No sooner did I hear the voice than a wrinkle-faced， six-foot-tall， white-haired pogo stick of a man was greeting us at the door， swooping his big， open hand and strong arm across the doorway， inviting us in， “I’m Charlie. This is my wife， Emma. Come in， come in.”
When Beau heard Charlie’s friendly， enthusiastic voice， his entire body went into his customary wagging frenzy and lean against your thigh position， waiting for a petting， which was immediately forthcoming from Charlie. As we walked into the room， a frail but lively eighty， violet-haired Emma sat in bed， smiling， patting her hand on the bed. All she had to do was pat once， and Beau， leashed and always obedient， was up on the bed lying down beside her， licking her face. Her eyes were full of tears as Charlie told us that he and Emma had immigrated to the United States from Germany during World War II and had to leave their beloved Doberman， Max， behind. Max， according to Charlie， was the spitting image of Beau.
The next door， room 114， was home to Katherine， a woman in her seventies who had stopped talking for a few months earlier and had been living in a catatonic state in her wheelchair for the past month. No amount of love， hugs， talking or sitting had been able to stir her. When Beau and I walked into her room， a small light was on next to her bed and the shades were pulled. She was sitting in her wheelchair， her back toward us， slouched over， facing the viewless window.
Beau was pulling ahead of me with his leash. Before I could get around kneeling down in front of her， he was at her left side， with his head in her lap. I pulled a chair up in front of her， sat down and said hello. No response. In the fifteen minutes that Beau and I sat with Katherine， she never said a word and never moved. Surprising as that may be， more surprising was that Beau never moved either. He stood the entire fifteen minutes， his long chin resting on her lap.