The first time I saw Target, he was pressed against a concrete pillar in an abandoned construction lot, shaking so badly that I wondered whether he’d even let us get close enough to help him.
He was a brown-and-white Pit Bull, maybe two or three years old, with a length of wire twisted tightly around his neck.
Nearby were empty cans, bottles, and spent casings scattered across the ground.
Someone had brought him there to use him for target practice.
My eight-year-old son was among the children who discovered him. When he came home and told me what they’d found, I called five men from my motorcycle club.
Twenty minutes later, six big, tattooed bikers were gathering tools and preparing to go after a dog none of us had ever met.
We weren’t going there to fight anyone.
We were going to bring that dog out alive.
I had no idea then that the frightened animal we’d find beside that pillar would eventually become the most recognizable member of our club.
Or that ten years later, he’d still be riding at the front of our charity runs, wearing a pair of dog goggles and a collar tag with seven words that explained everything.
“I was a target. Now I’m a survivor.”
The Kind of Men People Usually Avoid
Before I tell you what happened at that abandoned lot, I need to explain something about the men in my motorcycle club.
There are six of us in the core group.
We’re big men, most of us covered in tattoos. Several have beards that are turning gray. We wear leather vests with our club colors, and our motorcycles aren’t exactly quiet.
Some of us have spent time in prison.
Others have struggled with addiction, violence, or difficult circumstances that took years to overcome.
We’ve all made mistakes.
I won’t pretend otherwise.
When six men who look like us walk into a restaurant or stop at a gas station, people sometimes glance in our direction and then look away.
I’ve seen parents move their children a little closer.
I’ve seen strangers make assumptions before anyone has spoken a word.
I understand some of those reactions. A group of large men arriving on loud motorcycles can look intimidating.
But there’s a great deal about a person you can’t know by looking at his clothing or tattoos.
Many of us grew up in circumstances where kindness wasn’t something we could depend on.
We know what it feels like to be judged before anyone gets to know you.
And perhaps that’s part of why our club has always been especially protective of children and animals.
When someone vulnerable needs help, we try to show up.
That afternoon, my son gave us a reason to do exactly that.
The Day My Son Came Home With a Story I Couldn’t Ignore
My son and a group of other children had been playing near an abandoned construction site.
It wasn’t somewhere they should have been, and under ordinary circumstances, that would have been the first conversation we had.
But what they discovered there was far more serious.
They found a dog tied to a concrete pillar.
Not with an ordinary leash.
With wire.
My son told me about the animal and the things the children had noticed around him.
There were cans and bottles set up in the area, along with spent casings on the ground.
The situation suggested that someone had intended to use the restrained dog for target practice.
I listened carefully.
I wanted to make sure I understood what he was describing.
Then I called my brothers.
That’s what we call the men in our club. We’ve known one another through difficult years, and when something important happens, we don’t need long explanations.
I told them where the dog was and what my son had seen.
There was no debate about whether we should help.
Within twenty minutes, the six of us were getting ready to leave.
Six Bikers, a Truck, and a Pile of Tools
We brought what we thought we’d need to reach the dog safely.
Bolt cutters. Wire cutters. A first aid kit. Water. A blanket.
One of the brothers brought a truck so we’d have a way to transport the animal.
We knew there might be people around who were responsible for what had happened.
And believe me, none of us was pleased by the thought of someone treating a living animal that way.
But we weren’t going there to confront anyone.
Our priority was getting the dog away from danger.
If a crime had been committed, that would be a matter for the police.
We had a more immediate responsibility.
There was a frightened animal tied to a pillar, and we didn’t know how badly he was injured or how long he had been there.
We headed toward the abandoned construction lot.
I’ve thought many times about that trip.
Six men, all accustomed to being regarded with suspicion, traveling together to help an animal none of us knew.
We didn’t have a name for the dog.
We didn’t know where he’d come from.
We didn’t even know whether he’d allow us to approach.
We only knew that we couldn’t leave him there.
The Dog Beside the Concrete Pillar
When we arrived, the dog was exactly where the children had described.
