The tech took her, and Nomad stood there, arms empty, looking lost. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears across weathered cheeks.
We waited together for two hours. He didn’t say much—just sat hunched forward, hands clasped, staring at the floor. I saw his lips moving silently. He was praying.
Nomad sagged with relief. “Thank God.”
“She’s a fighter. Broken femur, road rash, mild shock. No internal bleeding. She’ll need surgery and weeks of recovery. Do you know who owns her?”
“No collar, no chip,” he said. “I checked. She’s either dumped or a stray.”
“She’ll go to the county shelter after treatment,” the vet said. “They’ll try to find her a home, but with the medical bills…”
She didn’t finish. We knew what she meant.
Nomad stood. “How much for everything? Surgery, recovery, all of it?”
“Probably three thousand dollars. Maybe more.”
He didn’t flinch. “I’ll pay it. All of it. And when she’s healed, she’s coming home with me.”Continue reading…
