James Michael Fitzgerald obituary photo
 
In Memory of

James Michael Fitzgerald

August 26, 1944 - May 18, 2017

Obituary


Dr. Dawg Fitzgerald, critter doc extraordinaire, self-proclaimed heir to the Duchy of Dublin (and apparently, the Blarney Stone), bacon aficionado, and Pink Floyd devotee, took off for the Great Gig in the Sky on Thursday, May 18, 2017. He left behind his loving and infinitely patient wife Jeanne, with whom he was instantly smitten in 1972 when he first glimpsed her with her first-grade students gathered about her feet for their science lesson, a vision of splendor with a python draped around her neck. He bewitched her with Mai Tais at Bali Ha'i, and won...

Dr. Dawg Fitzgerald, critter doc extraordinaire, self-proclaimed heir to the Duchy of Dublin (and apparently, the Blarney Stone), bacon aficionado, and Pink Floyd devotee, took off for the Great Gig in the Sky on Thursday, May 18, 2017. He left behind his loving and infinitely patient wife Jeanne, with whom he was instantly smitten in 1972 when he first glimpsed her with her first-grade students gathered about her feet for their science lesson, a vision of splendor with a python draped around her neck. He bewitched her with Mai Tais at Bali Ha'i, and won her for the next 45 years. He has three captivating children, Kiara, Sean, and Jesse, and four naturally irresistible grandchildren, Jesse Jr, Josh, Rachael, and Naomi, whom he taught the secrets of perfectly barbecued shrimp, the indisputable greatness of Star Wars, the simple joys of being a bit of a firebug, the deep and abiding love of all things with four legs and fur, and the power of approaching life with humor and a willingness to show it the middle finger when warranted. He loved every word ever written by Frank Herbert, harnessing the fury of Mother Nature to clean his pool deck with Comet during tropical storms, explaining to children in his clinic (also known as the Driftwood Clinic for the Chronically Bewildered) why all dogs DO go to heaven no matter what the nuns say, and penning Tom Turkey stories for his kids and spontaneous love poems for his bride. He despised neckties and any other semblance of formality, commie pinko liberal agendas, the slightest whiff of blue cheese, and any form of pretension. Anyone who ever had the pleasure of meeting the man will know his greatest enjoyment in life was regaling an audience with stories (and you could be certain that 50% of every one was true -- you just never knew which 50%), and he would be delighted if y'all and yamamma'n'em would pass by Lakelawn Metairie Thursday, May 25 at 11 am to visit and re-tell the stories he can no longer tell, followed by a celebratory mass beginning at 1 pm.