“Because your daughter believes in miracles. Because she believes bikers are angels. Because she’s seven and already lost her mom. She doesn’t need to lose anything else.”
We brought Daisy home that weekend. She was walking better. Still weak but that tail didn’t stop wagging. When she saw Madison, she cried. Actually cried. Dogs cry, don’t let anyone tell you different.
“Thank you, Mr. Biker Angel,” she said.
“Just Bear.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bear Angel.”
Close enough.
I started stopping by weekly. Bringing Daisy’s medicine. Dog food. Groceries that I’d claim were “extras” from my shopping. Madison’s dad, Tom, was proud but not stupid. He knew what I was doing.
“I’m going to pay you back.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Madison would run out when she heard my Harley. “Mr. Bear Angel! Daisy walked all the way to the corner today! Daisy ate all her breakfast! Daisy played with Duck!” (Duck was the stuffed toy.)
Six months passed. Daisy was still alive. Growing stronger. The cancer was still there, we knew that. But she was living. Playing. Being loved.
My brother died month seven. I was wrecked. Hadn’t visited Tom and Madison in two weeks. When I finally went back, Madison was sitting on the porch with Daisy, both wearing matching bandanas.
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