It's long and it should probably punch your heart right in the heart (or maybe your heart is heartless). I want to tell you the story of a little corgi named Ironman.
I live in a rural area, where stray dogs are fairly common (they roam in packs, and give the local farmers hell). But you can usually tell the domestic strays from the WILD strays, based on temperament. Ironman was a domestic. One night, during a social gathering, he appeared on my front porch. He was wearing a collar, but no tags, and very timid -- ran away at first, but he kept coming back to my porch. After a few times, I put out some food and water. My buddy, Blitz, the rescue-shepherd, was happy to oblige -- I didn't want to throw them together just yet, for health concerns, but point is, I had what I needed on hand to take care of the stranger for now.
So after a few hours, it became clear that the intrepid corgi wasn't going anywhere. At some point, me and my friends decided that we might as well take him around the neighborhood and see if anyone knew where his home was. At the time I was on crutches, so I had to talk someone else into carrying the dog as I hobbled about, knocking on doors, ringing bells. No one had seen the pup before. SOL, we returned home. At this point I decided that we were gonna take care of him until we could find the owners -- which, I imagined, couldn't take very long. I mean a corgi is a generally expensive breed, his collar was leather, clearly this was someone's pet. My roommates grudgingly agreed; Blitz, my shepherd, was not too pleased, but I wasn't going to put the corgi out. Like I said, it's dangerous here for a stray -- especially a small one.
First thing to do was to get him cleaned up. It was around this time that I christened him "Ironman" -- don't ask me why I arrived at that name, I don't have a good excuse. We didn't have any Ironmans living in the house yet, so it made sense or something. So, I got him into a bath and started to work on him. It was way, way worse than I expected. Ironman had more ticks than fur. Okay, that's an exaggeration..... he had a LOT of ticks. Big, bulbous, bloody. Besides them, he was covered in cactus barbs, thorns, caked mud, fleas. You name it -- it was attached to this dog. Now that was a problem. My home has myself, my dog, two roommates and a cat -- there's not much room in there for parasites. So I probably should've been calling up the shelter at this point, but I'm stubborn, and, well... on account of all those wild, occasionally aggressive stray packs, all we have are kill shelters. I understand the necessity of it, but I don't like it, and this dog was in my care now. So, the purifying rituals began. He got three or four different baths over two days; I vacuumed the whole house numerous times with some 'pet-friendly'-ish bug control powders. Again, I must remind you, this is being done on crutches. Of course I can't just pay attention to Ironman, either -- Blitz needs to be washed and cared for as well, and the roommate's cat. In between all the hygeine (and the day job), I'm posting signs all over town. I went to our local pet shop -- which has thankfully gone completely out of business, as the conditions were unbearable. Went to the shelter, to the vet, and all of this reinforced the idea that nobody else was willing or able to take care of Ironman. So, I guessed, it was going to be me, until I could find the owners.
After about a week, we started to wonder if anyone was looking. We had signs everywhere, and some listings on the net as well, but precisely zero response. Alright, I figured, well, Ironman wasn't built in a day. Ifit's a long haul then I guess I'm in it for the long haul. Ironman and Blitz are made into friends, of a sort -- when I wasn't breaking up their fights, they seemed to get on okay. The same couldn't be said for the cat. She had problems adjusting to dog life the first time around; adding a second dog was stressing her right the hell out, and Ironman was not a compassionate sort. A three-way Cold War broke out, between Catland, the Iron Islands, and Blitzerland. My roommates were losing their minds, and the only thing anybody was proving was that Ironman would not be okay to stay in this house. The feisty little guy got healthier every day, and the better he felt, the more he asserted himself. As weeks turned into months, I started to get more clever with the advertisements. We weren't looking for his owners anymore, we were looking for a new home. The dog now came with a free chew toy and a carton of thin-mints. I got emails from people who had lost corgies anywhere from Nevada through Texas (noone recognized young Ironman); garnered some interest from college-bound folks looking for a furry friend, from returning servicemen looking for a present for the wife, from a notably large cat-lady. Everything fell through -- and believe me, I wanted them to work out. There was an immense level of pressure on me to get this animal out of the house, but I didn't feel like it was his fault. So I kept looking. I had to renew the Craig's Listing more than twice -- I don't remember what the final tally was, but I was pimping this dog for many, many weeks in many, many threads.
