This biker was crying over a dying dog on the subway and everyone moved away except me. I watched as passengers grabbed their bags and shuffled to the other end of the car, whispering and staring at this massive man in leather who was sobbing like a child.
The dog was small. Some kind of terrier mix. Gray around the muzzle. Wrapped in a dirty blanket on the biker’s lap. Its breathing was shallow and ragged. Even from five seats away, I could tell it didn’t have long.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because the way this man was holding that dog—like it was the most precious thing in the world—made my chest tight.
He was huge. Probably 6’4″, 280 pounds. Leather vest with patches. Tattoos covering both arms. A beard that reached his chest. The kind of man mothers pull their children away from.
And he was whispering to that dying dog like it was his baby.
“It’s okay, buddy. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
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