 “I’m pulling my car over to snuggle puppies, I think I’m ready for another dog,” I said to a friend last April. After my rottweiler, Monty, died 18 months before, I took naps on his dog bed for two weeks. I heard his nails on the laminate floor. I heard him sigh.
“You can borrow my dog,” said kind people. I didn’t want to borrow a dog. I didn’t even want to pat a dog. I struggled to teach my Dogsafe canine first aid courses without my assistant by my side. By April 2013 -- three months after he died -- I was able to giggle at the signs Monty was leaving to show me he was still close. And that August, I cried again for two weeks. “Just go to a shelter and get another dog,” some people said. But grief is hard. And I know no other way to process it, than through it. For me, adopting another dog when I’m still working through my loss prevents a 100% commitment to my next dog. By October 2013, I had sold my apartment and moved Dogsafe Head Office to Victoria, BC. I started to look at dogs on adoption websites. In February 2014, I visited the local shelter for a quick walk-through. A few months later, I visited again. And patted and talked to the dogs. When Monty got sick, we had been planning a cross-country road trip. I had never been to the Atlantic Ocean. Nova Scotia called to me, especially Halifax. Maybe I’d find my dog along the way? I left Victoria on June 15, 2014. I drove across British Columbia then south and east through Idaho, Montana, North Dakota and Minnesota. I was going to take my time -- maybe four or five weeks -- to visit dog businesses and shelters along the way. Go east. In Menomonie, Wisconsin, I asked the Dunn County Humane Society Shelter volunteer if they had any senior dogs. There was a 9-year old cocker spaniel and 9-year old rat terrier -- neither was the one for me. I walked out of the shelter in tears. Am I not ready? I’m ready. I think. Go east. I ferried cross Lake Michigan, up through Ontario -- declining offers to visit friends -- then south again and straight east across New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine. Then north to New Brunswick to cross into Nova Scotia. On July 2, I arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I set up my Dogsafe mobile office at the Shubie Campground. I loved Halifax’s harbours, the ferries, the running paths along lakes and the friendly people. “How long will you be staying here?” people asked. “I’m open, but I might take the ferry to Newfoundland and Labrador next week,” I said. I checked the website and learned that the voyage was seven hours and dogs were placed in a separated kennel area with no visiting. “I’ll have to go before I get a dog.” After working in Halifax for a week, I visited the Bide Awhile Animal Shelter, a privately run organization. “I wanted to introduce Dogsafe to you, and I’m also looking for a dog but I see you have just one dog on the website,” I said to the woman. My voice was shaky. My eyes got moist. “Sorry, this is emotional for me, I lost my dog over a year ago.” “I understand, I have dogs too,” she said. “We do have another dog that’s been here for only a week, a four-year-old black lab.” “A black lab?” I said as I wiped my eyes. “Yes, would you like to see her?” “I had initially thought of a senior dog, but, uh, okay.” I followed her to an outside exercise area. My chest tightened as I spotted the black, stubby-legged Labrador retriever with a square head and pink collar. She’s the one. Oh shit. I sat with my back to the fence and peeked over my right shoulder. She panted and paced with her tail hung straight down. She walked close to the fence, then away. “Would you like to go in?” “Um, yeah, okay.” I walked through the chain link door and sat again. Lucy walked up to the volunteer and wagged her tail. I yawned and lip licked -- canine calming signals -- and after a few minutes, she stood an arm's length away but allowed me to scratch her chest. “What’s her story?” I asked. “She was surrendered by her owners, a young family with a four-year-old boy. Seems they were just too busy for her.” The volunteer left me alone with Lucy. I moved into the shade and she stretched out on the pavement beside me but not close enough to touch. Cat-like paws. Squishy forehead. Soft brown eyes. “Do you have any more information on her? Do you do behaviour assessments?” I asked. “We don’t have trainers come in but you can speak with our executive director, Darrold. I left the shelter. There were no tears. What if she is dog-reactive? What if she has severe separation anxiety? What if she hates camping? Gets car sick? But I’m a trainer, I can work with her on any negative behaviours. And true, travelling has been easier without a dog, but I can't ignore my heart. And my heart knew I couldn't leave Halifax without her. In the morning, I met Darrold, a large man with a grey beard, who cared deeply for his organization and animals. I met with Lucy again -- she was all tail-waggy with Darrold -- in a private room and we were left alone. She showed signs of stress -- panting, pacing, trembling, yawning -- but did follow me around while I held a loose leash and dropped pieces of dog treats. I explained that I was a trainer, owner of Dogsafe Canine First Aid and was a long-distance runner and hiker who was self-employed and worked from home. “We do things a little different around here. We don’t need an extensive application since our assessment starts as soon as you walk in the door. We know there's a right match for each of our dogs and we’ll keep them until that happens. And I think the right match for Lucy is you.” After an hour of visiting with Lucy and speaking with Darrold, I completed the brief application. “We give you a 24-hour cooling off period so no money is taken right now,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” I said. On the way to the campground, I stopped to buy dishes, long-line, poop bags and an engraved ID tag. I bought a week’s worth of groceries for me and filled up the propane tank. The campground staff moved a motorhome to another site so that I could have their quiet, shaded site with electricity. I could now work from the campsite instead of the local library. What lessons will Lucy teach me? Why did she choose me? Am I ready? The next morning, I completed the adoption process and Lucy jumped in my truck and found the dog treats on her new mat. We drove to the lake -- she loves the truck -- and went for a two-hour, long-line adventure. Running. Hiking. Wading. She twitched and snored for eight-and-a-half hours that night. In the morning, Lucy woke me up with face licks and tail thumps in the cramped space of the truck. She won't be an easy dog, though. She’s terrified of dogs and being alone and wary of everyday things and experiences -- tents, RVs, bathroom tiles, pet stores, garbage bags and people. So this week, I’ll reduce all stimuli by shrinking her world and we'll re-introduce her at a speed she can handle. I don’t need a two-week visit to Newfoundland and Labrador, I have one at my feet for her lifetime. -------- Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at michellesevignywriter@gmail.com ... I love getting surprise emails. Photos by Me.  Last night, I slept at a KOA Kampground to duck out a hail storm -- $32 to imprison my quirky Honda Element in a gravel lot surrounded by metal-sided bullies. I bolted from the RV lock-up before sunrise. I drove east through Montana -- by its own admission, a state where “you have to push a lot to get through it.” After six days on my cross-country road trip, I hadn’t had any wow. No a-ha. No soul-filling moments that I normally felt on road trips. The Honda was comfortable for both driving and sleeping. Gas station attendants, travellers at rest stops, camping neighbours -- all were friendly and fun to chat with. The land was pretty. Quiet reflective time while driving was okay. Should I not be here? Am I pushing too fast to reach the Atlantic ocean? As my shuffle mode spit out tunes from Elton John to the Sex Pistols, I crossed another state line. "It's not going to happen in North-freakin'-Dakota." At a view point, I looked out across the National Grasslands. Black cows chewed in the shade of large trees. I thought about the goats that became treasured camping companions during my hike in Turkey, less than three weeks ago. When I was nine, I would talk to cows for hours on my great-grandma’s farm near Vimy, Alberta. It's been twenty-seven years since I've eaten beef. As the sun dropped in the sky, I stopped at a Visitor Information Centre. “Hi! What are my options for campgrounds in the next hour or so?” I asked. “Theodore Roosevelt National Park is 30 miles away in Medora,” she said. “Is Medora a town where I can pick up a few groceries too?” “Yes, it’s a cute little town.” A half hour later, I drove off the highway towards Medora. Within a few minutes, I saw the RV jail and refused a visitor's pass. Along both sides of Medora’s two-lane Main Street were cars parked close enough to make the bumpers blush. The storefronts had artificially faded wood siding and saloon swing doors. The road signs had phony aged letters. Neon signs flashed in windows -- Tickets for the Medona Musical! Take-out! Ice Cream! Souvenirs! Preteen girls squirted out between idling tour buses, followed by baseball-capped fathers who waddled across the road without looking right-left-right. Get me, the f*ck, out of here. I u-turned back to the highway and fourteen miles away in Belfield, I followed a tent sign into a truck stop attached to a log cabin hotel. “Hi! Do you have camping for tents?” “No, just a cement RV lot, you might try Medora," said the woman at the desk without looking up. “I tried there already, do you have any other suggestions?” “Dickinson is going to be packed with RVs too," she said to the desk top, "it is, Saturday night, you know.” I slammed the door a little too hard and the bell convulsed. In Dickinson, I couldn't find the campground so scouted the streets for possible stealth camping options. Residential cul-de-sac lined with trees? Maybe. School parking lot? Perhaps. I'm so