Flight Volunteer: How I Brought Three Dogs From Korea to Canada

(With A Detailed Step-by-Step Walkthrough And Pre-Flight Checklist For First-Time Flight Volunteers)

I brought three rescue dogs with me on my flight to Toronto as a flight volunteer.

Their presence brought me immense joy. Not only were they on their way to their forever homes, but their company also provided comfort as I read, ate, and slept during the journey. It may all be psychological – or you may call me a psycho – but I had the most peaceful sleep of my life, knowing that even if the plane goes down, I will die holding a dog in my lap.

If you’re eager to dive into the detailed flight volunteering walkthrough, feel free to click here. However, why rush past my unique experience?

My involvement with rescue dogs began as a regular volunteer with Korea’s Yongin Animal Protection Association. The organization runs a shelter holding hundreds of dogs that faced euthanasia. Local adoption for mid- and large-sized pooches are, sadly, scarce. So, these rescue dogs often find their new homes overseas in North America and Europe. So I experienced many an instance where I would walk a dog one day, only to find her disappear into an Instagram foreign lifestyle reel the following day. I watched as these dogs chewed on pancakes topped with organic maple syrup. I listened as they barked away at a fleeing Canadian racoon. Their lives transformed overnight and it was all very appetizing. It all fueled my determination to one day facilitate such a journey myself.

That opportunity arose when I planned to return home for New Year celebrations. As soon as I booked my flight, I submitted my flight volunteer application. It was a much needed mood-brightener: the sorrow of losing an arm and a leg to Air Canada was offset by the joy of imagining a dog snuggling in front of a warm fireplace.

It took me less than three minutes to complete the brief application form. I included my e-ticket number, thereby authorizing volunteers from the organization to go on an easter egg hunt for those limited live animal cargo spaces on my behalf. I also provided my passport number and my birthday. This sanctioned my approval to process the export documents needed for a dog to board an iron bird.

With those formalities sorted, I relaxed and indulged in a well-deserved glass of wine. For I knew that my canine co-passenger’s journey was now in capable hands.

The Identities of My Companions

A few days before my departure, I finally learned the identities of my travel companions. Rescue organizations typically make this decision last minute, factoring in the latest circumstances. Who from Canada has adopted which dog? Who from the shelter is old enough to travel? Pooches waiting to go home are too many. Yet, flight volunteers are too few. For our furry friends housed in the shelter, a spot on an airplane is a winning lottery ticket – it changes their lives forever.

The staff informed me that I will be travelling with three dogs: Lotte, Oso and Wendy. Oso and Lotte were both mid-sized Jindo mixes. Oso, a shiny black darling, had a simple-minded charm. He was obsessed with cleaning up any leftover lunch-time hamburger ketchup from your face. Lotte, a walnut-butter coloured cookie, was more introspective. He practiced the art of stillness in the corner of a room, turning himself invisible by not moving a single hackle for hours.

Wendy, though, stood apart. She was a small-sized dog, a rarity for our shelter. So small that she could accompany me into the flight cabin. I had met Wendy once at the shelter before she went to her foster home. And she was precious as a black pearl: she was handled with utmost care by one volunteer, passed on to another, and then a third. Her delicate legs never touched the ground.

But here’s a little-known fact about me: I am apprehensive about holding small dogs. Their legs too fragile; their personalities too strong. They can – they will – puncture your ear lobe should they decide that you look better with an earring. I dreaded as the volunteers passed Wendy around. “I should have learned Lotte’s invisible magic,” I thought. Sure enough, a volunteer, exhausted, yet not brave enough to put Wendy down on the ground, placed her in my arms. Wendy gasped, but had no choice. She was already leaning against my shoulder.

Wendy was light, weighing no more than five kilograms. Yet, she was a rock that pulled a drowning soul towards the bottom of the ocean. Wendy scanned me, assessing every inch from top to bottom; I sensed a breeze of cold air around my neck. I knew – and she knew – that I would be in big trouble if she cried. And her eyes would dampen for half a second whenever I bent down. “I know what you are trying to do,” she whispered. “So many dogs have done their business on that dirty ground. Don’t you dare to place me there.” Other dogs were bouncing around; yet, I froze, and time stopped. Wendy and I were enclosed in our own bubble, which only popped when her recess was over. One of the shelter staff rescued me by retrieving her from my arms and carrying her back inside.

