When he turned the key and the massive engine roared to life, a huge, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the very first time I had ever seen him smile.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of custom dog goggles, and strapped them gently onto Scout’s head. The dog barked happily over the deafening rumble of the exhaust pipes.
“Thank you,” Arthur mouthed to me over the noise.
“Ride free, Arthur!” I yelled back, waving through my tears.
The fifty motorcycles pulled out of the parking lot in a perfect, thunderous formation. Arthur rode right in the center, perfectly protected by his chosen family, with his absolute best friend right by his side.
Arthur never went back to that beige prison. The club set him up in a cozy, accessible cabin on their private rural property. Members took daily shifts making sure he ate well, took his proper vitamins, and attended his physical therapy.
He lived two more glorious years, completely clear-headed, surrounded by deep respect and the freedom of the open road.
When Arthur finally passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighty-seven, Scout was right there, resting his heavy head on his master’s chest. And when Scout crossed the rainbow bridge a year later, the club buried him right next to Arthur, under a beautiful oak tree.
Blood might make you related, but loyalty is what truly makes you family. Arthur’s biological relatives threw him away for a quick paycheck. But his chosen family rode through hell to bring him back.
