The nurse opened the door. Ritchie trotted inside, paying no mind to anyone else. He climbed onto the bed with careful steps, avoiding the wires and tubes, and curled against his human.
“My boy,” the man whispered, threading trembling fingers through the familiar fur. “You made it.”
The dog let out a soft whimper, as if answering, “I know.”
The nurse slipped out, giving them privacy. For the first time in days, the man’s face softened.
Hours passed. When she peeked in again, they were still curled together—Ritchie’s head resting on the man’s shoulder, their chests rising and falling in quiet sync. She smiled and closed the door.
By evening, the room had gone silent. Too silent.
The monitor was flat.
“Sir?” she whispered as she stepped closer. But then she saw it.
Ritchie hadn’t moved. He lay across the man’s chest, nose tucked against his neck, eyes closed. She checked for a pulse. There was none.
The man had slipped away peacefully in his sleep—and the dog’s heart, it seemed, had simply followed.
There was no medical reason. Ritchie hadn’t been ill. No signs of distress. It was as though he simply chose not to stay behind. Some said his heart broke. Others said he followed by choice.
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