My grandma’s memory loss began with minor things, like mispronouncing names and forgetting if she had eaten. We all sort of ignored it. However, she asked me who I was one day after glancing directly at me.
I was completely taken aback by that moment.
Soon after, we transferred her to a memory care center. Although none of us desired it, she required more assistance than we could provide. I played her favorite old tunes, brought photo albums, and paid her a weekly visit. She hardly spoke, though. She would occasionally ignore me as if I were a piece of the wall.
But then Lacy, a therapy dog, began visiting. I’ve never seen a golden retriever with such soft eyes.
At first, Grandma remained silent. She simply bent over, touched Lacy’s forehead, and kept it there as if she had discovered something she had been lacking.
Then she murmured, “There you are,” as softly as a whisper.
I went cold. I couldn’t tell if she was referring to me, the dog, or perhaps another person from a bygone era. However, she continued to repeat it while petting Lacy’s fur. You are there, there you are.
Then she muttered my name, barely audible.
It had a magical feel to it. As if this puppy had somehow opened a door in her mind that I couldn’t open with any amount of nostalgia or persuasion. Grandma started talking more after that visit—not much, but enough to make it seem like she was still there. She reminisced of feeding cows and chasing chickens on the farm where she was raised. Although her brother had died years ago, she did mention him once. And sometimes she would address me by name once again.
During our visits, Lacy became a regular presence. Grandma would mumble stories and pet the dog as Ruth, her gentle-spoken handler, remained close by. Ruth came over to me one afternoon and smiled tentatively.
Ruth remarked, “She seems to really connect with Lacy.” “Is it possible that your grandmother had a dog in her younger years?”
I gave a headshake. Not that I’m aware of. She didn’t bring one up.
Ruth cocked her head in contemplation. “Animals can sometimes evoke memories that people would not otherwise be able to access.” Perhaps there is more going on here.
I remembered what she said. I asked my mother over the phone that evening if Grandma had ever had a dog. Mom hesitated for a long time before responding.
“Yes,” she uttered hesitantly. They had a collie named Daisy when she was a teenager. However, she rarely discusses her. I believe that the dog either ran away or got lost. Your grandmother was heartbroken.
I felt a chill go through me. Could Daisy be the reason Grandma recognized Lacy so well? Could it be that a long-forgotten memory of Daisy was coming to the surface now?
I made the decision to question Grandma directly the next time I was there. I sat next to her and carefully brought up the topic.
“When you were younger, did you own a dog?” I inquired.
She looked at me blankly for a moment. Then her expression softened and her eyes filled with tears.
She whispered, “Daisy.” “Oh, Daisy.”
Then she fell silent, gazing off into space as though she saw something in the distance. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there was more to this narrative, but I didn’t press the issue since I didn’t want to offend her.
I delved further during the ensuing weeks. I looked through old family pictures, called cousins, and even took a drive to the farmhouse where Grandma had been raised. I was given a warm welcome and allowed to look around by the current owner, Walter, who is an elderly man. I discovered dusty boxes with fading photos and yellowed letters in the attic. A photo of a young Grandma standing proudly next to a collie with clever, bright eyes attracted my attention. Someone had written Martha & Daisy, 1947 on the back.
When I see Grandma again, I will show her the picture I took. She gasped and gripped it tightly when I held it up.
“It’s her,” she whispered. “My Daisy is that.”
I persuaded her to share more with me. Slowly, the tale surfaced. Daisy had been her confidante and frequent companion. Together, they explored the woods behind the farm for hours. But Daisy vanished one June evening. Whether she was abducted, struck by a car, or gone too far, nobody knew what had occurred. Grandma called Daisy’s name till her voice became hoarse as she looked for days. Life eventually moved on, but she was still affected by the loss.
She broke down in tears as she said, “It broke my heart.” “I never gave up searching for her.”
Lacy put her head on Grandma’s lap while she talked. As I observed them together, I came to understand the comfort the dog provided—not only due to its physical presence, but also because it reawakened a part of her spirit that had been suppressed for many years.
Then the unexpected turn of events occurred.
When I got to the facility one wet Tuesday, Grandma was sitting by herself in her room, looking abnormally anxious. She gestured toward the window when I inquired what was wrong.
She said frantically, “She’s out there.” “There’s Daisy out there!”
I followed her eyes, but all I could see was the deserted courtyard. Grandma gripped my arm with unexpected power, but she persisted.
“Go take a look!” she begged. “Please!”
I grudgingly picked up an umbrella and went outside. As I looked around, the rain drummed against the sidewalk. I was about to abandon up when I noticed movement close to the bushes. A little, unkempt dog, obviously scared and drenched, darted out. Although it appeared to be a terrier mix rather than a collie, its frantic eyes made me feel something.
I knelt down and called softly, “Hey, buddy.” “Come on over here.”
After hesitating, the dog hobbled over to me. It smelt like it hadn’t eaten in days, and its paw was hurt. Unsure of what else to do, I picked it up and took it inside.
Grandma started crying when I showed her.
“That’s her,” she muttered. “It’s Daisy.”
Something stopped me before I could correct her. Rather, I gave her the quivering puppy and nodded. She rocked softly while whispering comforting words and holding it near. She appeared to be at ease for the first time in years.
Grandma flourished over the next few weeks after the staff agreed to let us keep the puppy for a short time. She cleaned the dog, fed it, and even tied an improvised yarn collar on it. Naturally, she gave it the name Daisy and cared for it as though it were a long-lost friend.
In the interim, I distributed posters throughout the community in an effort to find the dog’s true owner. Weeks passed with no one claiming it. Ruth finally proposed formally adopting it.
She smiled knowingly and remarked, “Animals have a way of finding the people who need them most.”
So we did. Grandma’s life was forever altered by Daisy (the new Daisy). Her health significantly improved; she began to recognize me on a regular basis, ate better, and slept well. It was truly an amazing metamorphosis.
A few months later, I thought back on everything that had transpired as I sat in the patio watching Grandma play fetch with Daisy. How likely was it that a stray dog would stumble into our lives just when we needed him? Or that memories so deeply buried might be uncovered by a therapy dog? It seemed more like fate than mere coincidence.
Grandma saw me grinning when she looked up. “Thank you,” was all she said.
“For what purpose?” I inquired.
“For returning her to me.”
Her appreciation made me feel humble. I discovered something important while attempting to take care of her: love can reappear in the most unlikely ways. It takes unexpected routes, whether via memories, animals, or deeds of generosity.
I couldn’t help but feel hopeful as I walked out of the institution that day. Sometimes the cosmos responds to the obstacles we face in life in unexpected ways. We simply need to remain receptive to the possibilities.
Please tell others about this tale if it moved you. Let’s remember that love always finds a way to return home and spread a little hope. ❤️