He was a brown-and-white Pit Bull, probably two or three years old, crouched beside a concrete pillar.
Wire was wrapped around his neck, restricting his movement.
The surrounding area was littered with objects that made the situation even more disturbing.
Cans and bottles had been placed nearby, and there were spent casings on the ground.
We would later learn more about what the people responsible had intended.
But even without that information, the danger was obvious.
The dog couldn’t get away.
He had been left restrained in an abandoned lot, unable to protect himself from anyone who approached.
When he saw us coming, he tried to press farther back against the pillar.
The wire prevented him from retreating.
He didn’t bark.
He didn’t lunge.
He didn’t threaten us.
His body shook, and he watched every movement we made.
I remember thinking how frightening we must have looked to him.
Six large men in leather vests, approaching across broken concrete.
We knew we were there to help.
The dog had no reason to know that.
Tiny Was the First One to Kneel
One of my closest brothers goes by the nickname Tiny.
It’s the sort of nickname motorcycle clubs tend to give the biggest man in the group.
Tiny stands six feet five inches tall and is built like someone who has spent his life moving heavy things.
He’s been through some difficult years, including time in prison.
If you saw him walking toward you in his leather vest, you might expect him to have a rough manner.
But Tiny has always been remarkably gentle with frightened animals.
I’ve watched him handle injured dogs with more patience than many people show each other.
When we saw how terrified the Pit Bull was, Tiny knew what to do.
He lowered himself onto his knees a few feet away.
The rest of us stayed back.
Tiny began speaking in a low, quiet voice.
He didn’t reach immediately for the dog’s collar.
He didn’t try to drag him away from the pillar.
He simply stayed close enough to be noticed, giving the animal time to become familiar with his presence.
The dog continued trembling.
Tiny kept talking.
And gradually, the shaking became a little less intense.
The Wire Had Already Injured His Neck
It took time before Tiny could get close enough to examine the restraint.
The dog was still frightened, particularly whenever anyone moved near his neck.
Eventually, Tiny was able to see how the wire was attached.
It was worse than we’d hoped.
The metal had been twisted tightly around the dog’s neck, and the skin beneath it was swollen and injured.
The restraint couldn’t simply be slipped off like a collar.
We were standing in an abandoned lot with an injured animal who needed urgent veterinary attention.
We knew we had to free him from the pillar so he could be transported.
We also knew that any movement around his neck could cause pain and that the situation carried risks.
Tiny continued speaking quietly while we worked.
He kept his movements gentle and tried to help the dog remain as calm as possible.
One of the brothers carefully used the wire cutters to free the animal from the fixed restraint.
The dog cried out once as the wire came away.
I still remember that sound.
Then the wire was off.
The dog was no longer tied to the pillar.
But he didn’t run.
He remained close to the ground, frightened and visibly exhausted.
Tiny Carried Him Out
With the dog free, Tiny carefully gathered him into his arms.
It was a sight I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
This enormous man in a leather vest was holding a wounded, trembling Pit Bull against his chest, moving as gently as he could.
The animal didn’t struggle to get away.
He seemed too exhausted and frightened to do much of anything.
Tiny carried him toward the truck.
We wrapped him in a blanket and prepared to get him to an emergency veterinarian.
There was no celebration.
Nobody stopped to pose for pictures.
We were worried about his neck and the condition he’d been left in.
During the drive, I called the police.
They needed to know what we’d found, where the dog had been restrained, and what was scattered around the construction site.
We wanted the people responsible identified.
But at that moment, the dog needed medical care more urgently than we needed answers.
The truck continued toward the veterinary clinic.
Tiny stayed close to the animal.
And the rest of us hoped we’d reached him in time.
Six Leather Vests in a Veterinary Waiting Room
The emergency veterinary staff took the Pit Bull in and began assessing him.
The six of us remained in the waiting room.
I can imagine how we looked.
Six large, tattooed men wearing leather vests, all waiting anxiously for news about a dog.
At first, some of the staff seemed uncertain about us.
Then they learned why we were there.
They treated us with kindness and kept us informed about the dog’s condition.
