His oxygen levels were dropping fast, and the coughing fits were relentless. The nurses told us to keep the room calm, quiet. No stress.
But in the middle of the silence, he kept whispering the same word over and over.
“Murphy…”
None of us knew who Murphy was. Not a family member. Not a friend. We asked the nurses. We checked his old phone. Nothing.
Still, even as his voice grew weaker, he kept asking:
“Where’s Murphy?”
“Murphy’s coming?”
“Tell Murphy I’m okay…”
It wasn’t until the next day—when my cousin arrived from out of town—that the mystery unraveled.
She froze when she heard the name.
Murphy… was his dog.
His golden retriever from ten years ago. The one he’d raised from a puppy. The one who’d passed quietly in his arms at the vet.
He hadn’t spoken about Murphy in years. But as his time came, that’s who he wanted to see. That’s who he remembered.
Love like that doesn’t fade. Not even at the end.
🕊️
