“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.

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Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at [email protected] ... I love getting surprise emails.  
Photos by Me. 

​

When I see a spider in my apartment, if I’m not propelled out the front door like a two-year-old visiting Santa Claus for the first time, I smash it.

It’s not the daddy longlegs that are scary; it’s the haven’t-shaved-the-legs in four months type. I was once evacuated for seven hours until a boyfriend could hunt down and kill the spider barricaded in my living room.

it doens't matter that I think of myself as a compassionate animal-lover. Squash! it doesn't matter that I know this is a completely irrational fear. Smush! Note: sturdy flip-flops work best.

Over the past two months, spiders have crawled up the drain and into my bathtub. I found one in my kitchen sink. 
It happened again yesterday. I reached over the tub’s edge to turn on the water for a shower – something moved. I jumped back and collapsed onto my toilet.

“C’mon, enough already!” I yelled.

And I thought of the quote I read on One Moment One Life from Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron: “Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know."

“Okay, fine, what-EV-ER!” I screamed at the black spider eye-balling me from my beige, steel tub.

I belly-breathed. Twice.  And I thought of how Tosha Silver told a spider on her ceiling how scared she was of it.

“Ok, spider, I’m really, really freaked out right now, but hey, you must be too, so help me out and we’ll get you outside, okay?” I said.

Not bad. I felt only 83% silly.

I grabbed the lid off a cardboard box and held it close. The spider side-stepped into the box and sprinted for my hand holding the opposite corner.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I said as I dropped the lid into the tub.

I grabbed at my constricting chest but I was already naked -- physically and emotionally -- in this battle with my 8-legged component. I put on my white, polka-dotted pajamas.

And a pair of pink plaid rubber boots.

I peered over the edge of the tub and saw him (he’s a him now?) hunkered in the back corner. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment to grab the machete from under his furry cloak and --

 He's scared. 

"Yeah? Well, me too!" I said.

Is the outside door open? Check. Hey, it’s raining outside. Why don’t I just smash him then?  I’ll just grab my flip--

Where is he? I lift the lid an inch. He’s not in the tub, so he must be on the underside of the lid, crawling stealth, like a balaclava-wearing SWAT team member, going in for the atta-- I drop the lid. When I look back through squinty eyes, he was strutting in plain-view down the middle of the lid.

I let out a low scream that sounded like the first ten seconds of a 1950’s ambulance siren, and slapped a hand over my mouth.

All I know is that I cannot drop the box lid before I get outside. At least in the tub, he’s contained but on my laminate floors, he could disappear and come out later, when I’m in bed, crawl across my body, up into my hair and --

Okay, let’s practice. Can I lift the cardboard lid and hold it without him running around? Him, again? Alright, name him then. The Who’s “Boris the Spider”? Too ominous. I need a warm and fuzzy name.

Boo-Boo Kitty!

This is the nickname my sister uses for her fearful rottweiler/shepherd when he growls at other dogs. It projects innocence and helps calm the situation.

“Okay, spider, I mean, Boo-Boo Kitty. I know you’re scared of me, so let’s work together to get you outside, okay Boo-Boo Kitty?”

Like a well-trained dog, he climbs up over the edge on the far side. It’s those damn legs. A black bug of the same size would be easier (I think). But this guy’s legs are already bent and spring-loaded.

I know fears get worse with time. I should just grab the box lid and run outside.

Okay, go! Go!

I can’t!!

Breathe. 

I need something for distance, to grab the box.

A pair of tongs!

I searched my cutlery drawer, my office desk, my bedroom closet and my sock drawer. No tongs. I’m committed to getting this spider outside and needed to think outside the box. Literally.

A fine mesh strainer? Nope, when it lays flat there is an escape gap. A mason jar? Nope, I’d have to be too close to get the lid on. Can I lure Boo-Boo Kitty with a treat -- Raisins? Sunflower seeds? Honey?
 
He’s contained in my bathtub, I have time to think. Wait. Contained? Slippery tub? Yes! A plastic storage bin! I grabbed one and dumped the contents onto my couch.

“Boo-Boo Kitty?”

As my heart thumped, I kicked the cardboard lid with my boot. Nothing. I flipped the cardboard lid with a pen and it landed flat. Did I squash him? Has he gone back down the drain?

There he is!! There he is!! On the corner of the lid!!

I grabbed the lid on the opposite side and banged it on the tub. He fell off and ran to the back of the tub. I threw the lid into the hallway.

I was on a roll.

I grabbed the plastic bin, and held it up against his body. He tried to run. I think I broke his leg. It was flat and long -- uncoiled.   

“So sorry, Boo-Boo Kitty.” I whispered. Our heartbeats slowed. We held our breath. And waited.

He stepped backwards onto the corner of the plastic bin. I tapped the the bin and he slid to the bottom. I snapped the lid shut, carried him through my apartment, out to the deck, opened the lid, turned it upside down and released the spider.

“Thanks for the lesson,” I said as I closed my patio door.

And locked it.



Photo by David-O
Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at [email protected] ... I love getting surprise emails. ​

​     The warble sounded on the police radio to indicate a serious incident -- attempt suicide. I listened to the call that was happening in a different part of the city that I worked. “The witness is saying that this woman is yelling that she wants to die,” said the dispatcher. “She is described as a white female, 54 years of age, approximately 5’4” and 120 pounds, bleached blonde hair and goes by the name of Corley.”  

     I turned off my police radio. Corley was known to police – impaired driving, assaults, mental health, public disturbances – and I knew her too. But I knew her by another name.

