I almost didn’t take the hospital assignment that day. Riley had been antsy all morning, chewing his leash like he knew something I didn’t. Turned out, he did.
Mr. Callahan was what nurses called “nonverbal”—until 85 pounds of golden retriever landed on his hospital bed.
The change was instant. One moment, the elderly man was staring blankly at the ceiling. The next, his gnarled fingers were buried in Riley’s fur, and words—precious, unexpected words—were tumbling out.
“Eleanor used to say dogs were better than people,” he rasped, eyes suddenly alert. “She was right about most things.”
For the next hour, the man who hadn’t spoken in half a year told us about his late wife—how she’d filled their kitchen window with marigold pots, how she’d hum show tunes while making Sunday pancakes, how the cancer took her voice long before it took her last breath.
Riley never moved from his spot, soaking up the tears that fell on his golden coat. When Mr. Callahan finally paused, exhausted, my dog did something extraordinary—he licked the man’s wrinkled cheek.
The sound that came out of Mr. Callahan then wasn’t words. It was laughter. Real, belly-deep laughter that brought three nurses running.
As we left, I glanced back to see him sitting up in bed—chatting with Nurse Amy about planting marigolds come spring. All because a dog remembered what humans forget: sometimes, love just needs a warm body to land on.
