At 3 AM, a biker found the Golden Retriever tied to the bridge with a note that said, “I can’t afford to put her down.” Don’t let her suffer, please.
The dog was probably around eight years old. There was a tumor the size of a softball on her stomach. Not able to breathe.
Someone had left her a stuffed duck, which was her favorite toy, and water. The duck had been loved for years. But the second note in the collar changed everything.
I heard whimpering when I was checking my bike. I’ve been riding for years and have never seen anything like it.
This beautiful dog was dying and had been left alone, but she still wagged her tail when she saw me. There were two notes on the collar.
The first was about putting her down. The second one was not the same. The child’s writing. Crayon on paper for notebooks.
“Please save Daisy.” I just have her left. Daddy says she needs to die, but I know that angels ride bikes. I prayed that you would locate her. Her collar has $7.43 in it. All of this is my tooth fairy money. Please don’t let her die by herself.” Love, Madison, 7 years old.”
But what was written next scared me because the owner wasn’t…
Fifty-eight years old. Riding for forty-two years. I thought I’d seen it all.
I was mistaken.
Night of Tuesday. It’s actually Wednesday morning. Three AM. Coming back from visiting my brother in hospice. Cancer. Another cancer story. I was mad at the world, at God, and at how unfair it was to see good people die slowly.
Near the old Cedar Creek Bridge, the Harley began to make a strange noise. The one that hasn’t been used since the freeway was built. I stopped to look at it. I heard it then.
Whimpering. Gentle. Like something that wants to be quiet but can’t help it.
I went after the sound. A Golden Retriever was chained to the support beam of the bridge. What a lovely dog. Well-kept. Collar with labels. But skinny. Not thick enough. And that growth. Oh my God, that tumor. A softball-sized thing hanging from her belly.
When she saw me, she started to wag. Not the happy wag of a healthy dog. The thankful wag of something that believed it would die alone.
“Hey, girl,” I remarked as I walked up carefully. “What are you doing here?”
She tried to get up. Couldn’t. The tumor was too big. But she kept wagging her tail and staring at me with those brown eyes that proclaimed, “I’m a good dog.” “I’m a good dog.”
There was a bowl of water. Still new. A blanket. Her toy was a plush duck that had seen better days. And a letter was taped to the beam.
“Daisy is her name. She has cancer. The vet wants $3,000 for surgery, but she believes the dog might die anyhow. I don’t have the money. I can’t afford to put her down for $400 either. Please, whoever finds her, don’t let her hurt. Do what I couldn’t do. I’m sorry, Daisy. “You deserved better.”
I was ready to contact animal control when I saw something else. A second message was hidden in her collar. Different ways of writing. Child’s purple crayon scribble.
“Please save Daisy.” Since Mommy departed to heaven, she’s all I have left. I know angels ride motorcycles because Mommy told me so, but Daddy says she needs to die. I prayed that you would locate her. Her collar has $7.43 in it. All of this is my tooth fairy money. Please don’t let her die by herself. Love, Madison, 7 years old. P.S. Daisy understands how to shake hands and adores peanut butter.
There were $7.43 in quarters and dimes inside the collar, wrapped in plastic.
I cried when I sat down on that chilly concrete. This girl thought $7.43 would help her dog. I thought angels rode bikes. I thought prayers worked.
Daisy crawled over with that tumor and put her head in my lap.
I said, “Your little girl loves you.”” And she’s right. Angels do ride motorcycles sometimes.
I phoned the vet. Amy. I’ve known her for twenty years.
“Amy? Bear. I know it’s 3 AM, but I really need you.
“What’s wrong?”
“Found a dog.” Left behind. Has cancer. “Kid involved.”
“How bad?”
“Not good. But I need you to give it a shot.
“Bear, if it’s that bad—”
“Amy, a child who is seven years old, offered her tooth fairy money to save this dog. We’re doing our best.
Be quiet. Then, “Get her in.”
I had to put Daisy in my pickup. Later, I went back for the bike. She sat in the passenger seat with her head on my leg and never took her eyes off my face.
We met Amy at her clinic. She shook her head when she saw Daisy.
“Bear, this is advanced.” “Even if I take out the tumor, it probably has spread.”
“But you can take it off?”
“Maybe.” But it costs a lot. And she’s not strong. “She might not make it through the surgery.”
“How much does it cost?”
“With everything?” Three to four thousand.
I glanced at Daisy. Thought about Madison. Seven years old. She lost her mom. About to lose her dog.
“Do it.”
“Bear, you don’t even know this family.”
“I know a little girl is asking for a miracle.” That’s enough.
It took four hours for the surgery. I sat in the lobby and read the purple crayon note over and over. There were illustrations on the back that Madison had drawn. Figures with sticks. A girl, a dog, and an angel on a motorcycle.
Amy came out tired. “She made it. The tumor is gone. But Bear, it had spread. I got what I could, but…
“How long?”
