Part 5 – Between Hospital Walls
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and cooked vegetables, a strange mix of cleanliness and sadness that clung to Maya’s clothes long after she left. She found Frank in a small room near the end of a hallway, wires running from his chest to a monitor that beeped with calm indifference.
“You didn’t have to come,” he muttered when she stepped inside. “They already poked me with everything they’ve got.”
“I came to make sure they didn’t lose you between the elevator and the paperwork,” she said. “And to tell you Buddy’s fine. He’s pacing grooves into our clinic floor, but he’s fine.”
Frank’s eyes softened. “They won’t let him in here,” he said. “Some nurse told me the rules. They say animals aren’t allowed unless they’re specially trained.”
“I know the rules,” Maya replied. “I also know people bend them every day when the right person asks.” She glanced toward the door. “Let me talk to someone.”
After a series of polite but firm conversations with nurses, a social worker, and a supervisor with a tired smile, Maya managed to arrange for Buddy to visit in the courtyard outside Frank’s window. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
The first time they wheeled Frank out, he looked smaller in the chair, his skin a shade paler under the fluorescent lights. But when Buddy’s nose found his hand, something lit up behind his eyes that no medication could have created.
“There you are,” he whispered, fingers curling into the dog’s fur. “Thought they’d replace you with one of those fancy therapy animals.”
“Turns out the old model works just fine,” Sarah said, holding the leash. She’d taken her lunch break to drive Buddy over, her breakroom sandwich forgotten in the car.
They settled into a rhythm. On days when Frank was strong enough, someone from the clinic brought Buddy to the hospital yard. On days when he was too weak, Maya stood by his bed and described exactly what Buddy had done that day, down to how many times he tripped over the reception rug.
Lena started visiting too, at first hovering in the doorway like she was afraid stepping in would trigger some alarm that said “Too Late.” Eventually she sat at his bedside, scrolling on her phone between checking the drip bag and straightening his blanket.
“I set up a small fundraiser,” she told him one afternoon. “Some people from work wanted to help. I didn’t say your name, just said there was an old man with big medical bills and a blind dog with a job.”
Frank grimaced. “I don’t like folks paying my way,” he said. “Feels like I’m stealing from someone who tried harder than I did.”
“This isn’t about who tried harder,” Lena replied. “It’s about people wanting to do something that doesn’t hurt for once. Let them.”
The money that trickled in wasn’t enough to erase every bill, but it took some pressure off the immediate crisis. It also did something else: it kept Buddy and Frank’s story in circulation. People shared updates, posted blurry photos from the hospital courtyard, wrote long captions about how much their own old pets meant to them.
Back at the clinic, business picked up. New clients came in saying they’d seen “the dog from the story” and wanted the kind of vet who would fight for an animal like that. Jonas watched the numbers climb and said nothing at first, his inner accountant and his inner human quietly arguing.
One evening, after a long day of vaccines and ear infections, he called Maya into his office. He had a printout in one hand and a letter in the other.
“The good news is, whatever you and that dog are doing is working,” he said, tapping the printout that showed a gentle curve upward in appointment bookings. “People trust us more. They’re talking about us like we’re part of the community, not just another business on the highway.”
“And the bad news?” Maya asked, eyeing the letter.
He handed it to her. The logo at the top belonged to the regional animal services office. Her stomach clenched before she even read the first line.
We have received reports that your facility is housing an unregistered animal on the premises during business hours and representing this animal as part of your services. Please be advised that any ongoing arrangement of this nature must comply with relevant regulations regarding animal boarding, liability, and the use of animals in therapeutic roles.
The letter went on, dense with references to policies and potential penalties. At the bottom, a line stood out in stark, unavoidable words.
Failure to address this matter within thirty days may result in fines and further action, including but not limited to suspension of certain operational licenses.
Maya set the letter down carefully. “Someone complained,” she said. “Of course they did.”