When lightning finally struck, it felt like destiny. I got a call from a man with a farm and a family with room for a new dog, and he wanted to know if Ironman was okay around birds. I had no idea how to answer -- I mean.... what do you mean, like, crows? He barks at them sometimes I guess? "No, chickens. He can't eat chickens." Uh..... well he hasn't done that since I've been watching I guess..... I don't know. "We'll talk it over." By now I've had dozens of conversations last that long, so I'm not really expecting a call back, but of course, since this story has been going on for paragraphs, that's exactly what I got -- a call back. "We want to come meet him, if that's okay." YES. DEAR GOD YES PLEASE COME MEET HIM AND TAKE HIM TO HIS NEW HOME AND GET HIM OUT OF OUR HAIR, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE. "Yeah, that's... that's okay I guess." So I hastily set about cleaning the Bachellorest of all Bachellor pads, hoping that if we look like we're sanitary people that can only increase the odds of making a good impression. I overdid it -- my leg started acting up real bad from the exertion, and by the time the family showed up, I could barely stand up to meet them before collapsing back into the chair. "Well, here's Ironman, but you don't have to call him that if you don't want to I guess. He's got all his...." I probably could've shut up a lot sooner than I did. The man had brought his wife and daughter, and the young girl was in a goddamn trance. I mean.... Picture a hallmark card. Then picture if the person on the hallmark card wanted to give someone an emotionally touching card -- they would've snapped a picture of this exact moment. Then you hear those glorious words. "He's perfect."
Well, enough said. We found his new home. Boy, did we ever find it. I look back to the mangy creature that stumbled onto my porch, bugs dangling out of his neck, and where we managed to get him, and.... well lord knows it wasn't easy, but damn it felt good. In the way of an 'aftermath,' I did pretty quickly come to miss little Ironman, but more importantly, Blitz missed having a partner in crime. So I wound up visiting the local shelter, where lightning struck again. That's where I met Kaiser (that's him in his cage at the shelter), a current best friend who's been with me through a lot of crazy shit that came next. He got used to the wheelchair faster than I did, and now he helps me run Blitz into the ground and get their exercise. Dunno where we'd be without these two assholes.... and without Ironman, we never meet, and who knows what happens to anyone?
I live in a rural area, where stray dogs are fairly common (they roam in packs, and give the local farmers hell). But you can usually tell the domestic strays from the WILD strays, based on temperament. Ironman was a domestic. One night, during a social gathering, he appeared on my front porch. He was wearing a collar, but no tags, and very timid -- ran away at first, but he kept coming back to my porch. After a few times, I put out some food and water. My buddy, Blitz, the rescue-shepherd, was happy to oblige -- I didn't want to throw them together just yet, for health concerns, but point is, I had what I needed on hand to take care of the stranger for now.
So after a few hours, it became clear that the intrepid corgi wasn't going anywhere. At some point, me and my friends decided that we might as well take him around the neighborhood and see if anyone knew where his home was. At the time I was on crutches, so I had to talk someone else into carrying the dog as I hobbled about, knocking on doors, ringing bells. No one had seen the pup before. SOL, we returned home. At this point I decided that we were gonna take care of him until we could find the owners -- which, I imagined, couldn't take very long. I mean a corgi is a generally expensive breed, his collar was leather, clearly this was someone's pet. My roommates grudgingly agreed; Blitz, my shepherd, was not too pleased, but I wasn't going to put the corgi out. Like I said, it's dangerous here for a stray -- especially a small one.
First thing to do was to get him cleaned up. It was around this time that I christened him "Ironman" -- don't ask me why I arrived at that name, I don't have a good excuse. We didn't have any Ironmans living in the house yet, so it made sense or something. So, I got him into a bath and started to work on him. It was way, way worse than I expected. Ironman had more ticks than fur. Okay, that's an exaggeration..... he had a LOT of ticks. Big, bulbous, bloody. Besides them, he was covered in cactus barbs, thorns, caked mud, fleas. You name it -- it was attached to this dog. Now that was a problem. My home has myself, my dog, two roommates and a cat -- there's not much room in there for parasites. So I probably should've been calling up the shelter at this point, but I'm stubborn, and, well... on account of all those wild, occasionally aggressive stray packs, all we have are kill shelters. I understand the necessity of it, but I don't like it, and this dog was in my care now. So, the purifying rituals began. He got three or four different baths over two days; I vacuumed the whole house numerous times with some 'pet-friendly'-ish bug control powders. Again, I must remind you, this is being done on crutches. Of course I can't just pay attention to Ironman, either -- Blitz needs to be washed and cared for as well, and the roommate's cat. In between all the hygeine (and the day job), I'm posting signs all over town. I went to our local pet shop -- which has thankfully gone completely out of business, as the conditions were unbearable. Went to the shelter, to the vet, and all of this reinforced the idea that nobody else was willing or able to take care of Ironman. So, I guessed, it was going to be me, until I could find the owners.
