My finger was literally hovering over the 911 call button when I looked closer through my kitchen window and realized the terrifying tattooed man balancing three stories up wasn’t breaking in.

He was holding a bowl of food up to a starving dog that had been trapped on that balcony for six days.

Six days. I’d been watching that dog die slowly for almost a week. A German Shepherd. Skinny. Desperate. Barking and whimpering at all hours.

The apartment belonged to some guy who’d been evicted but apparently just left his dog there to starve.

I’d called animal control four times. They said they couldn’t enter without the owner’s permission or a warrant.

I’d called the police. They said it was an animal control issue.

I’d called the apartment management. They said they were “working on it” but couldn’t break down a door without proper legal procedures.

Meanwhile, a living creature was dying thirty feet from my window. And I felt helpless. We all did. The whole building heard that dog crying.

Some people complained about the noise. Most of us just felt sick about it but didn’t know what to do.

Then this morning, I heard a motorcycle pull up. Loud pipes. The kind that rattles windows.

I looked out and saw him. Big guy. Full beard. Leather vest covered in patches. Arms covered in tattoos. The kind of person that makes people cross the street.

He was staring up at that balcony. The dog was at the railing, barely able to stand, barking weakly.

The biker stood there for maybe two minutes, just looking. Then he walked into the building. I thought maybe he lived here. We get all types.

Twenty minutes later, I heard shouting in the hallway. I cracked my door. The biker was arguing with the building supervisor.

“That dog is dying,” the biker said. His voice was rough but controlled. “I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you I’m going to get that animal.”

The supervisor was shaking his head. “Sir, we cannot allow residents to break into other units. If you attempt to do so, I’ll have to call the police.”

The biker stared at him. “Then call them. But I’m getting that dog.”

The supervisor huffed and stormed off, pulling his phone out.

The biker, who I now saw was named “Mitch” on a patch on his vest, just stood there. He looked at the supervisor’s retreating back, then back up the stairs toward the third floor.

He was going to do it.

I ran back to my window, my heart pounding. I was right.

He came out of the front door, looked up at the balcony again, and then walked to the unit two floors directly below it.