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Simba!
My best buddy - Simba - led an extraordinary life.
Born on August 16, 1995 in Maniwaki, Quebec, to French barking parents, Simba had overcome amazing odds to become the character that he was. He was about 6 weeks old when I met him in Gatineau, Quebec. He had gotten a ride with his brothers and sisters in the back of a half ton pickup for the trip from Maniwaki to Gatineau, about a 45 minute ride. It was a little rough, so Simba and his siblings were all a little sick on the trip. This fat little puppy waddled over to me, covered in dog slime, while the others were running around. The bonhomme who owned the dogs, petted Simba and said in his thick French accent, See, we don raise da skinny pup in Quebec, we like dem fat. I could see the affection this bonhomme had for his puppies, since Simba could barely walk, and had to rely on his waddling technique to get him to the food trough. He was obviously healthy, as he sat down, tuckered out from the stressful sleep he had in the back of the pickup. Right there, I decided he was the one for me, as he was different from the rest. Then trying to grab him, he took off... well, he didn't really take off, he tried to waddle away. So, I put a collar on him to make sure I didn't lose track of him. Finally we said goodbye to the others, and I loaded him in the back of my Festiva (yep, I admit I owned one) to go home to Ottawa.
Living in Ottawa (Nepean) was a pretty exciting time. I was in the military, and had previously spent most of my postings in field positions. Luckily Ottawa was a static posting, and I was home most every night. I was always a dog guy, and missed having one since I had joined the army. I did some research, actually read a book for a change, and decided that a retriever would be perfect. Anyone that has ever owned a retriever will tell you "if you get through the first couple of years without killing him, you will have a great friend". They weren't kidding. That guy was a chow hound. Wait... I should have capitalized that.... a "CHOW HOUND", who loved his food. Not only food... but even though he was born in Quebec, I believe he was a real Canadian (ie: he was part beaver), as anything wood related, ended up in his mouth... He wanted to chew. I came home from shiftwork a few times, very beleagured, to find the corner of my vintage 80's Oak waterbed with gnaw marks on the corner... my door frame, the broomhandle, the couch, my oak Wall Unit, and my personal favourite - he took the liberty to rip up some of my parquet floor tiles. Despite all this de-construction going on in my house, I still loved him.
My buddy and I had many great times, in our years there. He made lots of friends, and got lots of socialization (which was good for me too, as I am a pretty shy person).
More to follow!