And Wendy was coming with me. In the cabin.

It’s rare for a rescue group to ask flight volunteers to take a dog with them in the cabin. There are a couple reasons for this. First of all, smaller dogs – those whose carrier can fit under a seat – have better luck in finding a domestic home. Some travellers may also feel uncomfortable with a dog in the cabin under their legs. As such, dogs travelling with a flight volunteer are almost always checked in as a live animal cargo. In these cases, you can forget about the pooches until landing at your destination.

Alas, Wendy found no family in Korea. Instead, she was on her way to a loving home in Canada. And she was destined to get there with me, in the cabin.

Anticipation for the journey mixed with nerves. The nights before I flew, I dreamed up 138 ways of how Wendy could get me into trouble. I was less worried about her barking; she was not a vocal dog. But she would, without a doubt, demand to be on my lap during the flight. And when I – or more likely, ignorant airline staff who know nothing about Wendy – deny her the basic canine right to be seated on a human lap, all hell would break loose. She waited for the lights to be off, before chewing through her carrier and speeding down the aisle. She drew no attention as she helped herself to the fruit bowls and the mozzarella cheese balls. But she left behind the main course. She knew that in case someone tried to recapture her and a gunfight broke out, she would be safe hiding behind those pieces of chicken, which were sturdy as a bulletproof vest.

The rescue staff had provided me with instructions explaining all details on flight volunteering. Yet they hadn’t covered what to do in the event of a canine escape leading to a gunfight – an oversight, to say the least.

The Last Moments In Korea

The dogs and I embarked on separate journeys to the airport. Volunteers fetched the dogs from the boarding facility, where they indulged in lavish spa treatments during their final days in Korea.  Spa treatment for the flight volunteer was, regrettably, not included in the package.

The rescue staff had instructed me to arrive at the airport by 4:30pm for my 8pm Air Canada flight. This allowed ample time for processing the export paperwork at the quarantine office. As I was travelling during the lunar new year, a peak travel season in Korea, it all sounded reasonable to me. 

The 3 pm limousine bus would have taken me to the airport right on time. But rush hour traffic was so bad that even the bus was affected. Instead, I hopped onto a taxi, sharing the ride with two friendly strangers and my two large suitcases. My belongings, a full-size bag and a massive box, were so big that they took up both the trunk of the taxi and the front seat. The three of us crammed together in the back seat of the taxi. We remained silent, each worrying about being late for different reasons. The friendly strangers were anxious about missing their flight, having struggled with online check-in for their 6:30 pm departure to Vietnam. I had plenty of time, but was eager to meet the dogs. The taxi driver attempted to strike up conversations. But the air was stuffy, the people were anxious, and the traffic was slow. I drifted off to sleep within minutes.

The remainder of the journey to the airport was uneventful. With no conversation to distract him, the taxi driver delivered us to the airport right on time. Finding the quarantine office – tucked away on the departure level of Terminal 1, in a tiny alley between gate 3 and 4 – took still a few minutes. But we didn’t have to rush to complete the paperwork, as the office operated from 9am to 6pm.

(In cases where your flight times don’t align with the office hours, such as the Korean Air flight to Toronto, Korean rescue volunteers will handle the paperwork without your presence, one day prior to your flight.)

And there he was! Oso had already escaped his crate and made his way onto the airport floor tile. He caused a real havoc as soon as he saw me, licking my face clean before realizing that no ketchup was available. Lotte, on the other hand, remained steadfast in the very back of his crate. He was deep into his meditation soundtrack. Besides, no trees, no grass and no wild animals meant no fun for him.