“Maybe it’s just a routine check,” Jonas offered, but his tone lacked conviction. “We’re not the only ones trying to do something different. They probably send these out all the time.”
“It only takes one person with a grudge and a keyboard,” Maya replied. “Maybe they don’t like seeing a clinic break the mold. Maybe they think we’re using Buddy as a prop. Maybe they just don’t like old dogs.”
Jonas rubbed his eyes. “We can’t afford a fine,” he said. “We definitely can’t afford to lose any licenses. If it comes down to keeping the doors open or keeping one dog under them…” He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.
Maya felt the walls of the office closing in. Images flashed through her mind: Frank in the hospital bed, Buddy curled up under the front desk, the woman whose terrier had stopped shaking because an old blind dog had leaned against her.
“This isn’t just one dog,” she said. “It’s what kind of place we are. It’s whether we follow the letter of every rule even when it breaks people, or whether we admit there’s room for kindness inside the lines.”
“There has to be a way to make both work,” Jonas replied. “Some kind of official program, or paperwork, or…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I went to school to fix animals, not to decode regulation.”
Maya picked up the letter again, her jaw tightening. “I’ll talk to animal services,” she said. “I’ll ask what it would take to make Buddy ‘legal.’ Training, certification, someone officially responsible. There has to be a path.”
“And if there isn’t?” Jonas asked quietly.
She thought of Frank coughing into his hand, of Lena scrolling through shaky donations on her phone, of Buddy padding along the clinic hallways like he belonged to every patient who passed.
“Then I guess we find out how much trouble one old blind dog and a stubborn vet can cause,” she said.
That night, as the clinic lights clicked off one by one, Maya sat alone at the front desk with the letter spread in front of her. Buddy slept at her feet, his paws twitching in some dream where obstacles smelled different before you hit them.
She reached down and rested her hand on his back. “You picked a hard time to become famous, buddy,” she whispered. “The whole world is watching the wrong things and somehow they still found you.”
Her phone buzzed with a message from Lena.
Dad had a rough day, it read. Doctors say we should start talking about what he wants at the end. He keeps asking about Buddy. Please tell me you’re not going to have to send him away.
Maya looked from the glowing screen to the sleeping dog and back again. The letter on the desk threatened fines and suspensions. The message in her hand carried a quieter, sharper weight.
Somewhere between the two, she was supposed to find a way to keep a promise she had made in a parking lot to a man who was running out of time.
Part 6 – Complaint Filed
The call with animal services felt less like a conversation and more like someone reading a script written by a lawyer who had never held a trembling animal in their life. Maya sat at the back desk with the letter in front of her, pen in hand, heart pounding in time with the fluorescent buzz overhead.
“Ma’am, I understand this dog has become meaningful to your clients,” the woman on the phone said, her tone polite but distant. “But the rules are very clear. If an animal is on the premises regularly and interacting with the public, it must be properly registered, trained, and insured as part of a formal program.”
“We’re not charging for his presence,” Maya said. “He’s not a ‘service.’ He’s a half-blind old dog who lies on a bed and lets scared people put their hands on something warm instead of their own fear.”
“I hear you,” the woman replied. “But if there’s an incident, if someone is scratched or trips over him, liability becomes an issue. We’ve seen it happen. You might mean well, but good intentions don’t hold up in court.”
“What if we start a formal program?” Maya asked. “We can do training, paperwork, whatever it takes. I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for a path.”
There was a pause long enough for Maya to hear the clicking of a keyboard. “There are options,” the woman said finally. “But they’re not simple. You’d need an approved trainer to evaluate the dog, documentation of ownership, a clear protocol, extra insurance. And given his age and disability, some evaluators might be reluctant to certify him.”
“Because he’s old?” Maya said, her jaw tightening. “Because he’s blind?”
“Because if something startles him, he might react unpredictably,” the woman answered. “Again, I’m not saying no. I’m saying the clock is ticking. You have thirty days to demonstrate compliance or cease this arrangement.”
