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.
Continued on next page:
ADVERTISEMENT
ADVERTISEMENT