The injuries around his neck were serious but survivable.
The wire had damaged the skin and underlying tissue and would leave scars.
He was also dehydrated and extremely frightened.
The veterinarian explained that he would need proper treatment and time to recover physically.
His comfort around people would likely take longer.
We didn’t expect him to become trusting simply because we’d removed the restraint.
He’d been through an extremely frightening experience, and we knew almost nothing about what had happened to him before the children found him.
But there was encouraging news.
He had survived.
And with appropriate care, there was reason to hope his physical condition would improve.
For the first time that afternoon, I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders.
What the Police Discovered
While the dog received treatment, the police began piecing together what had happened at the abandoned site.
The investigation established that a group of young men had taken the dog there and restrained him to the concrete pillar.
They had intended to use him as a target.
The cans, bottles, and other evidence at the site were part of the circumstances investigators examined.
But one crucial thing had happened before the young men could carry out their plan.
Someone had noticed what was going on.
We never learned the identity of that person.
It may have been a neighbor or someone passing nearby.
Whoever it was, they contacted the police.
The young men fled before carrying out the intended violence against the dog.
We don’t know exactly what prompted them to leave, whether they heard approaching sirens or simply became concerned that someone had reported them.
But they left.
And the dog remained tied to the pillar.
Sometime afterward, the children discovered him.
They went home, my son told me, and I called the club.
Only later did we understand how several separate actions had contributed to getting that dog out alive.
The People Who Helped Without Ever Meeting
I’ve thought a great deal about the person who made that first call to the police.
We never found out who it was.
But the call mattered.
It interrupted the situation before the young men carried out what investigators said they had planned.
The children mattered too.
They noticed the dog and understood that something was terribly wrong.
My son came home and told me.
My brothers answered when I called.
Tiny approached the frightened animal patiently.
The veterinary team treated his injuries.
No single person was responsible for everything that followed.
Each did something.
Someone reported suspicious activity.
Some children spoke up.
Six bikers showed up with tools and a vehicle.
And a veterinary team provided the medical care the dog needed.
It would be easy for me to tell this story as though our club had accomplished everything alone.
But that wouldn’t be true.
We arrived because other people had already acted.
The dog survived because several people, at different moments, refused to ignore what they saw.
The police eventually identified the young men involved.
They were arrested and charged with animal cruelty offenses.
I never forgot how close that dog had come to losing his life.
The Dog Nobody Claimed
When the immediate emergency had passed, another question remained.
What would happen to the dog?
We never established where he had originally come from.
Investigators couldn’t determine with certainty whether he had been a stray or had been taken from someone’s home.
No owner had been identified in the account we received.
He needed continued care, and someone would eventually have to provide a stable place for him to live.
By then, all six of us had become attached to him.
Tiny had been the first to earn enough of his confidence to approach him.
The rest of us had helped bring him out of the lot and had waited through his veterinary assessment.
We all wanted him to have a good home.
There was some friendly disagreement about which of us would take him.
Eventually, the brothers agreed that I would be the one.
My son had been among the children who found him.
I’d made the call that brought the club together.
And I was willing to take responsibility for his care.
Once he could be brought into my home through the appropriate arrangements, I became his person.
Then I had to decide what to call him.
Why I Named Him Target
I named the dog Target.
Over the years, plenty of people have questioned that choice.
Some think it’s too closely connected to what happened to him.
They believe he deserved a softer name, something that would leave the cruelty of his past behind.
I understand their point.
But the name was deliberate.
I didn’t choose it to make light of what had happened.
I chose it because his survival mattered.
Someone had intended to use him as a target.
Instead, he was alive.
He had a home, people who cared about him, and an opportunity to recover.
I didn’t want the most important part of his story to be what someone had tried to do to him.
I wanted it to be what happened afterward.
So I had a tag made for his collar.
It read:
“I was a target. Now I’m a survivor.”
Those words meant something to me.
They also meant something to the other men in our club.
Most of us had endured difficult periods in our lives.
Some had been neglected as children. Others had struggled with addiction or spent time in prison.