Unlike the two mid-sized dogs, Wendy remained secured inside her soft carrier on the trolley. Wendy’s eyes sparkled as I approached. I hesitated, unsure if it was proper to take her out. Wendy begged again with her tennis-ball-sized eyes. “Please hold me,” she pleaded. “Wendy. If I hold you now, will you promise not to open the emergency exit during the flight?” She nodded, and we had a deal.

(Airport regulations stated that dogs should not be outside their crates or carriers. But in this alley, people tend to turn a blind eye as the dogs wait for their paperwork. While we didn’t have any potty accidents, we did have our pee pads ready just in case.)

The entire process at the quarantine office took no more than fifteen minutes. For each dog, I signed an export document confirming my role in transporting them from Korea to Canada. The volunteers handed me copies of documents. They taped duplicates of the documents onto the crates as backups. And in no time, we were en route to the Air Canada check-in counter. 

At check-in, I encountered unusually friendly Air Canada staff. Those who have flown with Air Canada would know that “friendly” and “Air Canada” are oxymorons. When you travel with Canada’s national carrier, you expect less-than-stellar treatment. All the same when you go through the Incheon airport security. Or at the Canadian borders. Yet, on this trip, I met the kindest Air Canada staff. The friendliest security officers. The nicest border agents. Upon reflection, I noticed that everything changed the moment when people’s eyes landed on the dogs. 

The check-in staff completed the travel procedures. Then, she weighed each dog on the conveyor belt. This included little Wendy, whose eyes popped when I placed her – now nestled back inside her carrier – on the conveyor belt. She had seen how the conveyor belt moved and bags disappeared into the unknown. “Are you mad? I am an intelligent dog that sits on laps, not those two pieces of vegetables.” But she could not make any sound. Oso, on the other hand, showed his opinion of the conveyor belt experience by approaching his kennel door and seeking affection from our friendly Air Canada check-in staff. Might she have ketchup-flavoured makeup on that day?

I signed a form declaring my understanding of the rules for flying with a dog in the cabin. I read it aloud to Wendy: “You have to be transported in a soft-sided nylon carrier. You must stay in your carrier at all times. During take off and landing and whenever the seatbelt sign is turned on, you must stay under the seat in front of me.” Learning that she had to remain in her carrier, Wendy sulked and turned her head away. 

The remainder of the procedure was familiar, if not straightforward. I dropped off my other check-in luggages and I received my boarding pass. Since we arrived early, the staff told us that we still had over an hour left before they would admit the cargo dogs. So, we decided to take the pups for a final walk, giving them one last chance to stretch their legs and use the bathroom. 

If you are a first time volunteer, or if you have duty-free shopping to do, or if you prefer to enjoy the lounge, it is entirely acceptable for you to part ways at this point. But I had nowhere to go: I had purchased my mom’s cosmetics in advance while resetting my bank account to zero. And I was not going to choose the dry Martini Lounge over the wet Oso Kisses.

We proceeded to the far end of an outdoor parking lot. Here, there was a patch of well-maintained grass, and we leashed the dogs for one last time in the country. The setting was every bit Korean – a myriad of buses and cars, subway cars passed under Oso, while planes criss-crossed above Lotte. Once in a while, an angry driver honks, triggering the two Jindo dogs to bark in response. Could the dogs sense that this is their last walk in this country? Could they smell that everything – the grass, the people, the language – would soon be so different?

Oso, and even Lotte, relished this strange environment. Wendy, though, was much more cautious. The noise unsettled her. And she did not appreciate the intimate sniffs from Oso. Now that she was outside, Wendy would rather be back in her safe hideout. As I walked forward, she gave me a cold stare, signalling for me to turn back with all her body strength.

After a brief stroll, we returned inside. We put Oso and Lotte back into their crate and gave them plenty of water for the flight. I waved goodbye, to the dogs as well as the volunteers, at the oversized baggage area. Thank you volunteers for making this so seamless. Oso, Lotte, we’ll meet again in your new home country.

Off We Go

It was only Wendy and me. She was quiet, gazing out of her carrier. Before they left us, the volunteers had administered sedatives to Wendy. She might have been feeling a bit drowsy now. Or she might be carsick from travelling on that airport trolley. In any case, we, a sleepy canine and an anxious human, proceeded towards the security check.

