I graduated from the Colorado State University Veterinary School, in June 1960. My first job as a veterinarian was as an associate in a mixed animal practice in Sidney, Montana. Rosalie and I had only been married for a little over a month. I lost her to lung cancer cradling her head in my arms as she died. We would have celebrated fifty-three years of marriage in just four months. A week before she died, we were sitting next to each other on our recliners. Not paying attention to the endless commercials that incessantly interrupted the TV program struggling to hold our interest. “Well,” she said, pulling out the nasal tube that was flowing oxygen into her nostrils, “pretty soon you’ll be able to get a dog.”
Our previous German shepherd died six years previous, and we didn’t get another dog. That was the only time in my life that I can remember being dog-less. Rosalie had developed balance problems, the aftermath of a viral encephalopathy and a brain biopsy, and we were worried that she would trip or fall over a dog. She knew I missed having a dog, and her out-of-the-blue statement was typical of her dark sense of humor. “Stop talking nonsense,” I said.
Her diagnosis came on January 4, 2012. Her oncologist explained that the average statistics for her diagnosis were survival of three to six months. With her typical quiet determination, Rosalie made it to six months, then eight, then ten and counting. She tired easily but appeared normal to everyone except me. A very private person, she didn’t want friends, or especially acquaintances, to know that she was seriously ill. Our two sons humored her, and me by pretending it was just a minor inconvenience.
My first German shepherd answered to the name, Mister. He and I found each other the summer before my second year in veterinary school. When I arrived at the breeder’s a rotund ball of fur waddled over, sat on my foot, and looked up at me as if to say, “Well boss, aren’t we going home?” I still think about Rosalie every day. I miss her. I suppose I always will.
I graduated from the Colorado State University Veterinary School, in June 1960. My first job as a veterinarian was as an associate in a mixed animal practice in Sidney, Montana. Rosalie and I had only been married for a little over a month. I lost her to lung cancer cradling her head in my arms as she died. We would have celebrated fifty-three years of marriage in just four months. A week before she died, we were sitting next to each other on our recliners. Not paying attention to the endless commercials that incessantly interrupted the TV program struggling to hold our interest. “Well,” she said, pulling out the nasal tube that was flowing oxygen into her nostrils, “pretty soon you’ll be able to get a dog.”
Our previous German shepherd died six years previous, and we didn’t get another dog. That was the only time in my life that I can remember being dog-less. Rosalie had developed balance problems, the aftermath of a viral encephalopathy and a brain biopsy, and we were worried that she would trip or fall over a dog. She knew I missed having a dog, and her out-of-the-blue statement was typical of her dark sense of humor. “Stop talking nonsense,” I said.
Her diagnosis came on January 4, 2012. Her oncologist explained that the average statistics for her diagnosis were survival of three to six months. With her typical quiet determination, Rosalie made it to six months, then eight, then ten and counting. She tired easily but appeared normal to everyone except me. A very private person, she didn’t want friends, or especially acquaintances, to know that she was seriously ill. Our two sons humored her, and me by pretending it was just a minor inconvenience.
My first German shepherd answered to the name, Mister. He and I found each other the summer before my second year in veterinary school. When I arrived at the breeder’s a rotund ball of fur waddled over, sat on my foot, and looked up at me as if to say, “Well boss, aren’t we going home?”
During the school year Mister’s home was the back seat of my car. Before I met Rosalie, all the girls I dated made a big fuss over him, but he was a regal sort and mostly ignored them. On my first date with Rosalie, when I held the car door open for her, Mister was all over her. She gave him a perfunctory pat on the head, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept nuzzling her, pushing his head under her arm and hand, begging to be petted. I twisted in the seat, ordered him to sit down and stay, and noticed that he had an erection. I decided then and there not to ignore his intuition.
I still think about Rosalie every day. I miss her. I suppose I always will.
