It was a German Shepherd puppy, maybe four months old, covered in blood and dirt. One of her back legs was bent at an impossible angle. Her breathing was shallow, her little body trembling.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“Someone hit her and drove off,” he said, his voice breaking. “She crawled into the ditch to die. I heard her crying when I rode past.”
I felt ashamed. Here I was, judging him for his leather and tattoos, while he stopped his bike to save a life.
“My car’s faster than your bike. Let me drive you,” I blurted.
His eyes widened, then he nodded. “Thank you. God, thank you.”
We raced to the emergency vet. He held the puppy close, whispering, “Stay with me, baby girl. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”
“Name’s Nomad,” he told me quietly. “Robert’s real name. Been riding thirty-eight years. Never passed an animal in need.”
At the vet, we learned she had a broken femur, road rash, and mild shock—but no internal bleeding. She’d need surgery and weeks of recovery. No collar, no chip. Stray, abandoned, or dumped. Likely no home waiting for her.
“How much for everything?” Nomad asked.
“About three thousand dollars,” the vet said.
He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll pay it. All of it. She didn’t give up. I’m not giving up on her.”
That day, I watched a man I once feared give everything—time, money, heart—for a tiny, broken puppy.
