I used to joke that my Labrador, Crover, wasn’t just a dog—he was like my shadow. No matter where I went—whether it was the kitchen, the shower, or even awkward first dates—he followed me as if bound by an unspoken promise of loyalty.
But this time, things were different. When I woke up under the harsh hospital lights and stiff sheets, he was already there, curled up beside me with his head resting on my hip, as if he’d never left my side.
I blinked a few times, my mouth dry as dust. I tried to sit up, but my body felt incredibly heavy. There were wires attached, soft beeping sounds, and a strange ache inside me—as if something had been taken out or placed in.
“Crover?” I whispered hoarsely. He didn’t move.
A young nurse entered—nervous, with a tight ponytail—and froze at the sight of him. “How did he get in here?” she asked.
Confused, I replied, “He’s my dog. He always finds me.”
She murmured something about security and backed out. I reached for Crover, but noticed a bright orange hospital band on my wrist, a color unfamiliar to me.
The nurse soon returned with a tired-looking doctor. “Miss Velden,” he said gently, “you’ve been unconscious for three days.”
My mind raced as I tried to recall what happened—maybe a grocery store? Or a sidewalk? “Was there an accident?”
The doctor glanced at Crover, then back to me. “You collapsed outside Stanwick’s Market due to heart arrhythmia and hit your head. We weren’t sure if you’d survive. No one knows how your dog got here. He’s not microchipped, yet somehow, he’s listed as your emergency contact.”
Crover blinked at me, and suddenly, something clicked.
I hadn’t been alone when I fell.
I whispered, “Did he save me?”
The doctor hesitated. “Witnesses said someone pulled you to safety… but no one saw a person.”
People described a golden blur appearing out of nowhere, dragging me to safety. One witness even said he looked both ways before crossing the street.
But Crover had been at home that day.
Or so I thought.
Two days after I left the hospital, Crover stayed closer than ever, like he had a job to finish. He never left my side, even sleeping by the bathroom door again.
One night, kneeling beside him, I whispered, “You knew about my heart, didn’t you?”
He licked my hand and gently rested his head on my knee.
Curious, I took him to the vet to check if he’d been chipped before I adopted him.
The technician scanned him—nothing.
But then she frowned looking at the adoption papers.
“You adopted him two years ago, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, his original name was Marlow, not Crover. And he was found in the same neighborhood you used to live in.”
My old neighborhood.
The place where I lost my brother, Callen, in a hit-and-run.
He had a dog when we were kids—a loyal, golden mutt who disappeared the day Callen died.
I hadn’t thought about that in years.
But something stirred in my chest—something beyond my heart condition.
Maybe it’s all coincidence.
Or maybe it’s not.
All I know is, Crover saved me.
Now, when the morning sunlight warms my face and I feel his familiar weight curled up beside me, I understand something I never fully believed before:
Love doesn’t always come in human form. Sometimes it comes on four legs. And sometimes, it finds you when you need it most—even when you don’t realize you’re lost.
Leave a Reply