ABSTRACT
The first one was Rocky. He was a black-and-tan long-haired German shepherd, who went to college with me and then to graduate school. We were back in San Francisco. I was a postdoctoral fellow, and my father was visiting. When Dad and I came home after dinner, Rocky was lying on the doorstep. It was immediately clear that he was dead. He was peaceful, but he didn’t move. We both stood there and looked at him, then I went in and poured us each a glass of wine—which we never drank. We discussed what to do and, after a while, we went to sleep.