       I knew her as mom.

     I didn’t always ignore my mom’s pleas for help. In the early 1970’s, it was a normal childhood with hard-working parents. Didn’t every nine-year-old get dropped off at Safeway with a blank cheque?

     Things changed when I got to high school in the 1980’s.

     My mom split her time between launching the first indoor tanning salon and sleeping on the family room couch – unshowered and in that damn purple housecoat -- for months at a time. I didn’t bring friends home. If we talked, we fought.

     But I didn’t understand depression then.

     I don’t remember “I Love You’s”. I don’t remember hugs. But I also didn’t hear “be careful” or “you can’t do that” which allowed for fearless exploration. “Hey mom, can I teach myself how to drive a standard in your courtesy car?” “Sure,” she said. “Hey mom, Deb and I are going to Puerto Vallarta for spring break.” I said. “Ok,” she said.

     Things got normal again while I was at university in the early 1990’s, and we became roommates in a downtown 2-bedroom apartment. I saw prescription bottles but didn’t know why she was taking medications. She taught me how to run and joined me in my first 10K race. She introduced me to a vegan diet. We road tripped in her Volkswagen convertible and watched the stars in Utah’s Red Rock Canyon at midnight.

     I loved how she overruled David Lee Roth’s ‘I-I-I-I Ain’t Got No-bo-dy” and sang “I-I-I-I Got Some-bo-dy”.

     After I graduated, we became partners in a health and fitness business and I started to see mood fluctuations. I couldn’t keep up with her disjointed, racing thoughts and after two years, I moved out and left the business. But not before she racked up $10,000 in company bills that I later paid personally.  

     Then she started to drink.

     I didn’t understand what was going on but I tried to help. I picked her up at the police station. At every hospital emergency room. I loaned her money. I cleaned vomit from her bathtub.

     But after five years, my help wasn’t helping. So I distanced myself – maybe too much. I was sad when she lost her apartment, her business, her beloved sailboat. But I kept saying no. Even when an emergency room nurse said, “what kind of daughter are you, you won't pick up your mom?”

     The worst kind I guess, but I don’t know what else to do.   

     In 1998, I decided to become a police officer. “Michelle, you’ll make a great cop,” she said but I created more distance.

     “Mom, if you get in trouble with police, don’t you dare tell anybody who I am,” I said. She promised.

     And she did become known to police. Our uncommon surname had many officers asking if I knew her. “That Corley is nuts, are you actually related to her?” asked one officer.

I said no.

In October 2004, I accepted an invitation to work a temporary position in Car 87, a partnership program between Vancouver Police and Vancouver Coastal Health Authority. I almost didn’t take it. I wanted drug squad. But I was ready for a change and said yes. A three month assignment turned into four years.

My partners were psychiatric nurses and we responded to mental health incidents throughout the city. Crystal meth-induced hallucinations. Suicides. Self-harm due to alcohol. Schizophrenia. Delusional behaviour. And, bi-polar disorder. I spoke to hundreds of people with bi-polar disorder. I spoke to their families. I had meetings with mental health workers. I interviewed psychiatrists.

And I started to understand.

But for the next few years, I still drove by when I saw her on the streets. Once, I saw her causing a scene at our station’s public information counter, I ducked into a back stairwell.

In the last year of my assignment, we spoke with a woman who was on the verge of a crisis. When we asked about family supports she opened a drawer and pulled out a photo of a uniformed RCMP officer. “I have a son. I’m very proud of him but he’s told me not to tell you about him.”

The next time I saw her on the corner of Main Street and Gore, I stopped. “Hi Michelle!” she said as she ran across the street to my police car. I knew my partner would wonder why I ignored safety and chatted to a person on the street through an open window. “Who was that?” he asked after I drove away. “That was my mom”.

After that, whenever I saw my mom, I stopped and we'd chat. But I learned how to keep boundaries. “Okay, you can come over to my house, but you can only stay one hour and I won’t let you in with that wine bottle.” “Oh, you are a good cop,” she said and we’d both laugh.  

My mom no longer asked for money. She no longer asked for favors. She was always smiling. She had friends all over the Downtown Eastside. She still drank but, “the drinking binges get shorter and shorter and the sober times get longer and longer,” she said.

My mom’s medications helped stabilize her moods. She started sailing again. I was proud of her when she was part of a 6-person crew to Hawaii.

In 2005, I told her I wanted to leave policing and start a dog training business. “You’re brilliant, go for it,” she said. The next time I saw her she gave me a dog training book that she bought at a garage sale for a dollar.
I still have that book.
And later in the fall, I met my mom at 7th and Alberta Street. It was sunny. We sat on a park bench and watched dogs play. I told her about my boyfriend and asked why she never had a steady one after her divorce. “I’d love to be in a relationship, but I love my independence too. I want him to have his own sailboat, so we can sail side by side, together,” she said. Having joked to friends about wanting a husband who lived in his own apartment down the hall, I finally felt it.

I was my mother’s daughter.

On January 4, 2006, I resigned from the Vancouver Police Department.

Twenty-two days later she was killed in a road accident. She was 58.

Being the ever optimist, I almost heard her say, “but hey, I was cycling in Mazatlan, what better way to go!”

I am now forty-three. I still eat a vegetarian diet and have a positive body image. I believe I can do anything (mostly). I am glass half-full girl. I love adventurous travel and Stanley Park is still my favorite place to run.

And I strongly believe that behind every person is a story worth knowing.
​
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For information on mental health, please see the Canadian Mental Health Association
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Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at [email protected] ... I love getting surprise emails.