When the call ended, Maya stared at the silent phone like it had personally betrayed her. Buddy slept at her feet, unaware that his entire future had just been turned into a deadline measured in ink and signatures.
She drove to the hospital after her shift, the letter folded in her pocket like a guilty secret. Frank was propped up in bed, watching an old game show with the sound low. Lena sat in the chair by the window, scrolling her phone, eyes rimmed with tiredness.
“You look worse than he does,” Frank grumbled when Maya stepped in. “They working you that hard at the dog shop?”
“Something like that,” she said, trying to smile. “Buddy sends his regards. He stole Sarah’s sandwich today and pretended he couldn’t hear her scolding him.”
Frank’s face softened, then clouded again. “They still letting him be there?” he asked. “No one’s changed their mind?”
Maya swallowed. She pulled the letter from her pocket and smoothed it on the rolling tray table. Lena’s eyes flicked to the official logo and tightened.
“They haven’t changed it,” Maya said. “But someone else is trying to. We got this from animal services. Someone filed a complaint about Buddy being in the clinic.”
Frank read slowly, lips moving over the words. By the time he reached the last line, his hand trembled on the paper. “They want you to get rid of him,” he said quietly. “That’s what all this means.”
“They want us to fit him into a category that doesn’t exist yet,” Maya replied. “They want him to be something tidy and billable. I’m trying to find a way to make the rules say yes instead of no.”
Lena leaned over the bed. “What happens if they say you can’t?” she asked. “What happens to him then?”
“If we don’t comply, they can force us to stop having him there,” Maya said. “In that case, the options are me taking him home, a foster situation, or sending him to a rescue. With his age and blindness… we know the risk.”
Frank let his head fall back against the pillow. For a few seconds, he said nothing. The beeping of the monitor filled the space where his voice should have been.
“I didn’t ask you to blow up your life for him,” he muttered. “I came in with cash in my pocket to make everything simple. Now there’s letters and complaints and people online arguing about us like we’re a story to pass the time.”
“You didn’t blow anything up,” Maya said. “You told the truth. The rest is on us. On me. And on a system that can’t tell the difference between a hazard and a lifeline.”
Lena’s gaze moved between them. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “Besides refreshing the fundraiser and arguing with strangers who think they know my father from a two-minute video?”
“You’re his daughter,” Maya said. “Are you still listed as his emergency contact?”
Lena nodded slowly. “I am now,” she said. “They made me sign a stack of forms when he came in. Why?”
“Because to make Buddy part of any kind of program, we need clear ownership,” Maya replied. “Right now, everything’s in a gray area. If you’re willing, you could become his official person on paper. That gives us one less excuse for them to use against us.”
Lena looked at her father. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something he refused to let fall. “You want me to adopt your dog?” she said, half teasing, half stunned.
“He was never mine to own,” Frank said, voice hoarse. “He just picked my couch and stuck with it. If you can give his name somewhere to live after I’m gone… I won’t argue.”
The silence that followed held a thousand unspoken apologies and almosts. Finally, Lena nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I can’t take him home yet. My landlord would have a heart attack. But I can sign whatever it takes to keep him from ending up in a cage with a ticking clock over his head.”
Maya felt something inside her steady. The clock was still ticking, but at least now they weren’t standing still listening to it. They were moving. They were doing something.
As she left the hospital, the sky outside had shifted to that flat, colorless twilight that made everything look temporary. Her phone buzzed as she reached her car. It was Sarah, sending a link.
The local reporter’s story about Frank and Buddy had been picked up by a bigger outlet. The headline asked what would happen to the dog when his owner died. The comments were already stacking up by the hundreds.
Maya read the first few, a mix of kindness, judgment, and raw grief from people who had lost their own old dogs. Somewhere between the lines, she saw it clearly: people hadn’t just fallen for a blind dog and a stubborn old man. They’d fallen for what they represented in a country that was very good at looking away.
People wanted a different ending for this story.
Now she just had to find one that could survive a rulebook.