After about a week, we started to wonder if anyone was looking. We had signs everywhere, and some listings on the net as well, but precisely zero response. Alright, I figured, well, Ironman wasn't built in a day. Ifit's a long haul then I guess I'm in it for the long haul. Ironman and Blitz are made into friends, of a sort -- when I wasn't breaking up their fights, they seemed to get on okay. The same couldn't be said for the cat. She had problems adjusting to dog life the first time around; adding a second dog was stressing her right the hell out, and Ironman was not a compassionate sort. A three-way Cold War broke out, between Catland, the Iron Islands, and Blitzerland. My roommates were losing their minds, and the only thing anybody was proving was that Ironman would not be okay to stay in this house. The feisty little guy got healthier every day, and the better he felt, the more he asserted himself. As weeks turned into months, I started to get more clever with the advertisements. We weren't looking for his owners anymore, we were looking for a new home. The dog now came with a free chew toy and a carton of thin-mints. I got emails from people who had lost corgies anywhere from Nevada through Texas (noone recognized young Ironman); garnered some interest from college-bound folks looking for a furry friend, from returning servicemen looking for a present for the wife, from a notably large cat-lady. Everything fell through -- and believe me, I wanted them to work out. There was an immense level of pressure on me to get this animal out of the house, but I didn't feel like it was his fault. So I kept looking. I had to renew the Craig's Listing more than twice -- I don't remember what the final tally was, but I was pimping this dog for many, many weeks in many, many threads.
When lightning finally struck, it felt like destiny. I got a call from a man with a farm and a family with room for a new dog, and he wanted to know if Ironman was okay around birds. I had no idea how to answer -- I mean.... what do you mean, like, crows? He barks at them sometimes I guess? "No, chickens. He can't eat chickens." Uh..... well he hasn't done that since I've been watching I guess..... I don't know. "We'll talk it over." By now I've had dozens of conversations last that long, so I'm not really expecting a call back, but of course, since this story has been going on for paragraphs, that's exactly what I got -- a call back. "We want to come meet him, if that's okay." YES. DEAR GOD YES PLEASE COME MEET HIM AND TAKE HIM TO HIS NEW HOME AND GET HIM OUT OF OUR HAIR, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE. "Yeah, that's... that's okay I guess." So I hastily set about cleaning the Bachellorest of all Bachellor pads, hoping that if we look like we're sanitary people that can only increase the odds of making a good impression. I overdid it -- my leg started acting up real bad from the exertion, and by the time the family showed up, I could barely stand up to meet them before collapsing back into the chair. "Well, here's Ironman, but you don't have to call him that if you don't want to I guess. He's got all his...." I probably could've shut up a lot sooner than I did. The man had brought his wife and daughter, and the young girl was in a goddamn trance. I mean.... Picture a hallmark card. Then picture if the person on the hallmark card wanted to give someone an emotionally touching card -- they would've snapped a picture of this exact moment. Then you hear those glorious words. "He's perfect."
Well, enough said. We found his new home. Boy, did we ever find it. I look back to the mangy creature that stumbled onto my porch, bugs dangling out of his neck, and where we managed to get him, and.... well lord knows it wasn't easy, but damn it felt good. In the way of an 'aftermath,' I did pretty quickly come to miss little Ironman, but more importantly, Blitz missed having a partner in crime. So I wound up visiting the local shelter, where lightning struck again. That's where I met Kaiser (that's him in his cage at the shelter), a current best friend who's been with me through a lot of crazy shit that came next. He got used to the wheelchair faster than I did, and now he helps me run Blitz into the ground and get their exercise. Dunno where we'd be without these two assholes.... and without Ironman, we never meet, and who knows what happens to anyone?
