Sunny, my golden retriever therapy dog, usually brought instant joy to hospital patients. But our visit to Mr. Grady’s room was different. The elderly man hadn’t spoken to staff in weeks, lost in grief after losing his wife.
Sunny didn’t follow protocol that day. She jumped right onto his bed and laid her head on his chest. I moved to correct her, but then – magic. Mr. Grady’s hand rose to stroke her ears. “Just like Daisy,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“Daisy?” I asked gently. His wife’s name was Margaret according to the chart.
“My childhood dog,” he explained, eyes bright with memory. “Margaret… she used to say Sunny here reminded her of Daisy.” The story unfolded – how his wife had loved goldens, how they’d planned to adopt one after retirement, but her illness came first.
Sunny seemed to understand, snuggling closer as Mr. Grady shared how his wife would point out every golden retriever they passed. “She said they were angels in dog suits,” he chuckled wetly.
When we left, Mr. Grady asked the nurse for paper and pen. “Need to write down these memories,” he explained. Sometimes healing begins with a single pawprint on the heart.
