This 21. July, Anton turned eleven. I've had him since I was thirteen.
Yesterday, at 00:20 o'clock, he was put down. His stomach, from what I understand, had started twisting in on itself, and was damaging the rest of his internal organs. Even if we'd taken him to the vet sooner, if he'd gotten an operation, his chances of survival would have been miniscule.
Twenty four hours ago, he was happy, playing with my nephew and occassionally deigning to eat or drink a bit from his bowls. They're standing in the kitchen now, the water bowl still half full and the food half eaten. The sheep skin in his basket is still arranged into the fuzzy little lump he preferred it to be. There's still dog hair all over the house.
Do me a favour, okay? Hug your pet an extra time today from me.
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Sta.sh
