Biker Was Crying Over A Thing In That Blue Towel And I Had To Pull Over To See What Broke This Tough Man

“I almost didn’t hear her over my engine,” he said. “One second later and I’d have missed her. I think someone upstairs wanted me to find her.”

When the vet said the surgery was successful, Nomad cried again. Happy tears.

She’d stay five days, then go home with him. Six weeks of recovery, therapy, medication. He took notes like he was preparing for the most important job of his life.

I drove him back to his bike at sunset. Before he got out, he turned to me. “Chris, you changed your whole day for a stranger and a dog. That’s rare. That’s real. If you ever need anything, you call me.” He handed me a card.

“What’ll you name her?” I asked.

He smiled. “Hope. Because that’s what she is. Hope that there’s still good in the world. Hope that we can save what’s broken. Hope that it’s not too late to make things right.”

I watched him ride off into the sunset, white beard flying behind him, and thought about all the times I’d judged people by how they looked.

All the times I’d assumed the worst.

Nomad had more compassion in his little finger than I had in my whole body.

Six weeks later, he sent me a photo. Hope was standing on all four legs, tail wagging, tongue out in a big dog smile. She wore a pink collar.

The text said: “Hope says thank you to Uncle Chris. She’s home.”

I cried when I saw it. Still do, sometimes.

Because that day on Highway 52, I learned that heroes don’t always look the way we expect.Continue reading…