We didn’t think he’d last the night.
His oxygen levels were terrible, and the coughing fits were getting worse. The nurses said to keep things quiet and calm in his room, but he kept mumbling one word, over and over:
“Murphy… Murphy…”
At first, we thought it might be a son. Perhaps an old war buddy. But when I leaned in and asked him softly who Murphy was, his cracked lips moved enough to say, “My good boy. I miss my good boy.”
That’s when I figured it out. I called his daughter, who’d been driving across state lines, and asked if Murphy was a dog.
She choked up.
“Golden Retriever. Thirteen years old. We had to leave him with my brother while Dad’s been in the hospital.”
It took a few calls and a few raised eyebrows, but the charge nurse pulled some strings. And a couple hours later, in the middle of all the beeping machines and harsh fluorescent lights, in padded paws came Murphy.
The second that dog saw him, it was like nothing else existed.
And when Murphy climbed into his lap, tail wagging, chin pressed gently against his chest…
That’s when the old man finally opened his eyes again.
But what he said next—
“Murphy, did you find her?”
Everyone in the room exchanged confused looks. The daughter blinked at me and whispered, “Who’s ‘her’?”
Murphy didn’t respond, of course, only licked the old man’s wrinkled hand and nestled closer. But the old man—his name was Walter—suddenly seemed more alert. His breathing calmed. His fingers curled softly into the dog’s fur.
