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Gaston: April 1, 1994 – May 4, 2009 

At first, it was just his eyes I avoided. While I screened the back door on Saturday afternoon, Gaston lay inside by his water bowl, watching me. I talked to him the whole time, hoping he’d wag his tail, hoping to make him feel normal and comfortable and not so obviously old and done. I’m sure he was just looking at me because he didn’t have the strength to turn his head, or maybe because he’d spent the last 14 years looking at me and didn’t know what else to do, but being the kind of guy I am, I read something into it. I convinced myself that Gaston was trying to say goodbye. In hindsight, it’s stupid, but at the time, it was devastating. I couldn’t make eye contact after that.

By Monday morning, I couldn’t look at Gaston at all. His bony frame, his thick coat, in full shed thanks to the warm weather–just catching a glimpse of his frail body was enough to rip me apart. When we went to the vet that afternoon to have him put down, I couldn’t carry him. I wouldn’t have been able to walk. So Jonno held him right to the end, when they took him away. I managed to keep my hand on Gaston’s head during the procedure, though I didn’t actually watch. It was the best I could do.

Sometimes, Jonno’s willingness to be emotional has made me uncomfortable and angry. He’s a demonstrative kind of guy, and when you’re a demonstrative kind of guy (or girl), things don’t always come out in the right way, or at the right time or place–say, in a crowded restaurant, or an elevator. But on Monday, he was the champ.

* * * * *It’s funny how the death of others can become a selfish thing. Yes, you’re glad they’re no longer suffering, and yes, you’re sad to lose a loved one. But you’re also relieved–relieved by the closure, relieved that you can finally stop worrying and get on with your life. You also start thinking, “How many more times do I have to go through this?” and “Is it even worth it?” and possibly, “Enough of this, I’m going it alone.”

* * * * *For those who knew Gaston, you probably have an image of him in your head. Chances are good that he’s smiling and romping in it; he was one of the best-natured, friendliest dogs I’ve ever known. For those who never had the pleasure, here are a few pics.

 

 

 

I think that’s all I’ll say about it for now. Or at least for a while. I’m very thankful for the kind emails and comments, but that’s not really what I’m after. I just needed to get this down while I’m feeling it so strongly.

I miss him.

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.

There’s a movie in the works called Drag Me to Hell. This begs three questions:

• Why haven’t I heard about it? (I think I know the answer to that.)
• Who greenlighted that name?
• Can we cobble together a parody in time for October? Or should we just go with The Exorsissy?

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO THIS CRAZY BITCH IS
BUT I WANT TO KNOW
(AT LEAST, I ASSUME THIS PILE OF CRAZY IS A BITCH)

Somewhere, Gravity is huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth and sobbing, “This was NOT in my job description, Newton, you bastard! And I don’t even get full dental! I QUIT.” [GFY]

Where I Live, originally uploaded by ArtWerk

Minister Cleo Clariet and his fiancé Katherine Lane are shown singing on “The Kay Bain Show” in Tupelo, Mississippi in May or June of 2004.

And yet, so many people (who shall remain nameless) cast doubt on Mississippi’s contributions to American culture.

[via Newlin]

Jazzfest 2009

Can I just say? Most hilarious JazzFest photo I’ve seen so far. In fact, it’s hilarious with or without jazz. [via my friend Jeremy]

Fact: I hated All in the Family. Hated. I never really got Maude (too young, I guess). The Jeffersons and Good Times were mildly amusing, but paled in comparison to other sitcoms–at least for me. Still, I knew they were all related, and Bea Arthur’s death yesterday spurred me to understand how.

I half-jokingly suggested to my friend Tina that I ought to consult a flowchart. Then I half-heartedly went in search of one, but couldn’t find anything. So I built one: an All in the Family tree. I really need to find other ways to occupy my Sunday mornings.

FYI: In case you’re curious, here are links to some of the shows listed in the graphic. Knock yourself out: Till Death Do Us Part (Till Death, In Sickness and in Health, The Thoughts Of Chairman Alf at Christmas, An Audience With Alf Garnett, It Stands To Reason – The Thoughts Of Chairman Alf); All in the Family (Archie’s Bunker’s Place, Gloria, 704 Hauser, All in the Family 20th Anniversary Special); Maude (Hanging In); Good Times; The Jeffersons (Checking In).

It’s been a brutal week, but I’m alive. And although I was hauled into a work-related dinner on the night of our 12th anniversary, Jonno is still speaking to me. I consider myself lucky.

In other news, I finally finished processing all my pics from our European “vacation”. It’s an accomplishment, I suppose, though they’re nothing to write home about. If you really want to see Italy as we did–and even prettier than we did–you should check out Jonno’s shots of Venice, Florence, and Rome. Seriously.

Alright, I’m heading home, then to the gym, then to my sofa where I hope to do the gayest thing I’ve done all week: watch Valley of the Dolls and edit the screenplay into a form that’s suitable for staging. No kidding.

And so, he‘s managed to put up with me for twelve years.

It’s strange, when you reach that point in a relationship–the point at which you can’t remember not knowing them. Maybe it’s my advancing age, or maybe it’s just really hard to recall what it was like before. Either way, I don’t mind.

Anyway, for Jonno:

Originally done to Little Red Corvette, but the dance is still, um, good.