“Maybe six months.” A year, maybe. “Maybe longer if we’re lucky.”
“That’s an extra six months to a year for her.”
“You spent four thousand dollars on a stranger’s dog for six months?”
“I’m spending four thousand dollars on a little girl’s hope.”
Daisy took a long time to get better. I took her home. Put a bed in my living room. At first, she couldn’t walk very far. But each day, it gets a bit stronger. That tail wagged a little harder every day.
Now I had to look for Madison.
The tags on the collar have an address. A nice neighborhood that used to be better. The kind where folks were barely hanging on. I knocked on the door at supper time, thinking someone would be there.
Someone answered. Looks tired. Clothes that are dirty. Eyes that look suspicious.
“Yeah?”
“You lost a dog?”
His face turned white. “You found Daisy? Is she…did you…”
“She’s still alive.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “I wasn’t able to do it. Could not put her down. But I couldn’t stand to see her in pain either. I’m not a bad guy. I just… I have two jobs, and it’s still not enough. Last year, my wife died. Bills for medical care. I’m going to die. And now Daisy… Madison doesn’t know. Thinks Daisy ran away. It’s killing her, but it’s better than knowing I left her—
“DADDY!” “A small voice from within.” “Who is it?”
Madison showed up. Seven years of age. Pigtails that are blonde. Teeth missing in the front. When she spotted my leather vest, her eyes got big.
“Are you a biker?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you find Daisy? I asked God to send a motorcycle angel to find her. ”
Her dad began to cry. “Madison, sweetie…”
I told her, “She’s at my house.” “She had an operation. The tumor is gone. “She’s getting better.”
Madison yelled. Nothing except delight. Jumped up and down. “I knew it!” I knew that angels rode bikes! Mommy was right!
My dad pulled me aside. “I can’t give you back what you gave me.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“Why would you do this?”
I gave him Madison’s note. He read it and fell apart.
“She took the money from the tooth fairy.” I had no idea she knew Daisy was sick.
“Kids know it all.” The question is, do you want Daisy back?”
“Yes, God. But I can’t pay for her medicine. The vet said, “Even after surgery—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Why?”
“Because your daughter has faith in miracles. She thinks that bikers are angels. Because she lost her mom when she was seven. She doesn’t need to lose anything else.
That weekend, we took Daisy home. She was moving around better. That tail kept wagging, even though she was weak. She cried when she saw Madison. Cried for real. Don’t let anyone tell you that dogs don’t cry.
Madison was kind. Be careful. I sat next to Daisy and read her stories. Gave her peanut butter on a spoon. Always stayed by her side.
“Thanks, Mr. Biker Angel,” she said.
“Just Bear.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bear Angel.”
Almost there.
I began to stop by once a week. Taking Daisy’s medicine. Food for dogs. Things I bought that I would call “extras” when I went shopping. Tom, Madison’s dad, was proud but not dumb. He knew what I was up to.
“I’m going to pay you back.”
“You’re not.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“My brother is dying.” Cancer. I can’t help him. But I could help Daisy. “Sometimes you save what you can.”
When she heard my Harley, Madison would run outside. “Mr. Bear Angel! Daisy made it all the way to the corner today! Daisy finished all of her meal! Daisy had fun with Duck! (Duck was the stuffed animal.)
It had been six months. Daisy was still alive. Getting stronger. We knew the malignancy was still there. But she was still alive. Having fun. Being liked.
My brother passed away in the seventh month. I was broken. I hadn’t seen Tom and Madison in two weeks. When I eventually got back, Madison and Daisy were sitting on the porch together, both wearing the same bandana.
Madison remarked, “We were worried.” “Daisy missed you.”
“Sorry, kiddo.” “My brother went to heaven.”
Madison nodded with a serious look on her face. “Like Mommy.” Is he really an angel now? Not an angel on a motorcycle, but an angel in heaven? ”
“I guess so.”
“Okay. Mommy needs some buddies. Do you want to see what Daisy learned?”
She had taught Daisy how to “pray” by putting her paws together and bowing her head. It was silly and pretty, and I laughed for the first time since the burial.
Tom came out. “I heard about your brother.” “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Madison made you something.”
She gave me a picture. Me riding my bike with wings. Daisy with wings. My brother and her mom are in the clouds. In purple crayon at the bottom, it says, “Thank you for being our angel.” Love, Madison and Daisy.
“It’s so pretty, kiddo.”
“Mr. Angel Bear? Will Daisy make it to heaven?”
“Everything good goes to heaven.”
“Will you look after her till I get there? When I’m really old?”
“Promise.”
One year. Daisy lasted a year. The vet was shocked. Amy said, “Love.” “Love is always what makes the difference.”
We all knew when Daisy started to become worse. She didn’t eat anymore. No longer playing with Duck. But when Madison got home from school, she still wagged.
Tom said to me, “It’s time. I can see it.” But I can’t…
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Madison will be heartbroken.”
