We’d been waiting at the clinic for almost an hour. The boy—a small, bright-eyed kid in an oversized coat—was swinging his legs, full of energy. What caught my eye was the dog’s vest: “SERVICE DOG — DO NOT PET.”
But this dog, Rocket, was different. He kept glancing at the boy and the door, alert. The boy noticed me looking and smiled.
“His name’s Rocket,” he said. “He saves me.”
When I asked if Rocket was his helper, the boy grew serious.
“Not like that. He tells me things. Before they happen.”
He pointed to the seat beside him. “He told me not to sit there. He said you needed to.”
Goosebumps hit me. I hadn’t told anyone what was in my pocket—test results. I reached in and pulled out the paper. One word: Positive. Cancer.
“You’re scared,” the boy said. “But don’t worry. You’ll get through this.”
I asked why he believed that.
“Rocket says so. He’s never wrong.”
As I stood to go in, the boy gripped my wrist.
“Don’t take the first treatment they offer. Wait for the second.”
I couldn’t forget his words. Later, when the doctor offered standard chemo, I hesitated.
“Any other options?” I asked.
There was a new immunotherapy trial—riskier, less tested. But I waited.
Months later, I got in. It was tough, but it worked. The cancer shrank. I eventually found the boy again.
“You came back!” he said, hugging me.
“I wanted to thank you,” I replied.
“For what?”
“For saving my life.”
He laughed. “That was Rocket.”
When I asked how Rocket knew, the boy said,
“Dogs don’t forget how to listen. Sometimes they help us remember.”
Years later, I stayed in remission. Rocket retired, and the boy grew up. But I never forgot:
Listen. To kids, to dogs, to your gut. The answers might already be there—you just have to hear them.