How I Accidentally Bought a Toyota Tank Disguised as a Mom Van
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The Toyota Avanza in Mexico that became “La Avanza” — the vehicle that started my cross-border road trips and eventually launched Mel’s Angels Pet Transport.
Birth of THE DOG TANK
It was my birthday.
You know what most people do on their birthday?
Brunch. Margaritas. Something mildly reckless but still Instagram-safe.
Me? I went car shopping.
Because nothing says “Happy Birthday to me” like signing paperwork for a depreciating asset and pretending you understand the financing terms.
My dad had died. That part isn’t funny.
Vintage photo of Mel Blossom as a baby sitting on her father’s lap in Milwaukee.
But this part kind of is.
He’d left me a little bit of money. Not “retire in Cabo” money. Not “buy something irresponsible and hope for the best” money. Just enough to finally go retrieve the last pieces of my life sitting in his old warehouse in Milwaukee.
Which meant I needed a car.
A reliable one.
A road-trip one.
A “drive across two countries without ending up as a cautionary tale” one.
Simple, right?
Car shopping is not simple.
It’s psychological warfare in a parking lot. Every sentence from a salesman begins with,
“Well, for just another $500…”
And I’m thinking,
“For just another $500 I could also lose the ability to sleep at night.”
By the end of the day, I had narrowed it down to two cars.
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Toyota Avanza — responsible. Roomy. Absolutely not aligned with my combat boots. — Renault Duster — the one my ego wanted.
One was a Renault Duster. Tough. Off-road ready. “Tank Girl” approved. It would’ve matched my combat boots and fishnets for years. It looked like it belonged in a revolution.
The other was a Toyota Avanza.
A mom van.
Practical. Spacious. Not remotely aligned with my aesthetic. But capable of hauling everything I needed to bring home from Milwaukee.
The Duster felt like me.
The Avanza felt like responsibility.
And unfortunately, responsibility was winning.
I stood there in the lot, stressed and overwhelmed, waiting for my Uber. I looked up at the sky — since Dad doesn’t have a cell phone anymore — and said out loud:
“You’re who I would call right now. I don’t know which one to buy. If I pick wrong, I don’t have the money to fix it. I really wish you were here.”
The Uber pulled up.
I looked down.
It was the exact Toyota Avanza I’d been debating.
Same model. Same year. Same color.
I just stared at it.
Then I laughed.
“Alright, Dad. Message received.”
Mom van purchased.
Dad. Disponible 24/7 — just apparently now from the sky.
At the time, “she” was just La Avanza.
I had no idea I had just bought a tank disguised as a grocery-getter.
Merida — my Chihuahua, whose security credentials include barking at dust particles — and I had a plan.
Drive north to Milwaukee. Clear out the warehouse. Loop through a few states. Come back south.
Simple.
Except there was one detail.
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The planning committee was small but vocal.
The border.
I had lived in Mexico for years, but long solo drives still made my chest tighten. So I hired Juan — dear friend, calm human, actual grown-up — to escort me to Eagle Pass.
He drove. I learned.
Not just signals and lane etiquette. Not just how Mexican drivers communicate with headlights and hand gestures like some kind of asphalt ballet.
I learned that most of the fear I’d been carrying wasn’t reality — it was noise.
We reached Piedras Negras. Eagle Pass on the other side.
Juan’s friend had come to take him to the bus station. I was about to cross alone.
Some people have poker faces.
I have what I call Heart-Face.
Even though I was trying to act calm, Juan looked at me and said:
“¿Qué pasa, niña?”
“I’m just… nervous,” I admitted. “Americans feel tense lately.”
His friend laughed.
“You are American. We are the ones who should be nervous. They have to let you in.”
And there I was.
An American woman.
At the American border.
And two Mexicans were having to assure me it was safe to cross.
Behind them was a massive American flag. Under it? McDonald’s golden arches — the “welcome home” symbols of my people.
The absurdity was not lost on me.
The official symbols of “welcome home.
Obviously I should be more worried I’d gain 50 pounds splurging on Rocky Rocco’s pizza and Babe Ruth candy bars I can’t get in Mexico.
My dog Merida was promised a tour of her Mom’s homeland and even she was looking at me with her big eyes saying, “America is right there, Mom! Come on! You said Taco Bell is that way! Vamos!”
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Security system reviewing border strategy.
And so…
The future Mel’s Angels Crew crossed.
No drama.
No chaos.
No cinematic music swelling in the background.
Just border agents doing their job and then suddenly, I was loose in America with one mini Mexican Chihuahua and a Mexican mom van that was quietly about to start earning her legend.
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Piedras Negras to Eagle Pass. No fireworks. Just the beginning of something bigger than we knew.
First order of business: a hotel.
Tap water from the sink.
Toilet paper in the toilet.
Small luxuries feel big when you’ve been away.
La Avanza stood outside.
Merida curled up.
And I fell asleep with no idea that the practical mom van waiting outside for us was about to become something else entirely.
Happy Birthday to me.
Dad picked the car.
I picked the road.
But this mom van was about to show me she’s a tank — and tanks don’t stay parked for long.
And none of us knew what that meant yet.
The legend hadn’t started yet. But she was warming up.
About the Author
Mel Blossom is the founder of Mel’s Angels Pet Transport, a cross-border pet transport service operating between Mexico and the United States. She is also the artist behind Mel’s Angels Pit Stop, a road-inspired shop for people who love dogs, travel, and a little bit of grit.
This blog follows the Mel’s Angels Crew and the road that built the business.
Learn more:
Mel’s Angels Pet Transport — https://melsangelspettransport.com
Mel’s Angels Pit Stop — https://melsangelspitstop.com
