Gip Allen Robertson

Dr. Gip Allen Robertson, DVM, age 69, left this life on May 16th 2024 to be in heaven with God our Savior. He will resume a wonderful relationship with his mother, Patsy Robertson, and his grandparents, Gip I. Robertson Sr. & Margaret Robertson.

He was an accomplished veterinarian in practice for 32 years and always exhibited a genuine love for animals along with sympathy and respect for their owners. Gip Allen was an accomplished ballroom dancer, winning many trophies and perfecting many difficult routines.

Gip Allen was an avid hunter from a very early age (18 months), pursuing deer, ducks, quail, pheasants, geese, squirrels, rabbits, & turkeys. He was also a superb marksman and an exquisite fisherman, pursuing that endeavor until three years before Parkinson’s Disease took its toll.

He is survived by his son Daniel Robertson (wife Catherine), his sister Diane Hum (husband Bruce), and his father Gip I. Robertson Jr. He was preceded by his mother, Patsy Robertson, and his grandparents, Gip I. Robertson Sr. & Margaret Robertson, Joe & Catheron Faver, and Louis & Martha Mashburn.

He was a lifetime Catholic and member of Immaculate Heart of Mary Church in Marche.

Visitation and the Rosary will begin at Immaculate Heart of Mary at 9:30 a.m. on Tuesday, May 21st, followed by a funeral Mass at 11:00 a.m. May God bless and keep him.

A Special Tribute to Dr. Gip Allen Robertson. By son, Daniel Robertson.

This past Thursday May 16, 2024, my father's 30+ year struggle with Parkinson’s disease came to an end.

I was probably only 4 or 5 years old when he was diagnosed with it and over time watched it, over time, take so much from him.

He was a veterinarian with a successful practice. He would go well beyond expectations as he took the most sick dogs and cats home with him to care for overnight, staying up all night sometimes, and doing what he could to help them.

When I was young, he was incredibly athletic, agile, and acrobatic. From the perspective of a terribly acrophobic child, he had no fear of heights and had incredible balance. I remember him doing things like walking around on rafters as we worked on houses or walking on the edge of an aluminum boat as it turned on its side and rocked in the waves. Only a few years ago however just walking on flat ground became a challenge, as his mind would decide to go, only for his feet to refuse him, resulting in him falling over.

He loved the outdoors and instilled that love in me. He was a great fisherman and hunter. It seemed like he always caught the most fish on any trip we took. He was also an incredible shot with nonchalant reflexes that left those around him impressed. The way he would casually make a difficult shot, hitting some fast-moving game animal that I didn’t even see coming left me with that special pride mixed with awe and aspiration a child has for their father; that, “wow, that’s my dad” feeling.

He loved to dance and was a great dancer. For years, he competed in, and won, many ballroom dance competitions. There was one hall in our house that was lined from top to bottom all the way down, with plaques and trophies from his many awards and accomplishments. (I wish I had learned more of that from him rather than being a sullen teenager and being embarrassed about dancing) Looking back at pictures throughout his life, his biggest grins were in his dance pictures.

All of this and more was taken from him too soon because of the progression of his disease. Yet he never complained. I never once heard him complain about not being able to do something he loved, or anything for that matter. He never used his disease as an excuse to not do something or not try something. He went from being (unfairly) good at everything he did to, failing and falling, and to eventually not being able to do various things at all. But he never complained. I guess that’s a lesson to be learned about truly loving the journey.

A journey will have pain and failure. It is not only the steps forward that we must accept. It is the stumbles, the trials, the knowledge that we will fail, that we will hurt ourselves and those around us.

But if we stop, if we accept the person we are when we fall, the journey ends. That failure becomes our destination. To love the journey is to accept no such end. I have found, through painful experience, that the most important step a person can take is always the next one.

If we must fall, we should rise each time a better person.

I had the incredible fortune to be with him as he took his final breaths and passed from this life to the next.

It was one of the most meaningful but also painful experiences of my life. But growing up is all about getting hurt. And then getting over it. You hurt. You recover. You move on. Odds are pretty good you're just going to get hurt again. But each time, you learn something.

Each time, you come out of it a little stronger, and at some point you realize that there are more flavors of pain than coffee. There's the little empty pain of leaving something behind - graduating, taking the next step forward, walking out of something familiar and safe into the unknown. There's the big, whirling pain of life upending all of your plans and expectations. There's the sharp little pains of failure, and the more obscure aches of successes that didn't quite give you what you thought they would. There are the vicious, stabbing pains of hopes being torn up. The sweet little pains of finding others, giving them your love, and taking joy in their life they grow and learn. There's the steady pain of empathy that you shrug off so you can stand beside a wounded loved one and help them bear their burdens.

And if you're very, very lucky, there are a very few blazing hot little pains you feel when you realized that you are standing in a moment of utter perfection, an instant of triumph, or happiness, or mirth which at the same time cannot possibly last - and yet will remain with you for life.

Everyone is down on pain, because they forget something important about it: Pain is for the living. Only the dead don't feel it.

Pain is a part of life. Sometimes it's a big part, and sometimes it isn't, but either way, it's a part of the big puzzle, the deep music, the great game. Pain does two things: It teaches you and tells you that you're alive. Then it passes away and leaves you changed. It leaves you wiser, sometimes. Sometimes it leaves you stronger. Either way, pain leaves its mark, and everything important that will ever happen to you in life is going to involve it in one degree or another.