“She’ll make it.” She has her father. And she understands that Daisy was loved.
We did it on a Sunday. While Amy gave Daisy the shot, Madison held her. Daisy passed away quietly, with her tail wagging till the end. She looked at Madison with so much affection that it broke everyone’s heart.
Madison whispered through her sobs, “She’s with Mommy now.” “Mommy has Duck’s sister’s toy.” They are having fun.
We put Daisy in the ground in my backyard. Have more space than Tom. Madison comes by every week. Brings flowers. Has a conversation with Daisy. Talks to her about school.
“Mr. Angel Bear?”
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“You saved her.” She had one more year. “One more year of love.”
“Your tooth fairy money saved her.”
She smiled, showing her missing teeth. “Seven dollars and forty-three cents.”
“The best investment I’ve ever made.”
Tom got a job that was better. Nights in a warehouse. When Madison works, I watch him. She does her schoolwork at the table in my kitchen. We got a second dog. Help. Gave him the name Duck. Madison was adamant.
She remarked, “Daisy would want us to save another dog.”
She was correct.
In my living room, I have a frame for Madison’s drawing. Me riding a motorcycle with wings. Next to a picture of my brother. Two angels. One in the sky. One on a Harley.
Madison is now twelve. Still calls me Mr. Bear Angel. Still believes in miracles. Tom is scared because he is starting to notice boys. But she’s a good person. Powerful. Tom believes she looks like her mom. I think like Daisy.
She was completing her homework at my table last week. “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m writing an essay about heroes. Do you mind if I write about you?”
“I’m not a hero, kiddo.”
“You saved Daisy.” You let us have one more year with her. You showed me that angels are real. “They just ride motorcycles and wear leather.”
“Madison—”
“And when Dad couldn’t buy groceries, you brought them. You fixed our automobile so he could get to work while he sobbed about Mom at night. You went to the father-daughter dance with me when I didn’t have anybody else to go with.
“Anyone who is a good person—”
“No.” Not anyone. You. A motorcycle rider who stopped at 3 a.m. to pick up a stray puppy. Who spent a lot of money on people they didn’t know. Who became our family when we didn’t have one.
She took out her paper. The title is “Angels Wear Leather: How a Biker Saved My Family.”
I read it. Wept. This excellent kid had written down everything. Every time. Every bag of food. I always “just happened” to have extra dog food.
“Can I read one part out loud?” she inquired.
I nodded.
“Mr. Bear taught me that family aren’t always related by blood. Sometimes family is a motorcyclist who finds your dying dog and thinks that the tooth fairy money of a seven-year-old is worth more than gold. Sometimes family is someone who comes to see you every week for five years simply to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes family is a man who promises to take care of your dog in heaven even though he doesn’t have to. Mr. Bear is my favorite person. My angel. “Me and my family.”
Then Tom came in. Read the essay over my shoulder.
“She is right, you know,” he said. “You saved us.” Not only Daisy. We.”
“I just—”
“You just changed everything for us. Bear, let her turn in the essay.
The contest was won by Madison. Had to read it in front of the whole school. Three hundred kids. Their parents. Teachers.
I was in the front row wearing a leather vest. There were also other bikers. Tom the Big. Hey, Jake. Twenty brothers who had heard the story.
Madison read her essay out loud clearly. No shame. Without a doubt. Parents were crying when she came to the section about the $7.43. Teachers cried when she told about Daisy’s last day. When she said, “Mr. Bear taught me that heroes don’t wear capes; they wear leather,” my brothers said, and they all got up and clapped.
After that, kids came up to me. Wanting to see the hero on a bike. The parents said thank you. One mother reported her daughter had been leaving money in dog collars at the shelter “for the motorcycle angels.”
“You started something,” she remarked.
Now Madison operates a fund to help animals. Kids give tooth fairy money to “Daisy’s Angels.” Bikers provide actual money. So far, we’ve saved 17 dogs. Paid for operations. Drugs. Gave families time they wouldn’t have had otherwise.
All because a girl who was seven thought angels rode motorcycles.
All because $7.43 from the tooth fairy was worth more than letting a dog die alone.
Sometimes, when you’re mad at the world for taking excellent people too soon, you find a reason to be decent yourself.
Daisy lived for one more year. Madison was able to say goodbye in a good way. Tom got to witness his daughter become better. And I acquired a family when I thought I had lost my only one.
The note is next to Madison’s drawing. A purple crayon on notebook paper. “Seven dollars and forty-three cents.” All of this is my tooth fairy money.
It was enough. More than enough.
Angels don’t require a lot of money.
They only need to stop when they hear someone crying in the dark.
Even if that person has four legs and a tumor.
Even if it’s 3 in the morning on a bridge that no one uses anymore.
You can still have what you want with just $7.43 and a prayer that angels ride motorcycles.
Yes, they do, Madison.
Yes, they do.