not supposed to be in Dickinson, but it's been a long day, where, where? Back on Highway 94, I squinted at a brown sign with a white triangle -- Schnell Recreation Area -- attached like an afterthought to the large green mileage sign. I peeked at my open map on the passenger seat for a red tent icon after Dickinson. Nothing. Please be close, please be close. I lifted my visor, no longer needing it for the setting sun. At the first stop sign off the highway, I saw the second sign – 3 miles. After a mile, I turned onto a hard-packed red dirt road. The highway hum vanished. Green grasslands swooshed and arched up to the sky. Yellow signs with black arrows – curve right, curve left -- completed the primary colour palette. Wire fences had signs nailed to each post which I thought read Keep Out. The Schnell Recreation Area gate had the same sign but as I coasted closer, the signs became clearer -- Public Land, Welcome. My body jerked forward as I braked -- a turtle inched across the road towards the duck pond. "Oh hi turtle!" I said, the legs of my silver turtle ring jingled as I waved. I stopped at the entrance gate -- “Two-thousand acres of grasslands acquired in 1993 by The Conservation Fund from the Schnell family. Six sites. First-come, first-serve. $5 per night. Maximum 14 days”. A travel trailer was set-up in the first site -- we waved to each other. The only other vehicle, a truck camper in the last. Each site was the size of a neighbourhood baseball diamond and had a circular driveway more at home in front of a plantation manor. Mowed lawns. Outhouse cabins with covered cement patios. Fire rings, stand-up barbeque grills. And two wooden picnic tables each -- one open, one covered with a heavy-duty timber canopy. And cows. “Hi cows!” I yelled through the open passenger window. Site #3 welcomed me. I looked at the 7 o’clock sun and I jumped into my black nylon running shorts, pink tank top and lime green Nikes. I sprinted along the barbed wire fence towards the entrance gate. The cows lifted their heads, black muppet ears flared out, yellow ear tags twitched. Eyes stared, jaws gyrated. I smiled as one cow started to run alongside the fence. And another. Then two more. Then five more. Grass blades as tall as wheat parted as the cows thundered through them. Thirty-seven cows joined my team as we raced towards the main gate. "Yeaaaah!" I yelled, "whooooo, yeaaaaa--!" Their hooves roared next to my silent footsteps. My nose burned and twitched as my eyes filled with tears. I cupped my left hand over my mouth -- as if my choked-up cries would embarrass my burly team mates. As we neared the main road, the cows pivoted left and trotted up the ridge. I waved goodbye and ran through the gate to meet my new team of black song birds with wings the color of traffic cones. Photo source -------------- Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at michellesevignywriter@gmail.com ... I love getting surprise emails.  As a police officer, there was only one place I was scared of and had avoided it for three years -- until this day.
“Hey, c’mon, don’t park right out front!” I said to my partner. I had to go in there. She was my victim. We split up calls like that -- one incident I’d be “contact” or main investigator, and my partner would be “cover”, assisting me. “Ok, I’ll be three minutes,” I said. “Don’t forget what I told you,” he said. “Piss off.” He smiled. I crawled out of the passenger side and adjusted my duty belt – handgun, OC spray, flashlight on the right, two clips of rounds, collapsible ASP baton on the left, handcuffs in back. I eyeballed my target destination and thought how proud I was to be a police officer -- the uniform, the job, the tradition. Breathe. It was July, but I wore my issued navy blue Gortex jacket. Squeezed against my skin by my Kevlar vest, droplets of sweat inched down my chest, like climbers descending a narrow crevasse. I tugged my jacket lower over my hips as I walked across the sidewalk. I paused at the door and looked up at the sign. Fuck. It would have to be this one. Busiest commercial block in the city. Two floors and an open-plan design. Not good. I opened the door and slipped inside. Hands that gripped knives froze in mid-air. Throats closed up and hot fluids sloshed in gaping mouths. Thick, red liquid oozed down chins. And white powder floated from ends of fingertips and noses. I was used to people staring when I walked into a room. “I didn’t do it!” they’d say as they held their hands up. “Oh I think you are the one!” I’d say, with all the enthusiasm of an assembly-line worker. Some men would say, “I’m the bad guy, arrest me officer!” If he was good-looking, I'd say, “not todaaaay.” But these people would not only stare, they'd blab. To their buddies at soccer. Co-workers at the water-cooler. And the cashier at the supermarket Express Line. I walked into the crowd and spotted a woman in dark brown pants and white shirt with thin brown stripes -- the ring leader. “Hello, I’m Constable Michelle Sevigny, may I speak to Emily for a moment, please?” Emily