The tenderness in his movements stopped me cold. I pulled over without thinking. I had to know what could make a man like that cry.
He didn’t notice me at first. He was rocking gently, whispering words I couldn’t hear. As I got closer, I saw what he held: a German Shepherd puppy, maybe four months old, bloodied and filthy. One of her back legs was twisted unnaturally. Her breathing was shallow and fast.
The biker looked up. Tears streamed into his beard, his eyes red and raw. “Someone hit her and kept going,” he said, voice cracking. “She dragged herself into the ditch. I heard her crying when I rode past.”Continue reading…