Among the 138 scenarios that I dreamed up, one of them played out like this. I brought Wendy out of the carrier for the security scan. As we walked past the x-ray machine, she was zapped by radioactive materials. She bit me as hard as she could and bolted for her life. There was only one place to go: under the legs of everyone. She made a dash past the security checkpoint, through immigration and towards the gates. Oh no, what should I do? Panic set in. I ran after her, ignoring all security protocols and forgetting all immigration checks. The world is ending; I don’t have time for these administrative procedures. She made her way into the Hermes store, hiding under the $12,000 scarf. I reached out to grab her but missed, pulling only the scarf along with me. The multi-thousand dollar scarf worked as a mushroom in Mario Kart. Still, Wendy was relentless. She jumped on a moving trolley, charmed the couple pushing it, and invited herself onto their flight bound for Paris. I reached for her. I missed, blocked by a pair of security guards dressed like they were ready for a catwalk down Champs-Élysées. Au revoir, Wendy.

“Sir, you need to remove the dog from the carrier,” the security officer at the X-ray machine reminded me. I looked up, and saw a bright, almost blinding beam of smile shining right at me. She was making a cute face towards Wendy.

I regained my composure. I took out my electronics, as well as Wendy for the scan. Before I had a chance to throw Wendy on the conveyor belt – Wendy would hate that – I was instructed to hold Wendy close and walk through the x-ray machine. 

This was it. Wendy, please don’t bite me.

Three steps forward. Then another five. Into the x-ray machine. Past the x-ray. We made it. Wendy, still a bit drowsy, hugged me and appreciated my embrace.

After passing through x-ray, Wendy needed to return to her carrier. But putting a dog back into her carrier while five other people stood next to you, waiting to pick up their belongings proved to be stressful. “Wendy, get in,” I whispered. Wendy had other ideas. She poked her head out of the carrier and wouldn’t budge. I attempted closing the zipper more. She still won’t yield. “Come on, Wendy, everyone is judging me. This is embarrassing,” I said. Wendy chuckled, and I managed to coax her in and slam the zipper shut. 

With Wendy back in her carrier, we advanced toward the gate. Straight into the plane. Did not pass go, did not collect the Hermes scarf. Wendy, placed under the seat in front of me, stared at me as the plane reversed out from the tarmac. “Please hold me,” she implored with her eyes already welling with tears. “No Wendy. I can’t take you out of your carrier on the plane,” I replied. “But I am scared.” “I know, but deal with it.” 

I closed my eyes, hardening my stance. 

When I awoke, the lights were dimmed and Wendy had turned away from me, fixating on the legs of the uncle in front of me instead. He had taken off his shoes and was rubbing his toes. Wendy must be suffocating by now; I felt so sorry for her that I moved her back an inch. (That’s about as much legroom as you get with Air Canada.) Here, she could sniff my shoes (themselves tainted by Oso’s saliva) instead. 

Despite the unpleasant odours, Wendy had a lie-flat bed. So while I slept (sitting up), Wendy slept. While I ate my dinner, Wendy slept. While I binge-watched Planet Earth III, tensing up over how a pack of African wild dogs – Wendy’s far-removed cousins – hunt, Wendy still slept. She didn’t have to worry while traversing the Pacific Ocean. I sat awake for much of the flight. I stared at this sleeping beauty, pondering who was having the better travel experience.

On Arrival

After what felt like an eternity, my feet finally touched solid ground. Out of the packed aircraft, I cracked open Wendy’s carrier just enough for her to poke her head out and take in her first sniff of the fresh Canadian air. I also checked to ensure Wendy hadn’t soiled herself. So far, so good. Now onto the final stretch. 

By now, it had been 14 hours since Wendy had last eaten, drunk, or relieved herself. We needed to hurry.