We knew that a difficult past could continue affecting someone long after the immediate danger was gone.
We also knew that what happened next could still matter.
Target became a reminder of that.
Recovery Took Months, Not Days
Target didn’t become a relaxed, affectionate dog overnight.
His neck wounds needed time and medical attention.
The scars remained, even after the tissue healed.
His fear of people also took time to improve.
We couldn’t expect him to be comfortable around everyone just because six strangers had rescued him.
So we were patient.
Tiny remained especially important during those early months.
Target had become familiar with him during the rescue, and that connection continued afterward.
I spent time helping the dog become accustomed to our household and routines.
We allowed him to approach when he was comfortable, rather than overwhelming him with attention.
Gradually, his behavior changed.
He became less likely to tremble around familiar people.
He showed more interest in his surroundings.
And over time, the dog who had once pressed himself against a concrete pillar began seeking companionship.
There were no shortcuts.
His recovery depended on appropriate medical care, predictable experiences, and people willing to respect his boundaries.
The scars on his neck didn’t disappear completely.
But he no longer had to live with wire restricting his movement.
And he became increasingly comfortable with the men who had helped him.
The Seventh Member of Our Club
Eventually, Target became more than my dog.
He became the club’s dog.
We jokingly called him our seventh member.
The six of us had been together through difficult years, and now there was a brown-and-white Pit Bull who seemed happiest when he was around us.
He grew familiar with our voices and routines.
He also became accustomed to the sounds of the motorcycles.
At first, I would never have imagined that a frightened dog rescued from such a dangerous situation would become comfortable around the noise and activity of a motorcycle club.
But Target gradually adjusted.
He was no longer the trembling animal we’d found behind the concrete pillar.
He became an affectionate, confident companion who enjoyed being around familiar people.
Tiny remained one of his favorites.
I liked watching the two of them together.
The enormous biker who had knelt on broken concrete to reassure an injured dog was now spending ordinary time with that same animal.
There was something satisfying about those quiet moments.
We hadn’t rescued Target because we wanted a mascot.
We had rescued him because he needed help.
But as he recovered, he became part of our lives in a way none of us had expected.
The Pit Bull in the Sidecar
Eventually, we arranged a sidecar so Target could accompany us on motorcycle rides.
We introduced him to the experience and discovered that he was comfortable riding with us.
He even wore protective dog goggles.
Yes, a Pit Bull in a sidecar wearing goggles.
It’s a memorable sight.
Target would sit up front, looking around while the motorcycles traveled together.
His collar tag moved against his chest, and the faint scars along his neck remained visible beneath his fur.
People noticed him immediately.
Some smiled.
Others stopped to look more closely.
A group of large, tattooed bikers was already noticeable on the road.
Adding a brown-and-white Pit Bull wearing goggles at the front of the group made us almost impossible to overlook.
But the part I appreciated most wasn’t the attention.
It was seeing Target comfortable enough to accompany us.
I could still remember how frightened he’d been when six large men first approached him.
Now those same men were part of his familiar world.
And the dog who had once been restrained against a pillar was traveling with us, protected and cared for.
One Rescue Became Something Bigger
As Target recovered and became part of our club, we began thinking more seriously about animals like him.
There were shelters and rescue organizations doing difficult work every day.
They cared for animals that had been abandoned, injured, neglected, or mistreated.
They needed funding, supplies, veterinary support, and people willing to help.
We knew how to organize motorcycle rides.
We had a club, a network of friends, and the ability to bring riders together.
So we decided to use those things for a purpose.
We began organizing charity rides to raise money for animal shelters and anti-cruelty organizations.
At first, it was simply something we wanted to do because of Target.
We had seen the condition he was in when we found him.
We knew how much help he needed afterward.
And we understood that there were many other animals whose circumstances were just as serious.
We couldn’t personally rescue every dog.
But we could support organizations already doing that work.
Target became part of the rides.
He traveled in the sidecar at the front.
And his story became one of the reasons people wanted to participate.
The Rides Kept Growing
What began as a club activity gradually developed into something much larger.
More riders joined.
Some rides attracted dozens of motorcycles.
