Jeff Mitchell

In a children's hospital in Boston, I shared an elevator with an officer wearing an official photo badge on his chest. His badge read Captain Pancake. Director of Morale. Captain Pancake was a ninety pound Golden Retriever who was currently trying to eat his own leash. In my land, elite guards do not drool on the sandals of strangers. Captain Pancake drooled on both of mine and then sat directly on my left foot so I could not escape. On the fourth floor, his handler led him into the room of a six year old girl with a bald head and clear tubes taped to her small arm. Her mother stood by the window with dark circles under her eyes. "She hasn't spoken or smiled in five days," the mother whispered. "She won't let any of the nurses touch her." The instant Captain Pancake stepped across the threshold, the clumsy dog vanished. He walked across the cold floor without making a sound. He did not bark. He laid his heavy golden chin gently on the edge of the mattress, two inches from the little girl's fingers, and looked up at her with warm brown eyes. Slowly, the girl reached out and buried her hand in his long furry ear. Captain Pancake closed his eyes, let out a long breath, and immediately produced a loud, ridiculous snore that sounded like an old farm tractor starting in winter. The little girl burst out laughing. Her mother dropped into the bedside chair and wept into her hands. For forty minutes, ninety pounds of golden fur did what ten doctors and a million dollars of machines could not do. When Captain Pancake left the room, I bowed deeply in the corridor. He tried to eat my sleeve. I let him.