heard me and waved from the back and disappeared out a door. A minute later she walked up to me with a backpack and pulled out a piece of paper. “Hello officer," she said, "here, I did the best I could." “Thank you Emily, I’m sure it's great," I said, "and if I have any questions, I've got your number." “Thank you again for all your help,” she said. “Would you like a coffee?” “No thank you.” “What about a donu–“ “NO! I mean, uh, no thank you, I’ve got to go,” I said, “now, I have to go now.” I retreated back through the crowds --standing-room only now -- while thousands of camera flashes attacked my eyes. I yanked open the patrol car and tackled the passenger seat while I back-kicked the door which ricocheted off the hinges and slammed shut. “Go!” “Hey, where’s my coffee and chocolate glaze?” my partner asked. Damn you, Tim Hortons. Postscript: I was an officer with the Vancouver Police Department from 1998 until 2008 before I resigned to work with dogs full-time. Photo Source sillygwailo Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at michellesevignywriter@gmail.com ... I love getting surprise emails.  “Are you interested in changing your flight from a 3 hour layover in Dallas to a Westjet direct flight, arriving in San Jose del Cabo four hours earlier?” said the American Airlines check-in clerk.
“Um, yes, please!” I said. Monty's here. As my long-time travel friend, Heather, and I settled into our Westjet seats, my thoughts drifted over the past year. In May 2012, Heather and I bought tickets to El Salvador for a two-week biking/camping trip departing January 29, 2013. My rottweiler, Monty, was 10 years old, and it was going to be my final trip in order to share every minute of his senior years together. On November 27, 2012, Monty was diagnosed with osteosarcoma and I cancelled the trip. I temporarily closed my business while I cared for and hung out 24/7 with Monty until he passed away January 30, 2013. (In Celebration of Monty video) February was a mourning blur which continued into March. And April. We had to use our American Airlines credit before May 1, and after contemplating a weekend in San Francisco or Portland, Heather called one day, “hey, did you know American Airlines flies to San Jose del Cabo?” That's the one. I was jostled back to the present as the lady across the aisle stood up. I noticed her gold thumbnail-sized square pendant with an embossed dog. “I like your necklace,” I said, “have you got a dog?” “Yes, he’s waiting for us at home,” she said. We talked about our dogs – her Labrador, my rottweiler, hers rambunctious, mine recently gone – as she sat on her armrest. After a few minutes, she stood up to walk towards the bathroom line-up. “Nice chatting with you,” I said. “Oh, and what is your dog’s name?” “Monty.” My right hand slapped across my mouth as I looked left at Heather. “Whaaaaaat?” said Heather. “Oh,” I inhaled as I brought my snack napkin up to my lower eye lids. The woman had already walked away. “Whoa-whoa-whoa,” said Heather. Stuff like that happens to me a lot -- it’s new to Heather – but that was a good one, even for me. Monty's so right here. We had a soul-restoring week in San Jose. We read. We tanned. We sipped iced sangrias. We power-walked the beach for two hours every morning. We chatted with the couple who still called each other “baby cakes” after twenty years of marriage. And the young woman with a new memorial tattoo – a red maple tree growing across her right upper thigh – where her dog is buried at home. Mostly, we laughed. Wrinkle-causing belly laughs. With each other. With hotel staff. With Mexican travellers. And with surfer JD and his 70-something dad and travel buddy, Keith. And welcomed the morning sun on our top-floor, garden-view balcony -- upgraded from a ground-floor back room. A week later, we were waiting at the airport for our flight home. The Boston Marathon bombing that morning had caused no-fly zones and massive re-routing. Young kids sat on suitcases. Women ducked out for bathroom breaks. Men twisted and double-checked their watches. “Let’s see, well, I can reroute you but it would be a tight 2-hour transfer in LAX,” said the American Airlines check-in clerk. “Okay, we’ll take it,” I said. “Are we going to have time?” asked Heather. “We'll be good, it only means that we weren’t supposed to be in Dallas and something really cool is going to happen at LAX,” I said. The 90-minute flight from San Jose del Cabo to Los Angeles was relaxing except for the occasional how-are-we-going-to-claim-our-bags-and-get-from-Terminal-5-to-Terminal-2-in-under-two-hours thoughts that would creep up from each of us. Once the plane landed, we race-walked around people and up the first ramp. “Vancouver connections? Vancouver connections?” an elderly Asian man called out. “Uh, yeah, we’re flying to Vancouver?” I said. “Are you Heather and Michelle?” he asked. “Um, yeah?” said Heather. “Here, take these and make sure you have them displayed at all times, you’ll be guided through,” he said, “it’s 4:25 now, boarding starts at 5:45.” Hundreds