I almost rode right past her. A golden shadow chained to the cold metal railing, whimpering so softly the wind nearly stole the sound. It was 3 AM, the loneliest hour, and someone had left this beautiful old girl to die alone.
Her fur was matted and she had a tumor the size of a softball on her belly, but when she saw me, her tail gave a weak thump-thump-thump against the concrete. They’d left her with a bowl of water and a worn-out stuffed duck, like that somehow made the abandonment okay. The first note tucked into her collar was exactly what you’d expect—a cowardly scrawl about not being able to afford the vet. I almost tore it up in disgust.
But then I saw it. Folded into a tiny, tight square behind the first one. A piece of notebook paper, written on in crayon.
The shaky letters read, “Please save Daisy. She’s all I have left. Daddy says she has to die but I know angels ride motorcycles. I prayed you’d find her.” Taped to the paper was a small plastic baggie with $7.43 inside. “It’s all my tooth fairy money,” the note continued. “Please don’t let her die alone. Love, Madison, age 7.”
My heart shattered. But it was the hastily added postscript at the very bottom, almost scribbled out, that made my blood run cold. It had nothing to do with the dog.
It said, “He hurt mommy too.”
My name is Arthur, and I’m a vet tech. I work the graveyard shift at an emergency animal hospital, which is why I was on that bridge at that ungodly hour. My motorcycle is my only escape from the constant cycle of life and death I see every night.
But this was different. This wasn’t just a sick animal. This was a cry for help, scribbled in purple crayon.
I looked at the old dog, Daisy. Her brown eyes were full of a gentle wisdom, a quiet plea that went far beyond her own pain. She licked my hand, her tongue dry and rough.
I couldn’t leave her, and I couldn’t just take her. She was a big girl, and in her condition, moving her would be difficult. I pulled out my phone and called the only person I knew who would answer at this time without question.
“Sarah, it’s Art. I need the truck.”
Sarah was the head veterinarian at my clinic. She was tough, no-nonsense, and had a heart bigger than anyone I knew. She just grunted an affirmative and hung up.