Before leaving Korea, I had already completed the Canadian custom paperwork. The CBSA declaration form could be completed using the ArriveCan mobile app, which will save you valuable minutes when travelling with a dog. Besides filling in your arrival date and airport, I was asked to declare if I was an alcoholic or a chain smoker (if you had exceeded your alcoholic and tobacco product duty-free allowance). It also inquired whether I was plotting an armed rebellion in Canada (I am / we are bringing into Canada firearms or other weapons). 

The one question that I answered truthfully was whether “I am bringing into Canada: Live animals / pets, meat (raw, cooked, or processed) or animal products, food or plants.” Answering yes prompted another question asking if I was sure I was bringing in live animals. The question explained: you do not need to declare nuts, mango and a range of other random products that are unhealthy for you. I assured them that Wendy, Oso and Lotte were live animals.

Upon reaching the Canadian border, I proceeded through the Express lane. There, I scanned my passport and received a printed version of my CBSA declaration form. The friendly border officer inquired what I was declaring, to which I said three dogs. She seemed poised to question further, but Wendy rolled her eyes. “Ask anymore and I will pee my pants,” Wendy said. Or at least that’s how I interpreted her look. That was how our conversation ended. 

I arrived at the luggage area with Wendy. Placing her on a trolley, I set out to reunite her with her two nemeses. Though I was sure Oso would have found amusement in riding the luggage conveyor belt, Lotte would have panicked. Thankfully, all dogs who travelled cargo class instead were directed to the oversized luggage area (outside area B at Pearson International Airport). Sure enough, Oso and Lotte emerged before any of my bags arrived. It made sense, as the airline prioritized the swift removal of live animals.

I needed a porter – the fees for handling my bags as well as the dogs were fully covered by the rescue group. Spotting a porter with another client, I asked him if he had a friend. Of course, this friendly chap had a friend. Soon enough, his friend was over with a big cart. From then on, it was a never-ending wait with 300 people for our luggage. 

While we waited, the porters – my guy, Simon; his colleague, a friendly Somalian – chatted with me.

“What breeds are these dogs?” Simon asked. “Oh they are probably Jindo mixes.” Simon glared at Oso, who, quite unlike him, tensed up. He might have sensed a trap. “Are they your dogs?” Simon pressed. “No, they are rescue dogs.” I said, recalling what the rescue staff instructed me to say. “Brother, tell people that they are your dogs,” the Somalian interjected, trying to be helpful.

From the porters, I learned that travellers who declare the dogs as personal may get a simple wave through, once the border officers checked through the papers. As for rescue dogs that were going to be transferred to another owner? They were classified as “commercial goods imports”, even if the dogs have no commercial value. This necessitated a document exchange between the airport border agent and the Canada Border Services Agency (CBSA). A person – most often from a Canadian rescue – had to be present at the CBSA office, located fifteen minutes away in Mississauga, to handle the paperwork. 

I weighed my options. The stopwatch was ticking and Wendy looked unrest. Yet, there were consequences to getting caught lying at the border, beginning with the blacklist. Once, my friend smuggled in a few pairs of overpriced boxers and got caught. He had since suffered humiliation from the border agents every time he travelled. Considering this, I decided to betray Wendy.

(A respectable rescue group would never ask you to lie. In my case, everything had been set up. I was asked to declare the dogs as rescue dogs. Paperwork, checked. Person stationed at the CBSA, checked. My task was simple: to walk across the border declaring the dogs in a truthful manner.)

I insisted on declaring the dogs as rescue dogs, to which Simon was not particularly happy with. It would create a hold-up for him. What was an even bigger hold-up, though, was the fact that my massive box did not arrive on the luggage belt. Only after a prolonged wait did I find out it also arrived in area B, where the dogs came out. Finally, I had collected all my belongings and the dogs.

Our long journey was approaching the climax. I followed Simon into the “Goods to be declared” area. He explained that it would take a while, left the dogs in his cart, passed me his phone number, and hurried off to find his next client. Oso maintained his high spirit self; Lotte remained shivering in his corner. Wendy continued to fix her gaze on me, mentally tallying the time spent away from a human lap. 

