On day three, Walter called me over.
“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.”
Continued on next page:
ADVERTISEMENT
