And, strangely, even after Lucas became seriously ill, he would sometimes react when he played Rex recordings barking on my phone.
His fingers were moving.
Once, they even moved their eyelids.
So I begged the hospital to allow Rex to visit.
“No way,” Dr. said. Collins. “This is intensive care.”
“It may be the last time my son sees it.”
His expression softened slightly, but the answer remained no.
That night, Nurse Emily walked into Lucas’ room and found me crying.
He closed the door.
“If we did this,” he whispered, “it would have to be quick.”
An hour later, Daniel, a close friend who had helped train Rex, took him through a staff entrance.
As soon as Rex entered Lucas’ room, he hoped he would run to the crib.
He didn’t.
He stopped at the door.
His ears rose sharply.
His nose moved.
Then all the muscles in his body seemed to tighten.
“Rex?” Daniel whispered.
The dog slowly walked towards Lucas.
He sniffed the ground.
Then the bed.
Then the team that was next to him.
Suddenly he stopped near the IV support.
A low growl rumbled on his chest.
My stomach shrugged.
Rex sniffed out one of the pockets of nutritional solution that hung next to the crib and then backed up.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
Daniel denied with his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then Rex turned to the wall behind Lucas’ bed.
He stood still.
