A Story Set in a Hospital

Every place smells its own way. Any good dog will tell you that. Everything has a scent unlike anything else in the world. The kitchen, for example, always smells like the buns Mommy bakes, and Mrs. D — the old lady everyone oddly calls “the neighbour” — smells of her garden and the ancient yarn of her lavender cardigan. It’s impossible to confuse a forest lane at the edge of the city with a park square, even though Daddy insists on calling them the same thing. (Sometimes I think he can’t smell properly — poor thing. I tried to explain the obvious difference to him, but after two years I gave up.)

Unlike him, I am a real professional. Like Ellie — she’s a professional too. She always understands me, unlike anyone else. Ellie is my human. And every dog would do anything for their human — everyone knows that, too. Even coming here — to a place where everything smells wrong.

And not only smells. For some reason, everything here is wrong: the light is too bright, the floor too clean, and the people — why are there so many of them in strange, identical suits? It feels as if they’re all walking around in the same pyjamas. And yes, there’s also that odd toy hanging around their necks, like a rope with a ball at the end.

I found her anyway. Of course I did. A human can hide behind walls and doors and curtains, but a scent tells the truth.

Ellie is lying on a tall, narrow bed that smells like many other humans and none of them at once. She is too still. Ellie is usually full of motion — even when she sleeps, her hands twitch like they’re throwing sticks in dreams.

There’s something in her arm. Something that doesn’t belong there. I don’t like it. I don’t like any of the things attached to her, the clear snakes and the softly beeping box that talks when no one asked it to. Every time it makes a noise, the people in pyjamas look at Ellie and then at each other.

I put my nose against her hand. Her skin is warm, but not the right warm. Like it borrowed heat from somewhere else.

‘Daisy,’ she whispers, barely audible.

I climb onto the bed even though I know I’m not supposed to. The pyjama-people make the sharp-smell noise with their mouths, but Ellie makes a different sound, and they stop. See? Even professionals listen to Ellie.

I press myself against her side so she can feel my heartbeat. This is important. When a human is confused, you lend them your rhythm. Dogs are very good at this.

‘My Daisy...’

I wag once, carefully, so I don’t disturb the snakes. And at this point everything becomes almost right. She is right here. I can feel her. I can smell her.

Every good dog knows this rule, too: you never let your human be alone in a place that smells wrong.

And I won’t.