Biker found the Golden Retriever chained to the bridge at 3 AM with a note that said “I can’t afford to put her down. Please don’t let her suffer.”
The dog was maybe eight years old. Tumor the size of a softball on her belly. Barely breathing.
Someone had left water and her favorite toy, a stuffed duck that was worn from years of love. But it was the second note in the collar that changed everything.
I’d stopped to check my bike when I heard whimpering. Years of riding, never seen anything like it.
This beautiful dog, dying, abandoned, but still wagging her tail when she saw me. The collar had two notes.
The first about putting her down. The second was different. Child’s handwriting. Crayon on notebook paper.
“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. There’s $7.43 in her collar. It’s all my tooth fairy money. Please don’t let her die alone. Love, Madison, age 7.”
But what was written next frightened me as the owner was not………
Fifty-eight years old. Been riding forty-two years. Thought I’d seen everything.
I was wrong.
Tuesday night. Actually, Wednesday morning. 3 AM. Riding back from visiting my brother in hospice. Cancer. Another damn cancer story. I was angry at the world, at God, at the unfairness of watching good people die slowly.
The Harley started making a weird noise near the old Cedar Creek Bridge. The one nobody uses since they built the highway. I pulled over to check it. That’s when I heard it.
Whimpering. Soft. Like something trying not to make noise but unable to help itself.
I followed the sound. There, chained to the bridge support beam, was a Golden Retriever. Beautiful dog. Well-groomed. Collar with tags. But thin. Too thin. And that tumor. God, that tumor. Size of a softball hanging from her belly.
She saw me and started wagging. Not the excited wag of a healthy dog. The grateful wag of something that thought it was going to die alone.
“Hey, girl,” I said, approaching slowly. “What are you doing here?”
She tried to stand. Couldn’t. The tumor was too heavy. But she kept wagging, kept looking at me with those brown eyes that said “I’m a good dog. I’m a good dog.”
There was a bowl of water. Still fresh. A blanket. Her toy – a stuffed duck that had seen better days. And taped to the beam, a note.
“Her name is Daisy. She has cancer. The vet wants $3,000 for surgery but says she might die anyway. I can’t afford it. I can’t afford $400 to put her down either. Please, whoever finds her, don’t let her suffer. Do what I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Daisy. You deserved better.”
I was about to call animal control when I saw something else. A second note, tucked into her collar. Different handwriting. Child’s scrawl in purple crayon. Continue reading…