Others brought together hundreds.
We organized events to support shelters and organizations working to prevent animal cruelty.
Target continued riding at the front, wearing his goggles and his familiar collar tag.
People began recognizing him.
Some knew his story.
Others saw a Pit Bull in a sidecar, asked about him, and learned how he had come into our lives.
The scars on his neck prompted questions.
We didn’t hide what had happened, but we tried to focus on his survival and the work that followed.
He had been rescued.
He had received medical care.
He had become part of a family.
And now he was helping draw attention to animals who needed similar opportunities.
Over time, the rides became a regular part of our club’s activities.
We held them every year.
Eventually, we organized more than one a year.
They grew beyond what we’d originally imagined.
And Target remained the dog at the front of the procession.
More Than Half a Million Dollars
Ten years passed.
During that decade, our club’s charity rides raised more than $500,000 for animal shelters and anti-cruelty organizations.
Half a million dollars.
Even now, that number is difficult for me to take in.
When I first stood beside the concrete pillar in that abandoned lot, I wasn’t thinking about organizing fundraisers.
I wasn’t imagining hundreds of motorcycles traveling together for animal welfare.
I was looking at an injured dog who needed immediate help.
But caring for Target changed the way our club thought about what we could accomplish.
The money raised over the following decade went to organizations that could put it toward animal care and protection.
We couldn’t calculate precisely how many individual animals benefited.
Different organizations used support in different ways.
But we knew the funding mattered.
Shelters face continuing demands for veterinary care, food, housing, and the daily work of looking after vulnerable animals.
Our rides became a way to contribute.
And at the front of those events was a dog who had once been one of the vulnerable animals we were trying to help.
The Men People Thought They Knew
One thing I noticed during those years was how people reacted when they learned why we organized the rides.
At first glance, our club can still appear intimidating.
We haven’t changed our tattoos.
We still wear leather vests.
Our bikes still make plenty of noise.
And several of us still look like men you’d rather not argue with.
But people who spent time around our events saw something beyond the appearance.
They saw men raising money for animal shelters.
They saw a large biker kneeling to greet a dog.
They saw volunteers, families, and riders working together to support organizations that cared for injured and neglected animals.
I don’t believe rescuing Target erased the mistakes any of us made earlier in life.
We remain responsible for our past decisions.
But people are more than a single period of their lives.
The men in my club have worked hard to build something positive from the experiences we’ve had.
Target became an important part of that effort.
Not because his past made him special in some magical way.
But because helping him led us to recognize something we could continue doing for others.
We had shown up for one dog.
Then we found a way to keep showing up.
Target Is an Old Dog Now
Ten years have passed since we found Target beside the concrete pillar.
He’s an old dog now.
Gray has spread across his muzzle.
He moves more slowly, and climbing into the sidecar takes more time than it once did.
The scars around his neck are still there, although they’ve faded and become less noticeable beneath his coat.
We’ve adjusted to his age.
When he needs extra time, we give it to him.
When we organize rides, we keep his comfort and abilities in mind.
The whole group moves at a pace that works for him.
Nobody complains.
After all, Target has been part of our lives for a decade.
He’s traveled with us, become familiar with our routines, and been present through years of charity rides.
We aren’t going to hurry him simply because he can’t move like a young dog anymore.
He still wears his goggles.
He still has the tag I made for him.
And when he’s comfortable riding, he still has his place in the sidecar.
I sometimes look at his gray face and remember the frightened young dog who couldn’t back away from six strangers because a wire restraint held him against a pillar.
It’s difficult to reconcile those two images.
But they’re both part of his life.
The People Who Almost Took His Life
I don’t spend much time thinking about the young men who took Target to that abandoned lot.
They were arrested and faced animal cruelty charges.
The legal consequences were part of what followed the investigation.
But I don’t want to give them more attention than they deserve in the story of what Target’s life became.
They intended to harm a defenseless animal.
That intention was interrupted.
Someone reported what was happening.
The children found the dog.
My son told me.
We brought the tools and got him to veterinary care.