20:50. I handed over the documents for all three dogs, neatly organized into folders. The border agent reviewed the export slips and the vaccination records, while telling me to take a seat. I left Oso and Lotte by my agent’s desk as hostages. I thought she might rush through the paperwork, under the watchful eyes of two unsettled, pitiful pooches. 

But these were my last moments with Wendy. I took Wendy to a distant bench. With no one around us, I cheated by opening her carrier just enough for her to poke her head out. I thought she would be keen to explore. Instead, she laid down, not showing any interest. Perhaps she figured that she was not going to get any cuddles from me?

21:03. Thirteen minutes had elapsed, and there was no progress. Doubts were creeping in. So I messaged the support group chat room, which included Wendy’s parents and members of both Korean and the Canadian rescues. “It’s been thirteen minutes – should it take this long?” “Hmm, did the border agent fax the document over to CBSA?” “Oh, I don’t know, she was busy with something.” “We haven’t heard anything here at the CBSA office yet. Could you please ask her?”

“Did you happen to have faxed the documents over to CBSA?” I whispered to my border agent. I didn’t want to sound presumptuous. She turned away from Oso and gave me a blank stare. “What? I was supposed to?” She asked, “Do you know which form I have to fax over?”

One assumption that we had – a fair assumption if I may add – was that the officers here at Toronto Pearson International Airport would be familiar with the required procedures to admit the dogs into the country. Alas, we were wrong. The officer told me that they don’t often get commercial imports. In fact, it was her first experience. Eh. Why didn’t you ask others?

My agent and her colleagues huddled. They broke up, and then gathered again. Later, she came by asking me if anyone was paying for the dogs. I told her that a fee was charged for processing the overseas adoption, but no further exchanges were planned besides heartwarming photos of the canines settling into their new homes. The officer then drafted up a Non-Monetary General Receipt (also known as a form BSF 241). She marked, “Three commercial dogs from Korea. Entering at a value of zero.” (You should make sure that the value entered here is zero, as otherwise you may have to pay taxes.)

The border agent faxed the form to CBSA; the process had finally commenced. I informed my support group by typing out the word “fax”, after I found out that the fax machine emoji was no longer available due to its obsolescence.

21:19. I was away from Wendy for 16 minutes. By now, she did not want to have anything to do with me and wanted nothing but to land her feet on solid Canadian ground. She ignored my attempts to interact through her carrier. “How bad is the eyesight of this human? Could he not see that I would rather leave this prison?” she thought to herself. I got it. 

Under the immense pressure from Wendy, I brought her out, leashed her up, walked her, let her soil the ground, and gave her a high five. I held her in my arms, and she was so grateful that she gave me a kiss. The custom officers, amused by this, chuckled as if they had won the lottery. 

No, that did not happen. I was not going to let her run loose and board a flight to Paris. Instead, Wendy remained in her carrier while I smuggled in some food and water for her. She sighed, accepting her fate. And we sat together in silence. 

Meanwhile, Wendy’s dad informed the group that he was paying CBSA fees. 

21:26. The support group asked if I had been released. I replied in the negative.

21:28. The rescue organization responsible for the other two dogs also settled their CBSA fees.

21:35. The agent approached me and asked if I had three dogs. I said yes, gestured to Wendy, who seemed poised to unleash the hunting instincts that she shared with the African wild dogs. The officer was visibly taken aback by Wendy’s red, teary eyes. Her retreat into the agent office was swift and rapid. 

21:45. Wendy’s parents arrived at the airport. I continued to wait. Wendy refused to move.

21:57. “Philip,” my officer called out from her seat. “You are good to go.” Curious about the delay, I asked my border agent about the hold up. She explained that the CBSA office had been confused when she faxed over a form stating three dogs. They could not find any matching records because our kind rescue partners had paid for two dogs, and Wendy’s parents had paid only for one. So, my friends, here are the lessons from this story: the Canadian border may be the only place in this world that still relies on a fax machine. A very slow fax machine. And CBSA can get confused when tasked with simple arithmetic.

