We doubted he’d make it through the night. His oxygen levels were critically low, and his cough had become severe. The nurses ordered us to keep the room quiet and serene, but the old guy kept repeating the same word: “Murphy… Murphy…” At first, we suspected it was a person—perhaps a son or an old battle comrade. I leaned in and asked, “Who is Murphy?”
His lips scarcely moved, but I caught the words: “My good boy.” “I miss my good boy.” That’s when something clicked. I contacted his daughter, who was still many hours away and heading in from another state. When I asked if Murphy was a dog, her voice broke. “Golden retriever. Thirteen. We had to leave him with my brother while my father was in the hospital.”
It took some persuasion and a few favors, but our charge nurse pulled strings. Murphy padded entered the room a few hours later, surrounded by equipment and illuminated by fluorescent lights. The dog noticed him right away. His tail wags. His focus never wavered. He trotted over, climbed into the bed, and laid his head on the man’s chest. The old guy, Walter, opened his eyes for the first time that day.
But then he asked an unexpected question: “Murphy, did you find her?” The daughter and I exchanged puzzled looks. She muttered, “Who’s ‘her’?” Murphy did not respond, of course. He simply licked Walter’s hand and nestled in. However, Walter appeared calmer. His breathing calmed, and his fingers clenched into Murphy’s fur, as if it were the only thing holding him here.
“He found her once,” Walter said. “In the snow.” When no one else believed me. At first, we thought it was the drug talking. But something in his voice, sweet and yearning, convinced me there was more to it. Walter gained strength during the next three days. Not well, but lucid. He could sip soup and engage in brief chats. Murphy never left his side, always on guard, cuddling close each night and wagging his tail when Walter stirred.
On the third day, Walter summoned me over. “You got a minute, nurse?” he inquired. I pulled up a chair. “Do you believe a dog can save someone’s life?” he was asking. I looked at Murphy. “I think I’m seeing proof.” Walter grinned faintly. “Murphy did not save me. “He saved her. “Your wife?” I inquired. “No. My neighbor. Lizzie. Twelve, thirteen years ago. She vanished. People assumed she had run away. “But I knew she didn’t.”
I leaned in closer and listened carefully. “She was sixteen.” A bit of a wild spirit. But good. When my arthritis flared up, he used to walk Murphy. “She called me ‘Mr. W.’ and said I reminded her of her grandfather.” His voice sank. “One day, she disappeared. Police believe she departed with a boy. Her mother hardly questioned it. “But I knew something was off.”
He coughed, and Murphy raised his head. “Every morning, I sought with Murphy. Through the woods and around the quarry, places no one bothers about. “Everyone told me I was wasting time.” He paused. “But Murphy came to a halt one day, frozen on the ridge. Barked twice. I looked down. A scarf. “Tangled in brambles.” Walter’s eyes moistened. “She was in the ditch. Barely conscious. Freezing. But alive.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Her stepfather had hurt her. She attempted to flee that night. He followed. He left her to perish out there. “But Murphy found her.” “She stayed with me for a bit after that,” he told me. “Then the system moved her elsewhere. We wrote for a while. But life went on. She moved. I became older. Sicker. Still, every time we met someone new, Murphy appeared to be hoping it was her.
“She was the only one who ever called him a guardian angel.” That night, I told another nurse the story. She saw an old article entitled “Dog Leads Elderly Man to Missing Teen.” There was a photograph of a sobbing girl in a blanket, Walter behind her, his hand on Murphy’s head. I could not quit thinking about it. So I shared the story anonymously online. No names.
This is just a description of Walter, Murphy, and a child named Lizzie who nicknamed a golden retriever her angel. Three days later, I received a message. “My name used to be Lizzie. “I believe you’re talking about me.” She arrived with her kid, a bright-eyed five-year-old, and slowly entered Walter’s room. When she asked, “Mr. W?” He looked up and smiled.
“You found her,” he told Murphy. “You really did.” They spent hours discussing her scholarship, her adopted family, and her work teaching music. “I wouldn’t be here without you,” she said. He shakes his head. “Murphy.” Walter improved throughout the next week by eating, sitting up, and telling more stories. Everyone declared it a miracle. But we knew it was Murphy. And Lizzie.
She did not only pay a visit. She returned daily. Sometimes alone. Sometimes she is with her daughter. She eventually brought paperwork. “Mr. W,” she stated, “you have always been my family. Allow me to care for you now.” Walter attempted to decline. But she insisted. “You saved me while no one realized I was gone. Let me return the favor.” With the hospital’s permission, Walter moved into a modest guest house on her property.
Murphy now had a yard, sunlight, and a new tiny best buddy who put ribbons around his neck and read to him on the porch. Walter remained calm for another eighteen months. Loved. Safe. Murphy cuddled up next to him and remained motionless for hours after his death. At the funeral, Lizzie—now Elena—stands in front of everyone and says, through tears:
“Walter did not merely rescue me. He believed in me. When nobody else did. Murphy found me. Twice.” The following day, she placed a stone in her garden: Murphy, Guardian Angel. Good boy forever. Beneath it, in little letters: “He kept asking for Murphy.” None of us knew who it was. But now…we’ll never forget.”
