“Please save Daisy. She’s all I have left. Daddy says she has to die but I know angels ride motorcycles. I prayed you’d find her. There’s $7.43 in her collar. It’s all my tooth fairy money. Please don’t let her die alone. Love, Madison, age 7.”
But what was written next frightened me as the owner was not………
I was wrong.
Tuesday night. Actually, Wednesday morning. 3 AM. Riding back from visiting my brother in hospice. Cancer. Another damn cancer story. I was angry at the world, at God, at the unfairness of watching good people die slowly.
The Harley started making a weird noise near the old Cedar Creek Bridge. The one nobody uses since they built the highway. I pulled over to check it. That’s when I heard it.
Whimpering. Soft. Like something trying not to make noise but unable to help itself.
I followed the sound. There, chained to the bridge support beam, was a Golden Retriever. Beautiful dog. Well-groomed. Collar with tags. But thin. Too thin. And that tumor. God, that tumor. Size of a softball hanging from her belly.
She saw me and started wagging. Not the excited wag of a healthy dog. The grateful wag of something that thought it was going to die alone.
“Hey, girl,” I said, approaching slowly. “What are you doing here?”
