If there is a dog that deserved his medal, it is my beautiful Gaston, an endearing pug who would have celebrated his 13th birthday in September.
For years, this hairy little rascal has endured the entirety of The breakaway and hundreds of hours of helium-blown reality TV that I forced on her without her consent.
Gaston did not take offense at all, on the contrary. He was snoring on my thighs receiving tons of hugs. For the form, he growled when I got up to go to the bathroom or if I changed position on the sofa.
But in two seconds, boom, he was falling back into Murphy’s arms, yes, it’s a gag, completely insensitive to Gabriele de the island of love who’s been “emotional in feeling his emotions,” like.
Gaston was the best of the best TV evening companions, a comforting presence that was both loud and warm. I write these sentences in the past tense with my heart breaking in two, because I had to let him go on Friday afternoon, on a beautiful spring day, his favorite season, when he could sniff each of the tree trunks in the Molson Park for hours, no kidding.
Wrapped up in a fleece blanket and comfortably installed in a dimly lit room, Gaston took his last sleep in peace and quiet, while I stroked his head and stroked his paw, which still smelled of Doritos, as always. .
His large, beady eyes slowly closed as I reminded him of how important he had been in my life. He was tired, my handsome Gaston with the wrinkled face. And he was in pain. As much as his departure saddens me, I know it was the right thing to do.
Before euthanasia, which all masters dread upon adoption, I had also taken a moment with my beloved little pug, alone, to reassure him, to tell him that it was OK, that he had had a good full life, that he could go away, that he had been loved, that he had made many happy people around him and that I would never forget him.
I know, if you don’t have a pet, you’re probably saying to yourself: come on, he’s so intense, he’s still just a dog, not a human being.
You have to experience a departure like that of my Gaston to realize how important these charming beasts are in our lives. My house has never been so quiet for three days. It’s a huge void that sets in. I can still hear his medal tinkling in the hallway and the clatter of his claws on the hardwood floor. It’s unreal. His soft hair, which he was losing in lumps, still rolls in all the rooms of the apartment, the ultimate sign of his passage on this Earth.
Stocky and burly, a sort of showerbag canine, Gaston was a small 24-pound roast pig stuck on four toothpicks.
He was a playful, comical pooch who moved a lot of air, even in his final months.
He devoured his croquettes like a caveman. He was emptying his bowl of water, splashing everywhere. He snored like a John Deere tractor, farted shamelessly, burped from eating too many potato chips, and yelped when the Uber Eats rang at the door, not to warn me of immediate danger, but because he hoped to get a bite out. of the feast.
And he always got it, how could you resist his pleading eyes, his little pink tongue hanging out and his head tilted to the side?
Around me, everyone adored Gaston le gourmand, especially the children, with whom he was infinitely patient.
We think they are eternal, our four-legged friends.
In the last year, Gaston was starting to lose his sight and couldn’t hear very well… except when a bag of Cheetos opened in the kitchen, it’s funny, there he had a bionic ear (and silky, I don’t I never got tired of petting them).
The month of April was more difficult for Gaston. The stairs became difficult to go up and down. I put it on the back of old age, he was going to turn 13, it’s normal to have stiffness in the joints, isn’t it?
Then, last week, Gaston stopped eating. His food bowl remained full, unheard of for this notorious glutton. The last night he was home, I made him a snack cubes of sharp cheddar, her favorite treat. He swallowed it all. It was his last meal.
Except for the last two days, I hadn’t suspected the seriousness of my little love potato’s illness: a tumor in the spine, which was slowly paralyzing him and making it even harder for him to breathe well.
The veterinarian who received us, him in pain, me in tears, was perfect. At almost 13 years old, Gaston had come to 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 already miss him terribly. Bon voyage, my sweet little baby.