The first time I met Pearl she was standing at the edge of my parent’s yard in the bitter February cold wearing nothing but a pink towel and a smile.

She’d shown up from nowhere about 2 weeks prior and stuck around despite my dad’s refusal to feed her for the first three days, hoping, no doubt, she’d go back to wherever it was she belonged. Pearl had other ideas, and eventually he relented, fed the dog a piece of leftover chicken, and as he always likes to tell, cleaned out the refrigerator while she stood there, half-starved, waiting for more. My niece, 8 years old and thrilled to have a pet, promptly named the dog Pearl, claimed her as her own, and covered her with a towel to keep her warm while she slept in my parent’s shed.

Two years later Pearl was digging holes in the backyard and my sister was threatening the pound. I’d just left a fairly messed up relationship, already had two cats, and was kinda-sorta subletting a converted garage apartment from a friend who kinda-sorta hadn’t yet informed the landlord I was there. I wasn’t exactly looking for a dog, but I’ve never been very good at passing up strays, — either the animal or people variety, — but Pearl wasn’t much of a dog in the normal sense of the word.

She’d been so mistreated and abused that she’d literally had the personality beaten out of her. She was rigid and stiff and complacent, and you could lift her, bend her, shape her, pose her into any position and she would stay that way, afraid to move. Long before I realized I would be taking this tattered beagle home, I had teasingly nicknamed her Doorstop Pearl and Lawn Ornament Pearl because she was just so … still. But I always sought her out when I visited my sister, and normally I’d find her smashed to the back of her doghouse, staying out of harm’s way, just happy to have a place to sleep in relative safety and quiet. Everyone else thought she was a joke, but I liked her.

I liked her, in part, because I could identify with her. I’d just walked out the door and down the road from meanness, too, and I could relate to being too scared to move, and sleeping with your back pressed against a wall and I could relate to wanting to be quiet and left alone. I could relate to her gentleness and I could relate to the scar on her right cheek, because I had one too.

Pearl, true to her Southern name, was a mixture of grace and grit. Her left ear was ripped and separated, the bottom few inches torn in two, but she had the sweetest face, and quiet, calm eyes. Fearful of the nightly summertime fireworks, she’d climb behind me on the couch and shiver and shake while I held her, calming her down, yet many nights I’d wake during a thunderstorm to find her standing on my chest, front legs planted firmly and head held high like a coyote on a cliff, guarding me from unseen evil. With a fierce determination and a faraway look in her eyes, using her paws to scrape at my hair and my head, she’d gather me safely from danger into a nice, neat, if not slightly scratched and annoyed, bundle.

She earned the nickname Lightning because she walked painfully slow under most circumstances, and normally I’d have to carry her back from our walks, but she’d frolic in the dunes when we went down to the beach. I often forget that one of my first photographs was of Pearl running through the sand. Pearl didn’t know how to play, but toward the end of her life, she’d get frisky for a moment or two and bounce around with abandon. I think it surprised even her. She could sleep all day, but traveled with me all the way across country to California, and we’d play chase in the hotel hallways at night. One of her favorite things to do was walk the short walk to the corner, strolling along in true Pearl style. She’d do her business, sniff the telephone pole, then turn and look at me with her “spunky monkey” face and take off running back to the house. I’d have to quickly unhook her leash or she’d wiggle like a fish on the end of a pole. Off she’d go, galloping back to the house, weaving across the road, looking back to make sure I was in close pursuit. Sometimes she’d wait, then spring forward again. And then, she’d walk back in our house, slowly up the stairs, and into bed where she’d promptly fall asleep.

For six years, Pearl wasn’t much of a dog, but she made me laugh, and she was was my best friend, my fairy godmother and my guardian angel all rolled into one. Then, with little warning, her kidneys failed and she became sick and began to fade away and over a sunny, three day period last spring, I waited and watched while she got worse, got better, got worse, improved, and came home.

Pearl spoke a language that had nothing to do with words. The night before she died, she woke around 4am to go outside. I sat on the patio, under a sky full of stars, the air scented with magnolia and honeysuckle, while she slept in my arms. Listening to her breathe, smelling her neck, feeling her warmth, trying to take her in, remember it all. I sat there holding my dog, and I made a few promises, quietly, about the way I would live my life, without fear, without regret, with a little playfulness, a little bit of spunk, and a lot of love. With no more thunderstorms to fight, she woke, pushed her front feet against my chest, leaned her head back to look at me, and for the next several minutes just stared into my eyes, the faraway look replaced with something intense and genuine and strong. Then she laid her head back down and once again went to sleep.

Today, I  see the first magnolia blossom of the year, and I remember Pearl. The honeysuckle has bloomed again. And yes, I get it. Sometimes, life just sucks. People leave. Dogs die. Things change. Life goes on. And that’s just the way it is. But that day, after our vet left the room and all that remained was to say goodbye, what I heard escape from my lips sounded an awful lot more like please come back.