Murphy and I paid a visit to the VA hospital that day in 2010. We were a certified therapy dog team, regularly visiting the polytrauma and spinal cord injury units.
We walked through the automatic doors, exiting after the day's visits. Several men had gathered just past the "no smoking beyond this point" sign. Some were in wheelchairs or using walkers or canes. Spotting Murph, smiles erupted on those men's faces. We stopped to say hello. Murphy was a big lovable chocolate Lab, who, at five years still had the joy of a puppy in him. When he looked up and smiled at you, it was all over. As we moved closer, hands reached out to pet him. They talked to him: "How you doin', fella?" "Thanks for coming here today." "I had a Lab once ..." There was laughter and high fives (with Murph) and stories about dogs past and present.
Someone asked who we had visited that day. "Guys in polytrauma," I answered. "What's that?" one of them asked. "Head injury," another answered. Sadness swept over the group - all of whom had been injured in combat in one war or another. "So young. Just kids," one of them said. Silence. Then Murphy nudged one of them with his nose. Private thoughts were washed away when they once again focused on my dog.
After a few minutes, we reluctantly said our goodbyes. I thanked them for their service to our country. They thanked me and Murphy for our visit. In the car, Murphy slept, while my thoughts ran to sacrifice and broken bodies and lives cut short. And heroes.
