It's not every day I cry reading a newspaper

...but I did today, more than once. The coverage of the funeral of Cobourg Police Constable Chris Garrett pretty much unmanned me.
Const. Garrett was a career cop of 18 years, killed in the line of duty, allegedly lured to his death by an 18-year-old kid. The punk may have committed this horrible crime in a bid for recognition and infamy. So, to show the degree of contempt and revulsion I feel, I will not write his name.
It looks like the murder was only the opening salvo in what might have been something even darker. Molotov cocktails and a bomb were found at the home of the suspect. Constable Garrett prevented further bloodshed by firing repeatedly at his fleeing attacker, wounding him even as the officer himself lay fatally wounded.
Constable Garrett was described by his colleagues in blue as a 'dedicated' officer who turned down a promotion because he felt he could better serve his community as a street cop. Local kids knew him as 'Supercop' and his exploits were legion and legendary.
Reading all this repeatedly and forcibly reminded me of my father, a cop's cop now (thankfully, in my eyes) retired. At his retirement dinner/sendoff, I told the room about the day I went 'on patrol' with him. He pulled someone over for speeding, and as he prepared to exit the cruiser, he told me 'okay, if anything happens, push this button. It'll put you in touch with North Bay. Give the cruiser number and let them know what the situation is.'
Until that point (and I was well past my twentieth year), it had never really hit me, right down there at heart level, that what my dad did for a living was dangerous. It had never really sunk in all the way that there were people out there who hate cops, who are prepared to kill cops. Much less did I imagine that such people could surface on a routine speeding stop (as might have been with my dad), or that a 911 call to report a robbery might not be what it appears (in Constable Garrett's case).
Police officers have their own ways of dealing with the kind of daily stress that would immobilize lesser people. They joke. My dad was and is a master at it. I believe he thought his day wasn't complete until he had caused someone to piss themselves laughing. (Or shit their pants when the cruiser careened wildly "out of control" towards them, after which point DAD would piss himself laughing.) After eighteen years on the beat, I suspect Chris Garrett had something of this sense of humour, too.
But in examining the lives of two cops, one whose life was cut tragically short, you keep butting up most of all against their love of service and their love of community. Heroes, both. Heroes, all.
Constable Chris Garrett leaves behind a widow, two children, and a world that mourns his loss.