of cartoon question marks popped up around our heads as we stared at our orange fluorescent “Express Connections” passes. "Thank youuuu!" Up two ramps. Down three flights of stairs. Along a corridor -- Strollers! Cleaning ladies! Dudes with headphones! As we approached the customs area we were waved over by a woman – who ARE these people? – who lifted up the retractable belt from a post and walked us to third in line. We cleared in four minutes. We grabbed our first-off-the-plane bags from carousel #3 just as our elderly Asian guide appeared. “This way, this way,” he said and bypassed a line longer than a city block, to a line reserved for flight crew. “Who is that guy and how did he get here so fast,” said Heather, “he was three floors up.” “Ha, no idea, just say thank you!” I said as our customs cards were collected and we burst out into LA sunshine. “Which way to Terminal twoooo?” I asked a crowd. “That way!” said somebody. “Thaaaank youuuu!” Off a curb, up a curb — watch out for taxis! Luggage carts! A drunk woman in stilettos! In through a mirrored glass door – left or right? left! – up two escalators, emptied pockets, stripped off jackets and runners. Phew! A silent metal detector! We ran down the last corridor with shoelaces flapping. Toddlers! Passenger transport carts! Groups of teenaged girls! “There it is! Flight 557 Vancouver! ” I said. “Time?” “5:20!” said Heather, “Right here, right here, we got time!” We ducked into a restaurant and -- no time for dinner -- ordered two Samuel Adams lagers as per our long-standing tradition. “Cheers to winning the Amazing Race,” said Heather. “Cheers, and to Monty, you rock!” I said. Soon, seats 30D and 30E shook with laughter as we relayed the events. We could search for rational explanations – overbooked planes got you bumped up, lots of dogs are named Monty, room upgrades happen all the time, the LAX guides perhaps a frequent flyer club benefit of which we were mistakenly given temporary membership. But believing it's Monty makes me glow with an inner secret so fun that strangers stop and ask me, "and what are you smiling at?" A flight attendant walked down the aisle and stopped at our row. “And, you are, Heather and Michelle?” she asked as she looked from per papers to the seat numbers above us. “Uh, yup,” I said. “You are both listed here for a complimentary meal and glass of wine,” she said. “So, what would you like?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright © 2013 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact.. Photo by Michelle Sevigny  I had meant to come to this place for almost a year. I made excuses about being too busy but in truth, I was scared. I didn’t want to think about ever needing this place.
As I stood outside, my hand on the door handle, I remembered when I had randomly found this place. Co-owner, Kevin Woronchak, was outside and saw my Dogsafe Canine First Aid logo on my Honda as I saw his sign on the building behind. “Please come for a tour sometime,” he said after we had chatted for ten minutes or so. “Absolutely, our companies certainly have planning ahead in common, I’ll definitely schedule a tour soon,” I said. In 2001, I had made a regrettable rush decision for a communal cremation for my previous dog, Dallas – I didn’t want the same for my rottweiler, Monty. The wheels of a nearby train snapped me from the past. I took in long, slow breaths and exhaled as I opened the door to Until We Meet Again Pet Memorial Centre. Kyle, a young staff member dressed in casual pants and plaid shirt, greeted me in the front entrance with a smile and gentle handshake. We walked left into a room the size of a standard bedroom. The sun came through big windows and lit up a round wooden table and four chairs. Dark wood shelving lined two walls and showcased pet remembrance items. Urns of cedar, mahogany and ceramic, priced from $30 to $400. Angel ornaments cradling puppies. Engravable garden stones. Spawts paw impressions. Pendants and rings. Books on grief for purchase and their complimentary booklets, Coping with Loss and Guide to Planning Ahead. A viewing table draped in velvet rested against the pillar in the middle of the room. As I scanned the options to honour pets, Kyle told me the history. The Woronchak family had lost their cat, Patches, Bichon Poodle cross, Libby, and 11-year old German shepherd, Kayla, all in less than a week. Prior to that time, they had not thought about pet cremation and from those heart-wrenching events, their silver lining was the creation of Until We Meet Again. Now in 2013, Kevin Woronchak manages Until We Meet Again, is a Certified Pet Loss Professional, is a member of the Pet Loss Professionals Alliance (PLPA) and is on the PLPA Standards and Ethics Committee, all while being a full-time North Vancouver fire fighter. Joanne Woronchak is also a Certified Pet Loss Professional, is a graduate of the University of British Columbia’s peer counselling program and also co-wrote the company’s educational booklets. “We show people as much as they want to see,” said Kyle, “there