I’d been visiting the hospital with my therapy dog,
Riley, for quite some time. Most patients would brighten
up the second they saw him—stroking his golden coat, laughing at his joyful tail wags.
But today felt different.
The nurses led us into a quiet room where an elderly man lay still,
staring up at the ceiling. He looked worn out, far away—
like he hadn’t spoken in ages. His name was Mr. Callahan.
“He hasn’t responded much,” one nurse whispered. “Maybe Riley can reach him.”
I nodded and gave Riley the cue. Without pause, he jumped onto the bed,
placing his head softly on Mr. Callahan’s chest.
Silence.
Then a slow, deep inhale.
The man’s hand twitched slightly, just a faint movement, then gradually settled on Riley’s fur.
I held my breath.
Then, in a dry, nearly forgotten voice, he said, “Good boy.”
The nurse gasped. My eyes welled up.
But then came something none of us were ready for.
“Marigold…” The word came out like a song from long ago—fragile but clear.
“Marigold?” I echoed, uncertain I’d heard right.
Mr. Callahan turned slightly toward me, his faded blue eyes glinting with
something like recognition. “She brought me flowers every Sunday. Marigolds.
Said they matched my hair when I was young.” A soft smile appeared as he
absentmindedly scratched behind Riley’s ear. “She never stopped bringing them
… even after…” He paused, the weight of memory closing in.
The nurse shifted beside me. She leaned in and whispered,
“He hasn’t said a name in months. Not since…” But she didn’t finish.
Riley sensed the shift too. He let out a quiet whine, which seemed to draw
Mr. Callahan back. He gently patted Riley and looked up at me again.
“You remind me of her,” he said out of nowhere. “The way you care for your dog.
She had that same way with animals.”