Volunteers from the Korean rescue also mentioned that the border agents sometimes impose an inspection fee of around $45 CAD. I inquired with my agent, and she assured me that I wouldn’t have to pay this. However, this was another area where issues or delays could arise. And if I did have to pay, this amount would, of course, be reimbursed.

Once the border agent faxed the document over to CBSA, it took 38 minutes to complete the process. This was fair, considering that Simon had told me that this procedure usually takes between 30 minutes to one hour. But now that I could finally make my exit, where was Simon when I needed him? 

22:00. Simon finally showed up. The agent took one last, lingering look at Oso and Lotte; her eyes lit up when Oso came forward for a goodbye kiss. I wondered if she slowed the process down because she didn’t want to part with these dogs? They were, without a doubt, going to be the best company she’d have for the rest of the night. And considering how generous the Tim Hortons chefs were with the ketchup on the Breakfast wrap, Oso might even be amenable to live inside the airport forever. So, here is my brilliant movie idea: “The Terminal” is a documentary film featuring Oso the dog, who licks clean the face of every traveller before they are released from the border. 

Simon escorted Oso and Lotte away from the agent, much to her dismay, which likely put a damper on the rest of her shift. I said a prayer for other passengers who were about to come through, and walked through the automatic doors into Canada.

The support group finally united by the pickup area at the airport. The remainder of the story was uneventful. I paid Simon, though I’m unsure if I overtipped him (here are the official rates, the whole amount reimbursed). I attempted one last picture with Wendy; she refused by keeping her head firmly inside the carrier. In the midst of this, I forgot to snap one last photo with Lotte and Oso. I handed off the dogs, along with their vaccination records and export certificates.

As Wendy, Lotte and Oso drove off, I was in a foul mood. I, too, would have been content to keep them all with me forever. Yet, I knew that tonight, as I fell asleep, I’d dream of their new lives. It’s the sweetest of all scenarios: Oso learning to fall in love with cleaning up maple syrup, Lotte coming out of his shell, and Wendy enjoying the embrace and the laps of her new parents.

---

---

How To Become A Flight Volunteer on the Seoul Incheon-Toronto route:

Before the day of your flight:

1. Apply to become a flight volunteer. You can usually apply online.
2. Provide the necessary documents to the rescue group. They will ask for selected personal information for booking a cargo space and processing export documents.

On the day of your flight:  

1. Meet the Korean local rescue partner at the airport, who will accompany you and help you through the process.
2. Hand over your passport to the quarantine officer, so he can proceed with the export. 
3. Once you receive the required documents, then head over to check-in. The Korean rescue volunteers will help you with bringing the dog(s).
4. The volunteers will help guide the check-in process. 
5. Once checked in, you can proceed through security as usual. 

When you arrive in Canada: 

1. On your declaration card, check “importing live animals for commercial purposes”. You can also fill out this card before arriving in Canada.
2. Proceed through the immigration counter.
3. Hire a porter.
4. Pick up your bags from the luggage belt (or large-sized area). Pick up the dogs. 
5. Exit towards the “Goods to declare” area. 
6. Ask the border agent to fax over the documents to CBSA. If the agent is in doubt, ask her to check around for more experienced agents. Failing that, the form that needs to be faxed over is the “Non-Monetary General Receipt” (BSF 241).
7. Wait for the Canadian rescue partner to pay for the dogs at CBSA. 
8. The border agent will release you when they receive the confirmation from CBSA. Pay the inspection fee, if required.
9. Proceed outside with your porter to meet the local rescue partner, who will pick up the dog(s) & documents, including the crucial vaccination records. 
10. Pay the porter.

The Flight Volunteering Checklist

Before you fly: 

1. Documents to submit at the border
2. Fee for the border (cash / card) 
3. Fee for the porter (cash / card)
4. Chatroom including members from both your origin and destination rescue
5. Know how much adoption fees are
6. Know the breed of the dogs you are bringing

Optional if bringing an animal as a carry-on

1. A small container for water and food
2. Dry snacks for the dog for the journey, but beware of the Canadian food import regulations
3. Potty pads in the unlikely event that the dog has a chance to relief himself outside

You can also download my pre-flight checklist here.