016.
A journey of 50,000 miles.
A journey of trust.
A journey of gentle companionship.
A journey of love so steady it changed the shape of our days.
In that moment, as her spirit slipped quietly away, Susan and I
realized something profound:
She never once walked ahead of us.
She never lagged behind.
She was always exactly where she needed to be — by our side.
Her final journey wasn’t the end of her story.
It was the moment her footsteps left the road but remained forever in our
hearts.
Even now, when I think of her, I feel that soft lean against
my leg, hear her small talkative murmurs, and picture her watching the world
through the RV window, confident that wherever we were headed, she was meant to
be there.
Dakota’s final journey arrived on November 2 at 11 a.m.
But the love she carried — and the love she gave — will travel with us for the
rest of our lives.
How to grow a Chocolate lab:
