The young rider recognized his founder’s dog immediately. He adopted Scout on the spot and brought him back to the clubhouse.
The club immediately hired a private investigator. They traced the shelter intake forms back to Arthur’s children and uncovered a massive web of lies. They realized their founding father wasn’t dead. He was being held prisoner, heavily sedated, and stripped of his dignity.
Which brought these fifty hardened men straight into our lobby.
At the sound of Arthur’s name, something incredible happened. Scout’s ears pinned back. His nose hit the linoleum floor, tracking a scent he hadn’t smelled in half a year.
Before anyone could stop him, the old dog ripped the leash right out of the giant biker’s hand. He scrambled up the carpeted stairs, his aging joints suddenly filled with the desperate energy of a puppy.
I chased after him, the thundering heavy boots of fifty bikers right behind me.
Scout sprinted down the second-floor hallway, ignoring every single open door until he slammed into room 247. He began scratching frantically at the wood, letting out a high-pitched, emotional whine.
I pushed past the angry facility director, pulled my master key from my scrubs, and threw the door open.
Arthur was slouched in his wheelchair, wearing his standard gray sweatpants. His eyes were clouded from his morning medication. He didn’t even look up at the commotion.
Scout didn’t care. The large dog bounded across the room and threw his heavy front paws directly into Arthur’s lap. He buried his wet nose into the old man’s chest, letting out a sound that was half-bark, half-sob.
Arthur gasped. His trembling hands reached up, his fingers tangling in the thick fur of the German Shepherd’s neck. He brushed against the familiar leather collar.
