Awani Review

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Goodbye, my favorite TV buddy

If there was ever a dog who deserved his medal, it was the lovely Gaston, the lovable pug who would have celebrated his 13th birthday in September.

For years, this hairy little bastard had suffered completely separation And hundreds of hours of helium-inflated reality TV that I forced her on without her consent.

Gaston took no offense at all, on the contrary. He was snoring on my thighs receiving tons of hugs. As for the look, he growls when I get up to go to the bathroom or if I change position on the couch.

But in two seconds, bum, he was falling back into Murphy’s arms, yeah, it’s a gag, totally insensitive to Gabrielle D. Love Island who was “sentimental in feeling his feelings,” as.

One of the best TV companions of the evening, Gaston was a noisy, warm, relaxed presence. I write these sentences in the past tense with my heart breaking in two, because I had to let him go on a Friday afternoon, on a lovely spring day, his favorite season, when he could sniff each of the logs in Molson Park for hours, no kidding.

Wrapped in a fleece blanket and snugly pinned down in a dimly lit room, Gaston took his last sleep in peace and quiet, while I caressed his head and stroked his paw, which still smelled of Doritos, as always.

His large, ruined eyes slowly closed while I reminded him of how important he was in my life. He was tired, handsome wrinkly-faced Gaston. And he was in pain. As much as his passing saddens me, I know it was the right thing to do.

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Before euthanasia, which all gentlemen on adoption dread, I had taken a moment with my beloved little dog, alone, to reassure him, to tell him he was all right, that he had had a good full life, that he could go away, that he was loved, that he made Lots of happy people around him and I will never forget him.

I know, if you don’t have a pet, you’re probably saying to yourself: Come on, he’s so tough, he’s still just a dog, not a human.

You must experience a departure like my Gaston’s to realize how important these charming beasts are in our lives. My house has not been quiet for three days. It is a huge void that is emerging. I can still hear his medal ring in the hallway and the clatter of his claws on the hard floor. It’s not realistic. His fine hair, falling in clumps, still cascaded through all the rooms of the apartment, the final sign of his passage on this earth.

Stocky and burly, sort of shower bag Gaston was a young 24-pound roast pig stuck on four toothpicks.

He was a playful, comical dog who moved a lot of air, even in his final months.

He devoured his croquettes like a caveman. He was emptying his water bowl, splattering everywhere. He was snoring like a John Deere tractor, shamelessly farting, belching from eating too many potato chips, and screaming when the Uber Eats team rang at the door, not to warn me of imminent danger, but because he was hoping to get a bite. Feast.

And he always had it, how could you resist his pleading eyes, his little pink tongue hanging out, and his head tilted to the side?

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Everyone around me loved Gaston le gourmand, especially the children, with whom he was infinitely patient.

We think they are eternal, our four-legged friends.

Last year, Gaston started losing his sight and couldn’t hear well… except when I opened a bag of Cheetos in the kitchen, funny thing, there he had a robotic ear (and silky, I never got tired of petting them).

April was more difficult for Gaston. Climbing up and down the ladder became difficult. You put it on the back of old age, he would have been 13, it’s normal to have stiff joints, right?

Then, last week, Gaston stopped eating. His food bowl remained full, unheard of for such infamous gluttony. Last night he was at home, I made him Snack Cubes of sharp cheddar cheese, her favorite taste. Swallow it all. It was his last meal.

Except for the last two days, I did not suspect the seriousness of the potato disease that my little one was suffering from: a tumor on the spine that was slowly crippling him and making it difficult for him to breathe well.

The vet who checked us in, he was in pain, and I’m in tears, was perfect. At about the age of 13, Gaston reached the end of his journey. And I was ready to take the last step with him.

Loving our animals also means knowing how to let them go. I really miss him so much. Bon voyage, my sweet little baby.