Chiquis sleeps beside Theresa most nights with her nose pointed toward the window. Beyond the glass, a bird feeder. Beyond that, a backyard that Theresa’s family spent years turning into something wild: native plants, butterfly gardens, corridors for owls and bats and foxes. In the mornings, Chiquis watches the birds from one of her three beds. On walks, she finds bunnies hidden on the trail that Theresa can’t see.

But the day starts the same way every time. Chiquis is already beside her when she wakes, waiting. Not anxious. Just present. When Theresa stirs, Chiquis paws at her arm, boops her hand. Keep going. More pets. She’s not eager to leave – she wants all of them. When Theresa finally gets up, Chiquis leaps from bed to chair to floor, all tippy taps and excited darting, and walks beside her to whatever room comes next.

Just months ago, Chiquis couldn’t take a treat from someone’s hand.

The Fire

On a Saturday night in January 2025, a van exploded in a San Jose encampment. A propane tank. Open gasoline nearby. A spark. Chiquis was inside the van when it went up.

Her caretaker went back in for her. He took most of the burns himself pulling her out.

Kim McIntyre got the call around 10:30 that night. Kim runs St. Francis, a one-person organization that brings veterinary care directly to unhoused communities. She’d been working in this neighborhood for years – partnering with Humane Society Silicon Valley to provide services like spay/neuter and vaccines – and she’d treated Chiquis before. When crisis hit, the community knew who to reach.

“I fully expected when I picked her up that her injuries were going to be significant, likely too severe to save her,” Kim says. “But she was stable when I arrived.”

The Recovery

Kim shaved Chiquis down that first night and started pain meds immediately. Her vet – a close friend – saw her the next day. Mostly partial thickness burns, with full thickness burns on the edges of her ears. Her paw pads were badly burned. Her ears, which had been floppy, were now crisp at the tips.

Over the next several days, the full extent revealed itself. Chiquis swelled. Her burned skin went red and shiny, then started to slough. Kim got in the shower with her every night – warm water, pain meds already on board – to help shed the dead tissue. During the day, she changed the bandages on Chiquis’ paws once, sometimes twice, to keep the wounds clean and moist enough to regrow.

The Journey from Before to After

Pain control is one of the hardest parts of treating burns in dogs. They can’t tell you where it hurts or how much, and veterinary medicine doesn’t have the same breadth of drugs for pain management that human medicine does. Secondary infections can set everything back. Kim’s vet nearly lost a finger to MRSA contracted during Chiquis’ treatment. Kim herself was hospitalized for eight days with it. She calls the whole thing a labor of love.

“Our little warrior princess endured daily,” Kim says. “And then, once the dead skin was gone, new healthy skin was like ‘let’s do this.’ Wounds quickly began to get smaller. She began to look like a dog again.”

Recovery took about seven months. The dark markings around Chiquis’ eyes and face – her “batgirl” look – are post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation, melanin flooding the new skin cells to protect them. Her fur is still coming back in patches.

The Dog She Was Becoming

Before the fire, Chiquis was not the dog people see now. She lived in the camp alongside large dogs that free-roamed. She clung to her people and ran from everyone else.

Kim barely knew her. “She was very shy,” Kim says. “Because of all the large dogs in the area, she mostly clung to her people and stuck close to home.”

So what happened at Kim’s house surprised both of them.

“Once she started to feel better, she would stand on her hind legs and ask me to pet her,” Kim says. “She would just curl up to me. She grew to trust me really quickly. I was shocked.”

The shy dog who ran from strangers became wiggly and happy and hoppy for visitors. With Kim’s own dogs around, and a quieter environment, Chiquis started approaching people of all ages and sizes to ask for affection.

One day, Kim needed to leave the house while Chiquis was still being potty trained. She put Chiquis in the bottom half of a tall cage she used to overnight cats. When she came home, Chiquis had climbed to the top of the cage and was beside herself proud of it. Delighted. Triumphant.

Her Fan Club

Kim fostered Chiquis for nearly ten months, from January to October. During that time, people from the encampment kept asking about her.

“A lot of people feel bad for camp dogs,” Kim says. “How can people who struggle to find shelter and care for themselves provide the love and care a dog needs? Having spent years working in camps, I see a lot of happy dogs who are very loved. Chiquis is no exception. She has a large, loyal fan club of humans who knew and loved her. Many kept up on her healing and adoption journey through me.”

People still ask Kim for pictures. They ask how she’s doing. And Kim sees the relief on their faces when she tells them Chiquis isn’t just surviving. She’s thriving.

Home

When Chiquis was ready, Kim brought her to HSSV for adoption. The vet notes were simple: scarring and alopecia on face and ears, tips of ears burned off. Ready for adoption.

Theresa wasn’t looking for a project. She was a first-time dog owner, navigating her own difficult season.

“I didn’t know right away,” she says. “I’m a bit cautious with my heart.”

She first saw Chiquis being walked on a leash from the small dog yard. Later, she met her in the yard – shy, timid, head down, eating cooked chicken without much enthusiasm. Then she heard the story.

“I thought she was adorable no matter her skin before hearing it,” Theresa says. “Then I learned she’s a little warrior and she’s got battle scars.” She gave her a middle name: Xena, Warrior Princess.

But what Theresa sees when she looks at Chiquis isn’t the fire or the scars, or any of it.

“I see a very gentle spirit that’s so incredibly sweet,” she says, “and yet has gone through flames without injury to her soul – probably very much thanks to her foster.”

Settling In

“She’s meant quite a lot to me during this time,” Theresa says. “She’s my best friend right now – with me all of the time, follows me, makes sure I’m there without any pressure. I’ve been coming out of depression and she’s been so beautiful to appreciate and to watch – her graceful moments and her silly moments.”

Chiquis has learned to take treats from hands. She’s learned to hop into the car and wait on Theresa’s lap. She went from lunging at squirrels to standing alert – watching, waiting. When Theresa pets her, she looks up with soft eyes, ears back, and what Theresa thinks is a smile. Chiquis leans into the touch.

She likes clothes. She perks up when Theresa brings out a coat. When she came home with a “floral cone of shame” for her healing skin, Chiquis turned it into a pillow. She enjoys puzzle feeders. She doesn’t mind having her teeth checked. She had her first towel bath recently and appeared to enjoy the process, possibly because of all the treats.

“She’s still blossoming, I think,” Theresa says.

No Pity Parties

Theresa doesn’t tell Chiquis’ story to everyone they meet. She keeps it close.

“I don’t think she ever wants the sympathy for her story, and it’s something I happily keep as our little secret,” she says. “I don’t want the sympathy given to her. Maybe I’m not fond of pity parties. But I like to keep it in mind to help those affected and give better opportunities while building a shining story of resilience.”

Chiquis returned to HSSV recently – to take Beginning Manners classes on Saturdays. She greets everyone with what Theresa describes as “utmost glee.” She’s sociable. She likes to keep people together.

Kim still thinks about her. She calls Chiquis “my favorite little foster.” People from the camp still ask how she’s doing.

And in a house where the family spent years coaxing wildlife back into the yard – planting native species, building habitat, waiting for the owls and the foxes to arrive – a small dog with a batgirl face sleeps beside her person with the most peaceful look, nose toward the window, the bird feeder just beyond the glass.

“I couldn’t imagine anyone replacing her,” Theresa says.