We didn’t think he’d make it through the night.
His oxygen levels were dangerously low, and his coughing had grown violent.
The nurses asked us to keep the room quiet and peaceful, but the old man kept repeating the same word through dry, cracked lips: “Murphy… Murphy…”
At first, we thought it might be a person—maybe a son or an old war buddy. I leaned in and gently asked who Murphy was.
His lips barely moved, but I caught it: “My good boy. I miss my good boy.”
That’s when it clicked. I called his daughter, who was still hours away, driving in from another state. When I asked her if Murphy was a dog, her voice cracked.
“Golden Retriever. Thirteen. We had to leave him with my brother while Dad’s been in the hospital.”
It took some convincing and a few favors, but our charge nurse pulled strings.
A few hours later, through the buzz of machines and under the cold glow of fluorescent lights, Murphy padded into the room.
The dog spotted him instantly.
His tail wagged. His focus never shifted. He trotted over, climbed into the bed, and rested his head on the man’s chest.
The old man—Walter—opened his eyes for the first time that day.
But then he said something odd: “Murphy, did you find her?”
The daughter and I exchanged confused glances. She whispered, “Who’s ‘her’?”
Murphy didn’t answer, of course. He just licked Walter’s hand and settled in. But Walter seemed calmer.
His breathing steadied, and his fingers curled into Murphy’s fur like it was the only anchor keeping him here.
“He found her once,” Walter murmured. “In the snow. When nobody else believed me.”
At first, we assumed it was the morphine talking. But something in his voice—gentle and aching—made me believe there was more to it.
Walter grew stronger over the next few days. Not healthy, but lucid. He could sip soup and have short conversations.
Murphy never left his side, ever watchful, curling close each night and wagging his tail when Walter stirred.
On day three, Walter called me over.
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