It was early morning, roughly 6:00am. I’m not normally up at that time but had been awake for awhile as the room I slept in had a window facing East with the sun filtering through its gauze curtains for at least an hour prior. It seemed to signal what would become an absolutely beautiful July day. First sight I saw in the brightness as I looked over was my wee best friend, Monty, staring up at me from his own dog bed placed beside mine. “Time for a walk”, I thought to myself. As always, he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

The park we walked through was well-familiar from my childhood but offered pleasant surprise at that early morning hour. There was a stillness as the city prepared for the day. The wildlife, however, were visible. Monty and I counted rabbits, as a lone pelican swam in solitude at an adjacent pond. What caught my eye was the dew on the grass, glistening as the slant of light from the rising sun hit at just the right angle. It’s not something a sleepyhead like myself normally gets to observe. The quiet of that July morning left me with a simple, cherished memory that I can now only reflect wistfully on. It was such a beautiful day.

This is hard to write.

I am writing this through tears and with the knowledge that I will be editing it in the future, as a few paragraphs could never truly encapsulate what he meant to me.

Monty, my best friend and the goodest good boy I have ever known, passed away on October 5. He was two-months shy of 14 years of age (or roughly ninety-four in dog years). I am completely heartbroken.

I adopted Monty two weeks after moving to a new city. After our initial introduction, I knew that we would be the best of companions … and we were. Our bond was immediate. He helped divert depression and fill the void of loneliness in traversing an unfamiliar place. And I, in turn, loved—and spoiled!—him endlessly with affection and adventure. From leading him on hikes through the scenic Rockies to Monty helping me emotionally navigate the early, unexpected loss of a parent, he was a trusted sentry in my life with the aim of keeping me protected from ills both seen and invisible.

In later years Monty lived with my mother, acting as an unofficial therapy animal for someone beginning their own new life after being widowed. While I missed him terribly, I knew that this was needed. I always felt his gentle, sweet nature was made for assisting people in times of need.

There are parks and hidden trails in my hometown that I will forever associate with his memory because of how well we travelled them.

And I know his spirit will continue walking them with me in the future.

Longevity of life is a privilege not everyone gets to experience—and it is this understanding that helps lessen the sadness I currently feel. I am so thankful for the wonderful memories I got to experience with both my grandfather and Monty. They both lived full lives well into (their respective) old age. If I brought them as much happiness as they shared with me, then we will have both lived a wonderful life.

As I reflect on their legacies, I keep returning to the idea of “presence”; the active presence they both made to be included in the lives of others. Active engagement with the world and beings around them. Active listening to others as they speak. Active, genuine affection towards their family and loved ones. Actively being there for someone when needed. We can gain personal strength from observed lessons of their character.

May they have parted this world knowing the depth of my love for them both.