The hospital’s “difficult cases” board listed Mr. Callahan with one word: “Unreachable.”
Before I could stop him, my therapy dog launched onto the elderly man’s bed like it was his personal throne. Instead of scolding him, I froze—because the “unresponsive” patient was suddenly whispering into golden fur.
“Marigolds,” he sighed. “She loved yellow ones.”
What unfolded was part confession, part resurrection. Mr. Callahan spoke of Eleanor—his wife, his heart, his lost love—with words that seemed pulled from some deep, untouched well. How she’d tucked marigold stems behind his ears when they were young. How she’d kept one in a vase by her hospital bed until the end.
Riley, usually full of wiggles and kisses, became statue-still. As if he knew this man needed to borrow his warmth, his weight, his living breath.
When Mr. Callahan finally paused, spent, my dog did something that made every nurse in the room gasp—he placed one giant paw directly over the man’s heart.
The old man’s laughter rang down the hallway. Later, I’d learn it was his first sound in 197 days.
As we left, I heard him asking for paper to write his daughter. And seeds. Marigold seeds.
Some healers walk on two legs. Some on four. The best ones, it seems, come with wagging tails and an uncanny sense of exactly where the hurt lives.
