Gaston stopped eating on Friday.
That in itself isn’t unusual. For the past few months–maybe a year–he’s chosen to skip meals now and then. His teeth are bad, and even with soft food, eating isn’t easy, so I guess sometimes he’d rather go hungry than deal with the discomfort of dinner.
But this is different. He’s never gone this long before. Jonno and I puts plates of food up to his mouth, and he just turns his head. He’s listless and skeletal. Even if he wanted to eat, I’m not sure he’d have the strength.
Gaston has lived a full life. I mean, he’s 15. He’s survived three moves, a cantankerous cat, three other dogs, countless escapes from our backyard, road trips, and hurricane evacuations, including a six-week stay in Lafayette after Katrina. And that’s to say nothing of the long, hot New Orleans summers he’s endured–no small feat in that thick, Corgi-like coat.
But of course, that’s not much comfort to me or to Jonno. Making it harder is the fact that he’s just barely hanging on. Seeing Gaston there on the floor, unable to move but still conscious, still able to look up at me with those big, brown eyes…. Well, I’ve always been a sucker for big brown eyes.
I’ve known this was coming for a while, but I’d hoped it might be quicker. I walk into the kitchen to check on him every ten minutes or so, and if it looks like he’s not breathing, my heart sinks, stops. Gaston doesn’t seem to be in pain, but I know he’s not comfortable. I’ve called the vet and asked him to come by tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be able to help.