Its tongue glows as well, although it is not visible most of the time. The Neon Glyptodon glows light blue on the spots on its head and shell, the edge of its shell, tail, and feet. Here are the tricks the Glyptodon learns in order: When players hold the Glyptodon, it will draw its head into its shell and its face will be hidden unless the player zooms in. There are white spikes on the shell's edge and the tail. It has blue spots on the top of its head and shell, which is mostly pink with a blue edge. Maybe if she could stay alive for the next hour, I could run out and buy her whatever she wanted to eat.The Glyptodon features a pet that has a bright pink body, black eyes, and a white underbelly, feet, ears, and tail. I wanted to know if we could keep Kahlua alive for just one more day - enough to experience all the joys she brought to our lives once again. I regretted not allowing her to sleep on our bed. I regretted not giving her those table scraps or a piece of the hamburger we ate the other evening. The realization that Kahlua might not be coming home with us made me aware that my memories of her were also lasts: we had our last walk in the summer, the last time I picked up her poop, the last meal she ate, the last cuddle we had while watching TV. I could tell from her eyes that she was scared and in pain. I desperately wanted to ask Kahlua what she wanted, but she didn't understand what was happening. We weighed the financial cost of prolonging her life for the three-to-eight months the vet said she had left against the quality of life she would have. We listened to the vet explain the different options. These memories rushed through my mind as we contemplated what the vet had said - that we might need to euthanize her. (Submitted by Alan Han)Īs I sat in the vet's office that night, I remembered the sound of Kahlua's footsteps on our floorboards, the feel of the fur on her chest and how her nose felt wet on my cheek. We went for long walks during the summer, and we scooped them up when the snow became too thick.Īlan Han, left, and his partner adopted Precious and Kahlua in 2020. After work, my partner and I snuggled with them while watching Netflix. It didn't take long for our routine to set in. Kahlua was a nine-year-old, brown-haired, 15-pound Chihuahua with a grumpy face, but a sweet and gentle personality. Both dogs had been surrendered to the humane society in Florida when their owner became too sick to care for them. We had adopted Kahlua and her sister, Precious, during the height of the pandemic. Within 30 minutes of arriving, the vet told us she had congestive heart failure.Īs I looked into her trusting brown eyes, my face felt like a damp piece of paper - an origami of sadness - that I couldn't flatten without seeing the creases and folds of my anguish. We rushed to the emergency animal hospital in Scarborough, Ont. Kahlua seemed healthy until we suddenly noticed her breathing became laboured. I felt helpless as I watched my adopted rescue dog, Kahlua, lay on the vet's counter struggling to breathe. When the vet said, "I'm worried about her," I welled up and felt every inch of my face scrunch up with uncontrollable grief. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. This First Person column is the experience of Alan Han, an avid dog lover who lives in Toronto.
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