Then， five years ago， our lives were turned upside down when Dad suffered two major strokes in the space of a month， caused by a massive brain haemorrhage. At the time he was in Hong Kong on business and， luckily， my Mum and sister were with him. I was in Melbourne， studying at university， but left Coffee with a relative and hopped on the first plane as soon as I heard the news.
Unfortunately， the prognosis wasn’t good and the doctors told us that， most likely， Dad would not pull through. For four long months it was touch and go as he remained unconscious in intensive care. Mentally he was non-responsive. However， physically he was still able to move and would frequently thrash about trying to pull out the vital tubes that were keeping him alive. Within a 30-minute period， he would make an average of five attempts. His movements were often swift and strong and we had to take turns standing by his bedside， on guard， to protect him. We were exhausted after every “shift” but grateful， despite the doctor’s warning， that he was still alive.
As the months went by， I started to miss Coffee terribly. I couldn’t help but talk about him constantly， often recalling the silly little things he would do. Although this no doubt irritated the other visitors， Mum and my sister enjoyed the light relief immensely and any Coffee stories would always make them laugh. In fact， it was the only way we kept up our spirits during those tense four months， and the intensive care nurses often commented that we were the happiest family in one of the most serious situations they’ve ever seen.
In time， we became able to assist the nurses in conducting their routine check-ups on Dad. One way of testing whether there was any improvement in his mental state was to ask basic questions that would generate yes or no answers from him.“Is your name Francis？” “Are you a man？” “Do you know where you are？” These were some of the questions we would ask him daily. Sadly， we never got the answers we were hoping for.
Then one day， as I was reeling off the standard list of questions， my mind started to wander and， before I knew it， I was thinking about Coffee again. Without even realising it， I blurted out： “Is Coffee a tiger？” Thinking I was being silly， Mum turned to tell me off but stopped suddenly when she saw Dad move： slowly， the corner of his mouth began to turn up. Even under the tape that kept the oxygen tube in his mouth， it was unmistakable： he was smiling. It was the first sign in four months that Dad had showed any awareness of what we were saying.
After that， Dad’s condition stabilised and he was moved out of intensive care. However， there was still a long， hard road ahead. Over the next nine months， Dad had to go through extensive physiotherapy to relearn all the basic things we take for granted. Even sitting up for longer than five minutes was difficult for him. Dad， who was a fiercely independent man with a successful career before all this happened， found it increasingly frustrating and degrading. The only thing that ever bought a smile to his face was talk of Coffee.
Somehow， Coffee wriggled his way into most of our conversations.
I would remind him of how Coffee， for some reason， hates walking on grass. We had a massive backyard in Melbourne and every time we threw a ball， Coffee would run along the edge of the garden， on the brick pavers， to the closest point where the ball had landed， tip-toe onto the grass to pick it up， then run back along the pavers again.
When Mum， my sister and I would massage Dad’s arms and legs to prevent his muscles from weakening， Mum would often comment that he was the luckiest man alive to have three women massaging him， and I would always chime in：“Now all you need is Coffee to give you a ‘lick-lick’foot massage！” No matter how many times I repeated this comment， the whole family would laugh.
It took almost a full year of extensive physiotherapy and rehabilitation before Dad was finally well enough to return home to Australia —and it was a homecoming I’ll never forget. Naturally， Coffee was there waiting for Dad and， with no idea that he wasn’t as steady on his feet as before， Coffee promptly launched himself into Dad’s arms， almost bowling him over. But Dad didn’t seem to mind one bit： the smile on his face was the most beautiful I’ve ever seen and the tears in his eyes said it all.
It seems unbelievable now to look back and realise that， during the worst crisis my family ever faced， it was humorous stories about a silly little dog which kept us all sane， but that’s the truth. It’s not just smart dogs that save the day—Coffee is living proof of that.
