Every Tuesday afternoon, my therapy dog Cooper and I made our rounds at Mercy General. Most patients greeted him with smiles and pets, but that changed when we entered Room 312. Mr. Thompson lay motionless, his hollow eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “He hasn’t spoken since his admission,” the nurse murmured. “Family says he’s been like this since his wife passed.”
I gave Cooper his signal. In one fluid motion, he leaped onto the hospital bed and nuzzled against Mr. Thompson’s side. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then – a miracle. The old man’s weathered hand rose shakily to rest on Cooper’s head. “Good… boy,” he croaked, his voice rusty from disuse.
What happened next left us all stunned. “Lilacs,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Martha… she loved lilacs.” The floodgates opened as he shared memories of his late wife – how she’d fill their home with fresh lilacs every spring, how the scent still haunted him two years after her passing.
Cooper leaned in closer, as if understanding every word. “She wanted a golden retriever,” Mr. Thompson confessed, fingers buried in Cooper’s fur. “Never got around to it.” The nurse and I exchanged glances as he added, “Maybe this is her way of saying hello.”
By visit’s end, we’d wheeled him to the hospital garden where early spring lilacs bloomed. As he inhaled their familiar fragrance, something in him seemed to heal. Sometimes the right companion – furry or otherwise – can mend what medicine cannot.
