“You got a minute, nurse?” he asked. I pulled up a chair.
“Do you believe a dog can save someone’s life?” he asked.
I glanced at Murphy. “I think I’m seeing proof.”
Walter smiled faintly. “Murphy didn’t save me. He saved her.”
“Your wife?” I asked.
“No. My neighbor. Lizzie. Twelve, thirteen years back. She disappeared. People thought she ran off. But I knew she didn’t.”
I leaned in closer, listening carefully.
“She was sixteen. Bit of a wild spirit. But good. Used to walk Murphy for me when my arthritis flared up. Called me ‘Mr. W.’ Said I reminded her of her grandfather.”
His voice lowered.
“One day, she vanished. Police said she probably left with a boy. Her mother didn’t question it much. But I just… knew something was off.”
He coughed, and Murphy lifted his head.
“I searched every morning with Murphy. Through the woods, around the quarry, places no one bothered with. Everyone said I was wasting time.”
He paused. “But then, Murphy stopped one day—frozen at the ridge. Barked twice. I looked down. A scarf. Tangled in brambles.”
Walter’s eyes watered.
“She was in a ditch. Barely conscious. Freezing. But alive.”
I could hardly believe it.
“Her stepdad had hurt her. She tried to run that night. He followed. He left her to die out there. But Murphy found her.”
“She stayed with me for a bit after that,” he said.
“Then the system placed her elsewhere. We wrote for a while. But life moved on. She moved. I got older. Sicker. Still, every time we met someone new, Murphy looked like he was hoping it was her.”
“She was the only one who ever called him a guardian angel.”
That night, I shared the story with another nurse.
She found an old article—“Dog Leads Elderly Man to Missing Teen.” There was a photo: a tearful girl in a blanket, Walter behind her, hand on Murphy’s head.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I posted the story anonymously online. No names.
Just a description of Walter, Murphy, and a girl named Lizzie who called a golden retriever her angel.
Three days later, a message arrived.
“My name used to be Lizzie. I think you’re talking about me.”
She came with her daughter—a bright-eyed five-year-old—and slowly entered Walter’s room. When she said, “Mr. W?” he looked up and smiled.
“You found her,” he said to Murphy. “You really did.”
They talked for hours about her scholarship, her adopted family, and her job teaching music.
“I wouldn’t be here without you,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Murphy.”
Over the next week, Walter improved—eating, sitting up, telling more stories. Everyone called it a miracle. But we knew it was Murphy. And Lizzie.
She didn’t just visit.
CONTINUE READING ON THE NEXT PAGE 🥰💕
