I struggle for words as I attempt to grapple with the death of Dr. Jim Laurita. I knew Dr. Jim for more than 20 years, having met him when I was a kid and he joined the practice at the Camden Hospital for Animals alongside Vic Steinglass. I entertained aspirations of veterinary school in those days, and Jim did everything he could to inspire and nurture my passion for animals and interest in veterinary medicine, which no doubt required a great deal of patience and good humor on his part.

I recall many days shadowing him at the animal hospital, watching as he performed routine surgeries and exams. He would narrate as he worked, always with a gentle competence that I would later learn is not a trait common to all veterinarians; rather, it was unique to this man — an innate expression of his genuine love of his patients and interest in their well being.

Jim traveled to our Camden farmhouse for calls on more than one occasion, most notably to euthanize my dad's old Pyrenees dog, Fog, after she wandered off into the woods, signaling that the end of her life was near.

My father retrieved his big old dog in the bucket of our John Deere tractor, where she lay complacently on a tatty blanket. A farm dog all her life, I cannot recall a time Fog ever came inside the house. Jim's compassion allowed her to leave this world on the soft grass of our front lawn, as all of us — my brothers and I were just children at the time — stroked her thick, white coat.

I remember riding in my mother's car with a barn cat called Stormy packed in a cardboard cat carrier on my lap. Another animal accustomed to outdoor living, Stormy had all but destroyed the box during the two-mile pilgrimage to the Camden Hospital for Animals. The cat had literally fought tooth and nail, and my bloodied hands were evidence.

Talking softly to the cat as he plucked her from the ruins of the cardboard prison in a swift, bear hug sort of way, he tucked her into a proper kennel and turned his attention to my wounds. The novelty of being patched up by the vet mitigated any pain and soon Jim and I were both laughing uproariously.

My relationship as a client of Jim's continued after I adopted my dog, Noa, eight years ago from the (then) Camden-Rockport Animal Rescue League.

Mistrusting of some, Noa always gravitated toward Jim. Through brushes with porcupines (one requiring anesthesia and, as Jim put it the removal of "a lawn of quills" from Noa's mouth and throat, vaccinations and various minor ailments Noa's adoration of Jim never wavered. To date he grows excited when we pass the Camden Hospital for Animals in the car. When I heard about Jim's death I immediately thought of Noa, lying peacefully at my feet in a patch of morning sun and how devastated he would be if he knew. Maybe, in his own way, he does.

Throughout the years, Jim always talked about his true passion: Pachyderms. I even vaguely (and perhaps incorrectly) remember him adopting a horse to fill the void that only a large animal could occupy. In 2012, when Hope Elephants came to fruition I remember thinking, "damn, he really did it."

I wasn't —not for a moment —surprised.

Jim possessed a rare combination of vision, knowledge and enthusiasm, and he was remarkably intuitive. I believe that his ease with all creatures enabled him to teach humans to better understand their pets, not a single visit to Jim's office commenced without him kneeling on the exam room floor playing nonchalantly with my dog after the conclusion of whatever procedure had been performed.

I realize as I write this that I could go on and on. This is not the place or time, nor do I have the constitution at this moment.

My heart aches for Jim's family, for the community at large and for the myriad of creatures, great and small, whose lives intersected with his in some way. We are all better for it.

Jenna Lookner lives in Camden.