Jonty,s uncle rusty
Rusty was no ordinary dog. A scruffy mutt with a coat the color of desert sand, he’d been born in a junkyard, raised on scraps, and toughened by the roar of engines. His human, Jake, was a biker—a grizzled man with a heart as wild as the open road. Together, they’d torn through dusty highways, Rusty’s ears flapping in the wind as he perched behind Jake on a custom Harley, a pair of scratched-up goggles strapped to his head.
But that life ended the day Jake got sloppy. A botched deal with some roughnecks landed him—and Rusty—in a world of trouble. Jake went to prison, and Rusty? Well, the cops didn’t know what to do with a dog who growled at kennels and howled for the throttle’s rumble. So, they rigged up a compromise: Rusty got his own “cell”—a sidecar welded to a beat-up motorcycle, parked in the impound lot behind the precinct.
The bars weren’t steel, but they might as well have been. Chain-link fencing surrounded the lot, and Rusty’s days of chasing horizons shrank to pacing circles around the bike. The sidecar was his bed, his throne, his cage. At night, he’d curl up under a tarp Jake had once used as a blanket, the faint smell of gasoline and leather still clinging to it. During the day, he’d sit tall, paws gripping the edge, staring past the fence at the highway beyond. Every rumble of a passing bike made his tail twitch, a ghost of the freedom he’d lost.
The impound guys took a shine to him. They’d toss him scraps—half-eaten burgers, cold fries—and one even rigged a radio to play old rock tunes, the kind Jake used to blast. Rusty didn’t bark much anymore, but when “Sweet Home Alabama” crackled through, he’d tilt his head and let out a low, mournful howl, like he was calling Jake back.
Months turned into a year. Rusty’s goggles sat crooked now, one lens cracked. His fur grew matted, but his eyes stayed sharp, always fixed on the gate. Then one day, a familiar rumble shook the lot. A Harley, black as night, pulled up. The rider flipped up his visor, and there was Jake—older, leaner, free.
“Miss me, boy?” he rasped, grinning.
Rusty leapt from the sidecar, paws scrabbling on the concrete, and crashed into Jake’s arms. The impound guys cheered as Jake fired up the bike, Rusty scrambling into his old spot. The gate swung open, and they roared out—bars behind them, road ahead, the wind singing their freedom once more.
