A few years ago, on an unseasonably mild January day, I took “the girls” out for their afternoon walk. The girls are my two dogs—16-year-old Harry, a Lab/collie cross named after my mother, Elizabeth Harriet; and 11-year-old Roger, a collie/shepherd. The great thing about my Summerhill apartment is that it overlooks a park, which means I can be in green space in a matter of seconds—important if you have an older dog.
We had just stepped outside when Harry suddenly collapsed by the front walk. Due to the muscle atrophy in her hindquarters, she often took her time getting up, so I didn’t think much of it when she stayed put while Roger and I did our usual circuit around the park. But when we returned and she still hadn’t moved, I knew something was wrong. I carried her up to the apartment, put her on my bed and let her sleep. Soon her eyes became glazed and her jaw clenched, and I realized the last trumpet was sounding.
I had always known what I would do when she died. I have a farm—a restored Loyalist homestead called Cressy House—near Waupoos in Prince Edward County, where I spend big chunks of the year. When Harry’s brother Henry was hit by a car 10 years ago, I buried him in my orchard between the rows of apricot trees. Harry, whom I had adopted as a six-week-old pup, took over the position of top dog in the family. My plan was to bury her next to Henry.
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Last week, two dogs were 
My daily affirmation
My most cherished photograph
My Ojibwa bling
My childhood classic
Readers in search of relief from the heat wave will welcome this cold-blooded tale from the Star: after hitting Kim Flemming‘s 12-year-old yellow Lab with her car, a driver understandably reported the damages to her insurance company. About two months later, Flemming received a bill from State Farm Insurance for the $1,732 in damage that dog had caused. 
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