Remembering Our Brave Girl: Pepper Johnson-Williams
They say you don’t choose a shelter dog – they choose you. That was certainly true with Pepper. We walked into the rescue center looking for a small, calm dog, and walked out with papers for a gangly, one-eyed border collie mix who barked the entire car ride home. It was the best decision we never planned to make.
Pepper came to us at about two years old, with a past we knew little about. She had lost her eye in some previous accident, and she was initially fearful of men with deep voices and umbrellas (of all things). But what Pepper lacked in depth perception, she made up for in heart and resilience.
Within months, this formerly skittish dog was racing through the dog park, her black and white coat a blur as she outran and outmaneuvered every four-legged friend there. She never seemed to notice her “disability” – she caught frisbees mid-air, navigated hiking trails with confidence, and only occasionally bumped into the left side of doorways.
Pepper appointed herself guardian of our home, with a special barking alert for mail carriers, squirrels, and the neighbor’s cat. Yet this fierce protector was incredibly gentle with our nieces and nephews. She would lie perfectly still while toddlers used her as a pillow, only moving to give the occasional face lick.
Food was Pepper’s love language. She had a refined palate for a dog, turning her nose up at typical treats but performing any trick imaginable for bits of cheese or blueberries. She could hear the cheese drawer open from anywhere in the house, appearing within seconds with hopeful eyes and a wagging tail.
When Robert was diagnosed with cancer three years ago, Pepper became his constant companion during treatment. She would lie beside him on his worst days, somehow knowing not to jump on the bed but instead to rest her head gently on his leg. The oncology staff all knew her by name because Robert swore he couldn’t do chemo without her photos on his phone to look at.
We like to think that Pepper held on until she knew Robert was in remission. At nearly twelve years old, her muzzle had grown gray and her once-boundless energy had faded, but her spirit remained bright until arthritis and kidney disease finally became too much for her body to bear.
On her last day, we took her to the beach – her favorite place. She couldn’t run anymore, but she sat contentedly between us in the sand, watching the waves and the seagulls with her one good eye, sniffing the salt air with her gray muzzle lifted to the wind. The vet came to our home that evening, and Pepper left this world peacefully on her own bed, surrounded by love and the comfort of her favorite squeaky duck toy.
Our home feels different without the click of her nails on the hardwood, her soulful gaze following us from room to room, or her excited dance when we grabbed the leash. We’re still adjusting to not having to spell out words like “walk,” “treat,” and “dinner” in conversation.
Thank you, sweet Pepper, for twelve years of loyalty, courage, and unconditional love. You helped us become better humans. You saved Robert when he needed strength. You showed us that perceived limitations are just invitations to adapt and overcome. Until we meet again, chase those frisbees over the Rainbow Bridge, our brave girl.