Margaret, 90, had gotten outside twice before her son Keith installed cameras. He expected to find footage of the problem.
He found something else. Every single night for nine months their golden retriever Flynn had already been at the front door before Margaret reached the hallway.
Blocking. Redirecting. Taking her sleeve and guiding her back to bed. Thirty-seven documented nights. Not once had she made it outside. Margaret's neurologist watched the recording and said: "I have worked in memory care for twenty-three years. Flynn is performing structured redirection. He built every component of it on his own." Keith said: "He figured it out the first night."
The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.