Late that afternoon, Harold opened his eyes and whispered something she could not understand.
Karen leaned closer.
He repeated it.
“Dog.”
She knew immediately.
“You want Buddy?”
Harold nodded.
The hospital did not normally allow personal pets onto that floor simply because a patient missed them. But end-of-life situations were different, and exceptions could be made after staff discussed safety, other patients, and the dog’s temperament.
Buddy’s veterinarian faxed vaccination records.
Karen promised he would remain leashed.
A nurse checked with the charge supervisor.
Shortly after ten that night, Karen’s husband brought Buddy through a side entrance.
The dog had never been inside a hospital.
He disliked the automatic doors.
He hesitated on the polished floor.
The elevator frightened him enough that Karen’s husband almost turned around.
Then they reached the third floor.
Buddy smelled the air.
His entire behavior changed.
He pulled forward.
Not wildly.
Not enough to drag anyone.
But with purpose.
He passed the nurses’ station, turned into the north hallway, and kept going until Karen’s husband slowed him.
Room 304 was halfway down the corridor.
Buddy stopped outside.
Karen opened the door.
Harold was asleep.
For a moment, the dog would not enter.
He stood at the threshold, staring at the bed.
Karen whispered his name.
Buddy stepped inside.
He approached slowly.
The hospital bed looked nothing like Harold’s bed at home. There were rails, tubing, monitors, blankets, and unfamiliar smells surrounding the person Buddy knew better than anyone.
Still, he knew him.
Buddy reached the side of the bed and lifted his nose.
Harold did not wake.
The dog smelled his hand.
Then he rested his chin against the mattress.
Karen watched from the other side of the room.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Harold did not suddenly sit up.
Buddy did not whine loudly.