While ours is to bear the pain of continuing on without a cherished companion, though baird, with equanimity, my father’s pain, and at least this part of his journey are through.

While I got to be with my father as he passed, everyone truly dies alone. That's what it is. It's a door. It's one person wide. When you go through it, you do it alone. But it doesn't mean you've got to be alone before you go through the door. And I’m sure he won’t be alone on the other side.

I love you and will miss you until I see you on the other side.

A Special Tribute to Dr. Gip Allen Robertson. By sister, Diane Hum.

A look back at my brother’s life.

You may know him as Gip, Dr. Gip or Dr. Robertson. You might think of him as Gip’s son, Daniel’s Dad, an uncle, cousin, neighbor or friend. You may even think of him as your pet’s veterinarian. But to our immediate family he has always been Gip Allen.

I could talk about the last few years of his life and how Parkinson’s disease took everything; his mobility, his career, his freedom, two places he called home, and eventually his life, but that does not do him justice. He fought this disease with dignity and grace and I would rather share with you the person I knew as my big brother.

We are two and a half years apart and my earliest memories involve living in a duplex in Little Rock behind the state capitol. All my memories there have Gip Allen in them. I remember jumping on the bed, playing in the yard, and playing with kids across the street. I remember Mother walking us down the hill to take Daddy his lunch or taking us to the duck pond on the state capitol grounds. But I mostly remember moving from there to our new home in North Little Rock.

Our home in Park Hill is where our bond as brother and sister really came to life. We had woods both in front of and behind our house. Gip Allen and I loved to get up before sunrise to go outside and play. The only rules were to be home for breakfast and don’t wake up the neighbors. Which meant, don’t make their dogs bark and wake them. So we played in the woods, exploring, building forts, shooting BB guns, and climbing our beloved pear tree. We played with our neighbors and they were like family as well as Gip Allen’s best friends.

As a student Gip Allen was never really happy about school. It took too much time away from what he wanted to be doing. He begrudgingly went through elementary school, tolerated one year at Ridgeroad, and survived three years at Catholic High. But, outside of school he loved hunting and fishing with Daddy. They spent countless weekends hunting and fishing together. He loved the camping we did as a family. Our second home was a homemade pop-up camper. We camped at lakes, streams and rivers all over Arkansas and many other places. Every summer we took a family vacation. We went to theme parks, beaches, deep sea fishing, Colorado, and anywhere else Mother came up with to visit. Gip Allen was very happy playing neighborhood baseball or flag football or riding bikes and skateboards. He especially loved snow days. He would sled all day long and half the night on Locust hill with his friends and family.

When Gip Allen got old enough he mowed lawns for some extra money and he had a paper route delivering the North Little Rock Times. Of course I was recruited, free of charge, to help roll papers and deliver them. But this was really just another time we were having fun together. In high school he was a lifeguard at Park Hill pool. We spend all day every day there. We met new people from the nearby neighborhoods and everyone became a friend. It left him with so many happy memories.

After high school Gip Allen attended Arkansas Tech University where he studied biology in hopes of getting into Vet School. Of course we all went as a family to take him to college. I will never forget that day and I will be forever grateful for the wonderful people and life long friends he met that first day. His roommate, Teri Baskin, and other friends in the dorm changed his outlook on school and in turn helped him succeed in college and then in vet school at LSU. Without a doubt I would say that his college and vet school experience was the happiest time of his life to that point.

After vet school he started working at a clinic in Little Rock and eventually opened Levy Pet Clinic. Gip Allen always had a soft spot for animals and he absolutely loved taking care of them. Many times he brought very sick animals home with him and he’d sit up all night caring for them. He loved getting to know his clients and his clients loved him. They never failed to recognize and speak to him in restaurants, doctor offices or church. This past Christmas Eve we took Gip Allen to mass. We barely got seated before people were coming by to say hello and tell him how they wish he was still their veterinarian. At the clinic he also had his assistant and dear friend, Denise, who remained close throughout his life.

After Gip Allen’s diagnosis he started ballroom dancing. He danced for many years and especially enjoyed his dance programs and competitions. The wall in his hallway was lined with trophies and recognitions he won for his dancing skills.

Gip Allen was a natural born tinkerer. He was always building something. Many times I would walk into his house or garage and it looked like a giant science project. You might not know what it was or what it did but he came up with an idea and he would build it. Some ideas worked and some didn’t but he never gave up. Just like in life, he kept on trying.

Gip Allen was not only a devoted son, but he was a caring and loving father to his son, Daniel. We lived nextdoor to each other and I saw the time and effort Gip Allen put into doing things with his son like Boy Scout activities, going on camping trips, or just having Daniel work along with him as he built, repaired, or created things. I can tell that Daniel benefited from those learning experiences because I see my brother’s abilities in him. So Daniel, I know you know this, but the two of you were blessed to have each other.

In closing, Gip Allen was a good brother and he had a good life. We had an amazing childhood and lifetime together as siblings. He was a caring father and a son that was his father’s best friend. Thank you for a lifetime of cherished memories.