Inside the collar, hidden in plastic, were $7.43 in coins—Madison’s child’s offering.
I knelt on the cold concrete, tears in my eyes. That little girl thought $7.43 could save her dog. That angels rode motorcycles. That prayers could matter.
“Your little girl loves you,” I whispered. “And she’s right. Sometimes angels ride motorcycles.”
I called my longtime vet, Dr. Amy.
“Amy? It’s Bear. Sorry to call at 3 AM but I found a dog… dumped, sick, a child’s note involved.”
“Bear… how bad?”
“Bad. But she’s alive. Please help.”
“Bring her in. I’ll be here.”
I carried Daisy to my truck. She lay in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on me. I retrieved my bike later.
Dr. Amy greeted us at the clinic. Her face fell.
“Do it anyway.”
The surgery lasted hours. I waited in the lobby, clutching Madison’s note, picturing her crying for her dog. Her crayon drawings of defenders and angels swirled in my mind.
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