Listen.
Then scratch again.
She opened the door slightly to check inside.
Harold was still asleep.
Karen was awake now, sitting beside him.
“Everything okay?” Rachel whispered.
Karen nodded.
“Buddy got out?”
“He came straight here.”
Karen stood and stepped into the hallway.
Buddy immediately pressed against her legs but kept facing the room.
Rachel smiled.
“He really wants back in.”
Karen was about to lead him away when something about the dog’s posture bothered her.
She had seen it before.
Not at the hospital.
At home.
“Wait.”
Buddy scratched again.
Karen looked through the small window in the door toward her father.
Harold looked exactly as he had several minutes earlier.
Eyes closed.
Very still.
Karen opened the door wider.
Buddy moved forward until the leash stopped him.
Then he made a low sound in his throat.
Karen suddenly remembered the afternoon years earlier when Buddy had run from Harold’s recliner to the kitchen because something was wrong.
She remembered the night the neighbor called because Buddy would not stop barking.
The dog had never needed medical knowledge.
He simply knew Harold’s normal.
And he knew when normal changed.
“He does this when Dad’s breathing changes,” Karen whispered.
Rachel looked back into the room.
That changed everything.
The nurse checked Harold.
His condition had shifted.
There was no sudden emergency intervention because Harold’s care plan was focused on comfort by then, but Rachel adjusted his oxygen, checked his position, and called the physician covering the floor.
Karen stood beside the bed.
Buddy remained outside.
He scratched once more.
Rachel looked at Karen.
“Bring him in.”
Buddy entered immediately.