Small in size doesn’t necessarily mean small in spirit. Though our house no longer holds our little dog, Capi (who passed peacefully, here, with us by her side, on December 9, 2022), her spirit certainly lives on in it.

Capi was undeniably cute. But ask anyone who knew her, and that won’t be what they recall first—rather her fearlessness and enthusiasm for every adventure, every moment, really—might be what lives in their memory. Neither five-foot seas, nor snow deeper than she was tall fazed her. And guess who was the alpha of our dog pack—Capi or her 50+ pound mixed-breed older brother, Sandy?

Capi was, in a word, intrepid.

A year ago, Capi’s vet said that if all she had done was look at Capi’s test results and images, she would say that Capi had days, weeks at the outside, to live. But Capi didn’t believe it, and she proved it over and over. Months later, as we prepared to leave for Capi’s last summer of sailing, I worked with the vet to put together a medical kit for her, but the doc’s conclusion was that “Capi Magic” was her best medicine. That magic not only kept Capi going, it gave us a good dose of delight every day of her life.

We had a few rough patches in the cold wet days of the last Pacific Northwest spring, but mostly Capi decided that she’d embrace each day with joy and love. She took me for daily walks, rushed if it was rainy, longer on sunny days, often right to the shops where she knew she would to get a treat or two (thank you especially to The NW Dog in Poulsbo!).

Intrepid to the end, even during her last days, she ambled a bit every afternoon and rode to the mailbox, head out the window savoring the crisp December, desert air. This is all I can bear to write, as I am sorely missing my amazing furry friend. That big-hearted little dog will live forever in my heart. Always intrepid, and always reminding me that I can aspire to be intrepid too.