is a cremation occurring at this time, but, would you like to see the rest?” “Yes, please, thank you,” I said. My chest thumped louder as we walked towards a closed door to the right of the main door. I followed Kyle into a high-ceiling warehouse area. Polished cement floor. A warm-coloured painting on the wall. A small table with a logbook and metal tags. Chairs for resting. And two shiny chrome crematories bigger than pick-up trucks. I stood still and listened to the deep hum of the crematory. My hand sailed to my chest and rode the waves as I breathed deep. I thought of my Monty. As a police officer, I’d seen death, I’d been to a morgue. But this? This was about my dog. “Um, phew, this all just got really real,” I said to Kyle, “but, I am glad I’m here, I wanted to do this before I needed too, so I’d know what to expect.” A few seconds later, my hand returned to my side. With a soft voice, Kyle explained the transportation services (done in caskets), identification of the pet (metal tags and logbook), types of cremations (individual, communal, witnessed) and the final ashes (consisting of bone and packaged with a certificate). He answered all my questions with the right balance of scientific detail and compassion. I thanked Kyle for the tour and five-minutes later I was home hugging Monty. The peace of mind from doing this tour would be felt three years later. On January 30, 2013, due to neurological complications related to osteosarcoma, I cradled my rottweiler Monty, on the floor of my veterinarian’s back room, as he peacefully slipped away. Because of pre-planning, I knew where Monty was going next. I knew that he’d be carried out in a casket, still wrapped in his handcrafted blanket. I knew the location of Until We Meet Again and what was behind the closed doors. I knew that a private viewing and witness cremation could be scheduled for the following morning. I didn’t have to discuss this with my veterinarian in a rush. I had already decided. I could simply sit with Monty on the floor, for another forty minutes and allow the grief process to begin. The next morning, I called and spoke with Eve. “Hi, um, I had a witness viewing booked for Monty and well, um, I’m not sure I need to do that now,” I said. “Okay, well, it’s only 9:30 so you still have an hour to decide,” she said, “why don’t you sit with it and let me know later if you like.” I sat for another half hour. Did I want to go see Monty? Yes. Why was I hesitant? I was scared again. I didn’t know what to expect. My last vision of him at the veterinarian’s office was good, what would he look like this morning? “But Monty, I want to be beside you, right to the very end,” I said to his spirit. I called Eve again and said I’d come as scheduled. I arrived and without hesitation, I walked in and felt comfort in the familiar surroundings. Eve and Kevin greeted me, and after chatting a few minutes, they left to get Monty. A few minutes later, the door at the end of the hallway opened and I could see Monty lying on the velvet-covered viewing table. A blanket was draped over his lower body, his abdomen slightly swollen due to gases. He looked, beautiful. “He’s a big, handsome boy!” said Eve as they wheeled Monty closer. I stroked his floppy ears. I ran my hands over his mostly-closed eyes. I dug my hands into his soft neck fur. I squeezed his front paws, and twiddled them back and forth. I caressed that soft, underneath part right above his large metacarpal foot pad, the part I used to kiss and nuzzle. I kissed them now. I nuzzled them now. I couldn't stop squeezing his paws! “Would you like some privacy with Monty?” asked Kevin. “Actually, I’m okay, I said my good-byes to Monty yesterday, at 5 o’clock in the morning, before I got to the vet's,” I said. “I know his spirit is already gone, but it still feels really, really good to me to be here with him, right to the very end.” Kevin and Eve listened as I told them Monty’s story, from adopting him from the Vancouver shelter to his role as Dogsafe’s Chief Demonstration Dog. For half an hour, we shared and laughed. Together. “Eve, thank you so much for earlier, allowing me reflective time, I am so, so grateful that I came,” I said. “And Kevin, thank you to you and Joanne for creating this lovely space where Monty’s final time can be experienced with love and respect.” I gave each a hug and kissed Monty’s paws. “Run in Peace, my Monty.” Two days later, I picked up Monty’s ashes which will rest on my shelf until the right time to be let go. Dedicated in loving memory to my Monty. July 1, 2002 - January 30, 2013. View his In Celebration of Monty video. Thank you for reading my story. If you're not already connected, click here to receive future stories directly to your inbox or join the conversation on Facebook. Why can't you comment here? Story coming soon to explain why I've turned off the comment option. Photo of Monty by Kate Morris Photography. Photo of Until We Meet Again by Michelle Sevigny Copyright © 2013 Michelle Sevigny. 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