I was on my way home from work when I saw the motorbike parked on the side of Highway 52.
To be honest, my first thought was to keep going. I’ve always assumed that motorcyclists were bad guys, like the kind of individuals my mum told me to keep away from. But something made me stop.
That’s when I watched him carefully pull something small and broken out of the ditch. He carefully wrapped it in a blue and white striped towel and held it against his leather vest like it was made of glass.
The way this huge man cradled whatever was in that towel—so gently and carefully—made my heart race. I stopped without thinking. I needed to know what could make a man like that cry.
At first, he didn’t even see me coming. He was swaying a little and saying something I couldn’t hear.
As I came closer, I could see that he was holding a German Shepherd puppy that was around four months old and coated in blood and mud. One of its back legs was bent in a very bad way. The puppy was breathing quickly and shallowly.
“Is
“Someone hit her and drove away,” he added, his voice breaking. “She crawled into the ditch to die.” I heard her crying as I rode by.
I felt bad when he gazed back down at the puppy with such deep pain. I was a guy who had crossed the street to stay away from men who looked like him, and this biker had stopped his motorcycle to save a dying animal.
He
At that moment, I made a choice that astonished me. “My car goes faster than your bike. I’ll drive you.”
The biker’s head jerked up. He looked at me for a second like he was trying to figure out if I was real. Then he nodded rapidly. “Thank you.” “Thank you, God.”
We both ran to my car. He got into the back seat and held the puppy against his chest. I drove faster than I ever have before, looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds.
The biker was crouched over the puppy and stroked her head with one huge, tattooed finger. He said, “Stay with me, baby girl.” “Please stay with me.” You’re going to be fine. I promise you that everything will be fine.
The puppy whined, which was a feeble, sad sound. The rider produced a sound that sounded like a grown man crying and praying at the same time. He said, “I got you.” “I understand. You’re safe now.” No one will ever hurt you again.
I went through a red light. I didn’t mind. “What’s your name?” I asked since I had to break the horrible stillness. “Nomad,” he said without looking up.
“That’s what they call me.” Robert is my real name. I’ve been biking for thirty-eight years. Never walked past an animal that needed help. Not possible. “Can’t do it.”
“I am Chris,” I said. “And I’m sorry I almost didn’t stop.” Nomad looked up at me in the mirror. “You stopped. That’s the most important thing. “Chris, you’re a good man.”
I didn’t think I was a good man. I felt like an idiot for judging someone based on their motorcycle, leather, and patches.
In fourteen minutes, we got to the emergency vet. Before I even stopped the car, Nomad was out of it and sprinting towards the entryway with the puppy in his arms. At the entryway, a vet tech welcomed him with a gurney.
“Hit by a car,” Nomad answered hastily. “Broken back leg, maybe bleeding within. At least an hour has passed since she left.
The vet tech took the puppy, and Nomad stood there with his arms hanging at his sides, looking bewildered. I saw him wipe his face with the back of his palm, which made his old cheeks look much worse.
We waited together for two hours. Nomad didn’t say much. He merely sat there with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, looking at the floor. At one point, I watched his lips move without making a sound.
He was saying a prayer. The vet finally came out. She looked tired and was probably in her thirties. “The puppy’s fine,” she added.
Nomad’s whole body relaxed. “Thank God.” Thank God. The vet smiled.
“She fights.” A broken femur, minor road rash, some shock, but no blood within. She will need surgery and weeks to heal. Do you know who she belongs to?
Nomad said, “No collar, no chip.” “I looked.” Someone left her behind; perhaps she’s a stray. The vet nodded.
“After treatment, she’ll go to the county shelter.” They’ll try to locate her a place to live, but with the medical fees and time it takes to heal…
She stopped talking. We both understood what she meant. People wouldn’t want to adopt a pet that was hurt horribly. She would be put down.
Nomad got up. “How much for everything?” The surgery, the rehab, everything? The vet seemed shocked.
“With surgery, drugs, and follow-up appointments… likely three thousand dollars. “Maybe more.”
Three thousand bucks. I looked at Nomad’s face. He didn’t move. “I’ll pay it.” Everything. “When she’s better, she’ll come home with me.”
The vet’s eyes got big. “Sir, that’s very kind of you, but—”
“But nothing,” Nomad said with a lot of force. “That puppy fought to stay alive until someone found her.” She didn’t stop trying. I’m not going to stop trying with her. “Let me know what I need to sign.”
I sat in my plastic chair and watched as this biker I had been scared of thirty minutes previously promised to pay thousands of dollars and take care of an animal he had found in a ditch for months.
The vet brought some paperwork. Nomad took out an old wallet and gave up a credit card without thinking.
He turned to me as they were working on everything. “Chris, I can’t thank you enough for the ride.” You did as much to save her life as I did.
I said, “You’re the one who has to pay for everything.” “You are the hero here.” Nomad shook his head.
“She is the hero.” She lived. She didn’t give up. I’m the one who gets to offer her a second opportunity.
The vet returned. “Before we get ready for surgery, you can see her for a minute.” She is awake. Nomad followed her right away.
I waited, and when he came back five minutes later, his eyes were crimson again. He added in a husky voice, “She wagged her tail when she saw me.” “Her whole back end is broken, but she still wagged her tail.”
That hurt me in some way. I started to cry in the emergency vet waiting area, and Nomad hugged me.
The big biker I was scared of hugged me, and we both cried over a puppy we didn’t know existed an hour earlier. Nomad remarked softly, “The world is hard enough.” “We have to be soft when we can.”
It took three hours for the surgery to be done. We spoke and drank bad coffee while we waited. Nomad told me about his life: he was a Vietnam veteran, a mechanic, and a widower for twelve years. He had two adult kids who he didn’t see much anymore. He had been biking to clear his mind when he heard the puppy scream.
He said, “I almost didn’t hear her over my engine.” “One second later, I would have completely missed her.” I assume someone up there wants me to find her.
Nomad cried again when the vet finally came out and said the procedure went well. This time, tears of joy. He may take the pet home after five days.
Six weeks of rest, physical rehabilitation, and medicine. Nomad wrote down everything like he was getting ready for the biggest job of his life.
I drove him back to his bike at sunset. He turned to me before he got out. “Chris, you changed your whole day for a dog and a stranger.”
That’s not common. That’s true. You can call me anytime you need something, anything at all. He gave me a card with his phone number.
“What will you call her?” I asked. Nomad grinned for the first time since I met him. “Hope,” he said. “That’s what she is.”
Hope that there is still good in the world. I hope we can fix what’s broken.” Hope it’s not too late to fix things.”
I saw him ride off into the sunset, his white beard blowing behind him. I thought of all the times I had judged individuals by how they appeared.
Every time I saw someone unusual, I thought the worst. This motorcyclist, the one I was scared of, had more compassion in his tiny finger than I did in my whole body.
Nomad emailed me a picture six weeks later. Hope was standing on all fours, wagging her tail, and sticking her tongue out in a big dog smile.
She had on a small pink collar. The text said, “Hope says thank you to Uncle Chris.” She’s back home.
When I saw that, I cried. I still cry sometimes when I think about it. That day on Highway 52 taught me that heroes don’t always look like we think they should.
They sometimes have motorcycles, leather vests, and white beards. They will sometimes stop everything to save something small and damaged. They sometimes teach guys like me that the people who look the scariest might have the largest hearts.
I always think about Nomad and Hope when I see a biker on the road. And I never, ever judge someone by how they look.
Because the man I almost drove past that day was one of the best men I’ve ever met.
And Hope, the dog who should have died in a ditch, is living her finest life with a motorcyclist who loved her before he even knew her name.
