Lover of Dalmatians and the Rest of Us

I met Don in Paris in 1995, where a group of us were doing our dissertation research. At the time I had an adorable and unruly Dalmatian named Jesse who came to love Don as much as he loved me, his owner. Maybe more. When Jesse shredded dozens of photocopies that I had made in the archives – and then urinated on them for good measure –  he ran right to Don and licked his face. When Jesse romped in the mud in a park by the Seine, Don lifted him into the bathtub and spoke softly to him, soothing his fears about his impending bath. When Jesse got sick in Paris, Don helped me bring him back and forth to the veterinarian’s offices; sometimes I could not afford a cab and the three of us would sneak onto the metro. Jesse’s health continued to deteriorate as the year went on. Sometimes Don had to carry him down the stairs. Other times Jesse was lively again, and he and Don took long walks through the streets of Paris by themselves, with Don patiently removing the paper from Jesse’s mouth that he so loved to eat off the street.

All of us graduate students left Paris early that summer and returned to our respective homes in the States. By August Jesse had died. Don was the first person I called. I told Don, don’t worry, Jesse lived well and his heart was so big. Just like Don. There are so many things I could write here, because Don’s curiosity, mischievous spirit, and irreverence were infectious, encouraging us all to live and love more boldly: he was there when I got my nose pierced; he was the first person to whom I showed any of my dissertation writing; he let me cut his hair even though I was terrible at it, because I had always dreamed of being a stylist.

And Don was never anything but kind. My love to him and all that knew him; may we all support one another.

Elisa