February 11, 2010- June 5, 2025
Ava, beloved terrier mix, international icon, and rotisserie chicken enthusiast, crossed the rainbow bridge at the regal age of 15.5, leaving behind a trail of shed fur, stolen snacks, and absolutely zero regrets. Ava’s origin story begins like a Disney movie with attitude. In 2011, she made the bold decision to select her human, Rebecca, by strutting into oncoming traffic in Hampton, Virginia, and hopping into a stranger’s car with the confidence of a dog who knew she’d found her ride-or-die. That moment marked the start of a life filled with naps, airplane rides, and low-key chaos. Ava lived on multiple continents, barked in at least three time zones, and had a nanny in China during COVID (her résumé outshines most of ours). Her hobbies included sleeping in sunbeams, pretending to ignore her little human brother Lincoln while secretly adoring him, and peeing with defiance in international airports—specifically Charles de Gaulle, where she left a French puddle the size of Luxembourg. She was often seen pulling her leash like a canine tank, earning her the nickname “Power Meatball,” which she wore like a badge of honor. Despite having only one tooth in her final year, Ava could demolish an entire rotisserie chicken if given the chance and somehow make it seem dignified. She was tiny (eight pounds), but her snores could wake the dead. And while she’d rather be pushed in a stroller than walk through a puddle, she was a fearless explorer of food scraps and human hearts alike. And just months before her final curtain call, Ava celebrated a milestone worthy of her legacy: her Quinceañera. Draped in layers of pink tulle and topped with a glittering tiara, she reigned supreme at a party fit for a monarch. There were decorations, admirers, and a sparkle in her eyes that said, “Enjoy the party. But, don’t interrupt my nap.” It was peak Ava — elegant, celebrated, and absolutely the center of attention. She knew it. She loved it. And she deserved every second. Ava is survived by her baby brother Lincoln, who finally won her over after years of being regarded as a suspiciously loud hairless puppy; her mother Rebecca, who is absolutely not crying, just allergic to feelings; her gentleman friend Casper, a younger man who respected her space and her snacks (yes, Ava was a cougar); Dan, who was completely under her paw and loved every minute of it, Matt, who loved his Ava, aka “Boobies” , a long list of besties who still smell her on their clothes and refuse to lint-roll it off. Ava never met a stranger, never passed up a festival, and never stopped being the best girl. Her legacy will live on in every empty Pupperoni bag, every squished travel pillow, and every human heart she warmed just by showing up and being Ava. In lieu of flowers, Ava requests that you sneak a snack when no one’s looking, take an extra nap, and be lovingly dramatic about your exit from every room. Rest in peace, Ava. May the rotisserie chickens in doggie heaven be forever unattended.
Ava