我的小狗名字叫“咖啡”，是一只黑棕相间的澳洲狗。它算不上特别聪明，也不怎么听话，甚至对我们也不是特别忠心。只有它乐意的时候，或是我手里拿着食物的时候，它才会听到我叫它后跑过来。它从来不会准确理解我的意思，我不高兴或受伤的时候，它也丝毫没有察觉。因此，你经常听说的那些聪明的小狗的故事，从来不会发生在它身上，它根本不可能在危急时刻拯救我。
但是，我不得不承认咖啡养成这个毛病在很大程度上要归结于它的成长经历：它被宠坏了，而父亲就是“罪魁祸首”。尽管父亲会提高嗓门说话让我和妹妹感到害怕，但是，无论咖啡有多淘气，我从来没听到他对咖啡大喊大叫过。事实上，只要咖啡朝饼干盒子看一眼，父亲立马就会给它拿饼干。我们抗议这种不公平待遇的时候，父亲脸上总会心虚地傻笑。很长时间以来，我们都开玩笑说如果父亲有儿子的话，咖啡是最合适不过了。
五年以前，我们的生活发生了翻天覆地的变化。仅一个月的工夫，父亲就遭遇了两次脑溢血的重创。那时他正在香港出差，不过所幸母亲和妹妹陪在他身边。我当时正在墨尔本念大学，一得到消息，我就把咖啡委托给一位亲戚照看，登上第一班飞往香港的飞机。
非常不幸，父亲的病情预后不乐观，医生通知我们，父亲很可能无法康复。在四个月漫长的时间里，父亲毫无知觉，一直在接受重症护理，病情一触即发、十分危险。尽管父亲精神上没什么反应，但是他的身体却能动，他经常会挣扎着试图拔掉那些维系他生命的管子。仅半小时之内，他平均就会作出五次这样的努力。他的动作迅速有力，这样，我们不得不轮流站在他的床边守护他。尽管每次“轮岗”之后我们都很疲惫，但是，我们却很高兴，因为父亲还活着，虽然医生已经做出了那样的诊断。
几个月过去了，我开始疯狂地想念咖啡。我会忍不住经常谈到咖啡，回想起它做的那些蠢事。无疑这会使其他的探访者感到厌烦，但是母亲和妹妹却非常喜欢这短暂的放松，任何关于咖啡的故事都会逗得她们捧腹大笑。事实上，这是我们在那艰难的四个月里，保持良好精神状态的惟一方法。重病护理中心的护士常说我们是她们所见过的在最糟糕的环境中却最乐观的一个家庭。
经过一段时间以后，我们还能协助护士给父亲做常规检查。测试父亲精神状态是否有所改善的一种方法是问一些基本的问题，能用“是”或“不是”回答。例如：“你是叫弗朗西斯吗？”“你是男性吗？”“你知道你在哪里吗？”这些是我们每天都要问的一些问题。但是结果很让人沮丧，我们从来没有听到过我们想要的答案。
后来有一天，在不断地重复问那些例行的问题时，我走神了，在我意识到这一点之前，我一直都在想念咖啡。甚至在我还没有意识到这点时我就脱口而出：“咖啡是只老虎吗？”母亲觉得我这样很傻，转过身来正要数落我，却突然停住了，因为她看到父亲动了，父亲的嘴角开始慢慢地在动。虽然间隔着将输氧管固定在父亲口中的胶带，但是我们绝对不会看错：父亲在微笑！这是四个月以来，父亲对我们的谈话第一次做出反应。
后来，父亲的状况开始稳定下来，他搬出了重症护理中心。但是，前面的路依然特别漫长，特别艰难。随后的九个月里，父亲不得不接受全面物理治疗来重新学习所有我们认为是轻而易举的事情。对父亲来说，持续坐五分钟以上都是一件非常困难的事情。发病之前，父亲是一位成功人士，非常独立。但是现在，他觉得这些让他灰心失望、倍感受挫。惟一能够让他露出一丝微笑的事情就是跟他谈论咖啡。
不知怎的，咖啡就这样悄悄成为了我们谈论的主题。
