Biscuit

Every Thursday at two o'clock, the lift doors on the third floor of the children's hospital in Edinburgh opened, and a large golden retriever walked out, wagging his tail. His name was Biscuit. He was eight years old, he wore a blue vest with the words "Therapy Dog" on it, and he was, according to the nurses, the calmest creature in Scotland. His owner, Fiona, was a retired primary school teacher who had trained him for two years before he passed the test to become a volunteer.

The children adored him. Some of them had been in hospital for weeks or even months, undergoing treatments that left them tired, sore and bored. When Biscuit arrived, the atmosphere on the ward changed. Children who had been grumpy all morning started to smile, and exhausted parents sat down for a moment to stroke his soft ears. The doctors had noticed that on Thursday afternoons many patients were less anxious, and some even needed less pain relief.

There was one boy, however, who never came out to see him. His name was Callum. He was ten years old, and he had been admitted after a serious car accident in which he had broken both legs. His injuries were healing well, but something else was not. Since the accident, Callum had refused to speak to anyone: not the doctors, not the nurses, not even his mum. He spent his days staring at the wall, and when people tried to talk to him, he pulled the blanket over his head. The hospital psychologist told his worried mother that he was probably still in shock, and that he needed time, patience and something that made him feel safe.

One Thursday, a nurse called Ade asked Fiona whether Biscuit might visit Callum's room. Fiona agreed, but she insisted on going slowly. She did not take Biscuit to the bed. Instead, she simply sat in a chair by the door, and the dog lay down quietly at her feet. She read a book. Biscuit dozed. After twenty minutes, they left without a word.

They did the same thing the next week, and the week after that. On the third visit, Fiona noticed that Callum had lowered the blanket a little and was watching the dog. On the fourth, when Biscuit let out a long, loud sigh in his sleep, there was a tiny sound from the bed that might have been a laugh. Fiona pretended not to notice, but her heart was racing.

On the fifth Thursday, Biscuit got up, walked slowly over to the bed and rested his chin on the edge of the mattress, as he often did with children who were too ill to sit up. For a long moment nothing happened. Then a small hand came out from under the blanket and touched his head. Biscuit closed his eyes and thumped his tail against the floor.

"What's his name?" Callum whispered. They were the first words he had spoken in almost six weeks. Fiona kept her voice calm, although she could see his mum in the corridor, covering her mouth with her hands. "His name is Biscuit," she said. "He loves having his ears scratched. Would you like to try?"

After that, his progress was slow but steady. Callum started by talking to Biscuit, telling him things in a low voice that nobody else could hear. Then he began talking to Fiona, then to the nurses, and finally, one evening, he told his mum about the accident and how frightened he had been. The psychologist said that the dog had given him a way to feel close to someone without the pressure of having to explain himself.

Callum went home in early summer, walking with crutches. Before he left, he drew a picture of Biscuit and asked the nurses to hang it on the wall of the ward, so that other children would know who they had to look forward to. It is still there, next to the lift. And every Thursday at two o'clock, when the doors open, Biscuit stops in front of it for a moment, as if he is checking that it has not moved.