Biker Was Crying Over A Dying Dog On The Subway And Everyone Moved Away Except Me

The businessman cleared his throat. “I run a funeral home. Third generation. I’d like to offer you our pet cremation services. No charge. Your dog deserves a proper service.”

The biker stared at him. “I can’t afford—”

“No charge. This one’s on me.” He handed the biker his card. “When you’re ready, call me. We’ll take care of Sergeant with dignity.”

The teenager spoke up. “My parents have a plot in Brooklyn where they buried our family pets. There’s space. If you want, Sergeant could rest there with other loved animals.”

The mother reached into her purse. “My kids want to give you something.” She handed over two small stuffed dogs. “They picked them out of their own toy boxes. They said maybe you could have these until you feel better.”

The biker took the stuffed animals with shaking hands.

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you all doing this? You don’t know me. You don’t know him.”

I knelt down in the sand next to him.

“Because this morning on that subway, everyone moved away from you except me. And I almost didn’t come over either. I almost stayed in my seat because you looked scary. Because I judged you before I knew you.”

I gestured at the others.

“I think everyone here has done that before. Judged someone without knowing their story. Walked past pain because it was easier.”

The old woman nodded. “I’ve done it a hundred times. Today I decided to stop.”

“Me too,” the businessman said.

“Me too,” the teenager added.

The mother just nodded, holding her kids close.

The biker looked down at Sergeant’s still body. “He would have liked you all. He never judged anyone. Loved everyone who was kind to him. Even the people who weren’t kind at first.”

“He sounds like he was a very good boy,” I said.

“The best.” He kissed Sergeant’s head one final time. “The absolute best.”

We helped him up. Walked back to the train station together. Exchanged numbers. Made plans to meet at the pet funeral home in two days.

Six strangers who’d found each other because of a dying dog on a subway.

I went to the funeral. So did the old woman and the businessman and the teenager and the mother with her two kids. The biker—his name was Thomas, I learned—had invited his motorcycle club too.

Twenty-three bikers in leather vests crying over a small terrier mix named Sergeant.

The businessman gave a beautiful eulogy. The teenager played a song on his guitar. The mother’s children placed the stuffed dogs in the casket.

I read a poem I’d found about dogs waiting at the Rainbow Bridge.

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