My collie Sunny was dying; she had developed a tumour on her leg. Some mornings I had to carry her outside so she could relieve herself. The trips to the local vet clinic were an exercise in frustration. The veterinarian was an old, crotchety man with terrible breath who cared little for animals and less for their people. When the tumour was still small he hadn’t wanted to remove it, and now it had spread and it was too late. Eventually I had him put Sunny to sleep, and he fumbled the needle so she was frightened in her last moments of life, her paws quivering against my arm, as her breath and then her heart stopped on the cold metal table. I stroked her while she was still warm and soft, the tears streaming down my face, past the corners of my mouth, down my neck to the collar of my shirt, and the man turned away, embarrassed by my emotion.

‘Do you think you’ll get another collie?’ he asked, wiping down the table once the nurse had taken Sunny’s body away. ‘I know a good breeder about twenty miles south of here.’

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

Jim was at work and the children were at school. I went home to an empty house, and it seemed as though it were an extension of myself, hollowed out inside.

Weeks later I had lunch with Jim at Cornell. We sometimes met in the dining hall during the week, we called it our lunch date, and he would tell me about work and we would watch the college students with their schoolbags and trays, flirting and laughing, guessing which ones would end up with each other. Afterwards I walked the campus; the first buds were finally on the trees and I felt the restlessness of spring in my bones. On my way to Beebe Lake I walked past the School of Veterinary Medicine as I usually did, but this time I stopped, retraced my steps and walked inside. I took an admissions booklet from a stand and a copy of their newsletter and, sitting on a bench beside the lake, I read both from cover to cover.

I didn’t notice the time and was late home so the children had to let themselves in and make their own after-school snacks, but I hardly cared. That night, as Jim and I changed into our pyjamas for bed, I told him of my plans to become a veterinarian. Cornell was one of the only schools in the country to take women as vet students. He laughed first. And when he saw I was serious he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

‘How’ll you manage that and the children, looking after the house?’ he said. ‘It’s too much, Sarah. My job is too demanding. I need you home to take care of things.’