And over the next ten years, Target became the center of something that helped other animals.
When I think about the contrast, it still affects me.
The people who restrained him had treated his life as though it meant nothing.
But that same dog became deeply important to six men and a larger community of people who cared about animal welfare.
His survival inspired fundraising efforts that continued for a decade.
The most meaningful part of his story is no longer what those young men intended.
It’s what happened because other people chose to intervene.
Tiny Still Remembers That Afternoon
Every now and then, Tiny and I talk about the day we found Target.
He remembers kneeling on the broken concrete, trying to speak softly enough that the dog wouldn’t become more frightened.
He remembers how tightly the wire had been wrapped and how carefully we had to work to free the animal.
And he remembers carrying Target to the truck.
I remember watching him.
This enormous man, with his tattoos and leather vest, holding a trembling dog against his chest as gently as he could.
People who didn’t know Tiny might have been frightened by his appearance.
But Target learned something very different about him.
Over time, the dog became deeply attached to Tiny.
That relationship is one of my favorite things about this whole experience.
Tiny didn’t need to become someone different to care for Target.
He simply used the patience and gentleness he already possessed.
And Target, who initially had every reason to be cautious around unfamiliar people, gradually became comfortable with him.
Their connection grew through repeated experiences, not one dramatic gesture.
Even now, years later, I remember that first careful approach whenever I see them together.
The Tag He Still Wears
Target’s collar has carried the same message for years.
“I was a target. Now I’m a survivor.”
Some people still ask why I chose such a serious name for a dog.
I tell them the story.
I explain how my son and his friends found him.
How the six of us went to the abandoned lot.
How frightened he was when Tiny knelt beside him.
And how we brought him to emergency veterinary care after freeing him from the pillar.
Then I tell them about the years that followed.
The recovery.
The first times he became comfortable around us.
The sidecar.
The goggles.
The charity rides.
And the more than $500,000 raised over ten years to support animal shelters and anti-cruelty organizations.
Target’s name doesn’t mean that the terrible thing someone intended for him defines everything about his life.
It’s a reminder that his life continued.
That he was given care.
That he formed relationships.
And that his story inspired a group of men to do something useful for other animals.
We could have adopted him, loved him, and allowed the experience to remain private.
Instead, we built something around the responsibility we felt after finding him.
I’m glad we did.
At the Front of the Next Ride
These days, when we prepare for a charity ride, Target takes a little longer getting ready.
He isn’t the young, energetic Pit Bull he once was.
His muzzle is gray, his movements are slower, and we pay attention to what he’s comfortable doing.
But the familiar sidecar is still there.
So are his goggles.
And so are the men who’ve been part of his life for the past ten years.
I sometimes stand beside the motorcycle and watch him settle into his place.
The collar tag rests against his chest.
The faint scars around his neck are still visible if you know where to look.
Behind him, the other bikes are ready.
Some of the riders have known Target for years.
Others have joined more recently and learned his story from the rest of us.
When people see the dog at the front of the group, they don’t always know what his life was like before we found him.
They see an elderly Pit Bull riding with six men who clearly care about him.
They see a dog wearing goggles.
They see a motorcycle club participating in a fundraiser.
And sometimes they ask how it all began.
That’s when I tell them about the abandoned lot.
The concrete pillar.
The frightened dog.
And the children who refused to ignore what they’d found.
I tell them about Tiny kneeling in the dirt and speaking gently until the animal would allow us close enough to help.
Then I point to Target’s collar.
The words are still there.
“I was a target. Now I’m a survivor.”
Ten years ago, he couldn’t move away from that concrete pillar.
Now he has a home, a family, and a place at the front of our rides.
As the motorcycles begin moving, I look toward the sidecar.
Target is settled comfortably, his gray muzzle beneath his goggles and the tag resting against his chest.
The whole group moves at a pace that suits him.
And the old dog we once carried out of an abandoned lot is still leading us toward another day of helping animals who need someone to show up.
Editor’s Note: The characters in this story are fictional. Through these stories, we hope to share the intelligence, loyalty, compassion, and loving nature of dogs with people everywhere.
