When I was very small, my father needed surgery. My mother went to the hospital to be with him, and my grandmother stayed with my sister and me. What happened next, she told us for the rest of her life. At the hour the operation began, Pif started pacing our kitchen. Corner to corner. Back and forth. He refused food. He refused water. Hour after hour, he kept a vigil no one taught him and no one could explain. And late that night — when my father, miles away in a hospital bed, finally came around — Pif stopped. He ate. He drank. He rested. Nobody told that dog anything. He just knew. And he loved my father enough to keep watch until he was safe.