Legacy

 At some point in everyone's life, you wonder what kind of legacy you'll leave behind when all that's left of you is dust.

For those who have kids, your legacy comes prepackaged in a drooling DNA bundle that you're supposed to mold to become a better person than yourself.

Absent of  progeny, you kick the can around for a while until you can create your own path towards a legacy. I didn't have to kick the can far, for as soon as I had my own apartment, I'd taken in dogs, cats, rabbits, snakes, I was even hiding a pig in my apartment. 

Rescue is what I do.  I took a break from companion animal rescue for a while when I had my draft horse rescue (first rule is not to spread yourself too thin).

I have no intentions of ever stopping.  It doesn't bother me that I've had the same old truck for almost 20 years, don't give a flip that all my clothes are hand-me-downs or thrift store bought, not ashamed at all to get my groceries from Misfit Market, I cut my own hair to save money.  One day, if my Social Security check is so tiny that I can't take more in, I'll ride my powerchair to the local shelter and clean cat boxes.

A friend so tactfully said: "You don't owe anyone an explanation for what you love until the world can explain hate."  

It's been over 3 years since I've seen anyone in my family, I mean no one, not even a 3rd cousin once removed.  Thank you covid.  I feel like I'm off in Alcatraz for a crime I didn't commit.  

This is the family I made.  

Two of the heathens were bought as puppies when I still held unrealistic hopes that I could overcome health issues and resume being the little phenom endurance runner I once was.  

Dax is almost a rescue--because no one else would've handled the spawn of Satan.  

Micah is perhaps the second best dog I've ever had (Cole will never be displaced from 1st Place).

Peter is Mother Goose who dotes on everyone, stands at the door and stops any dog coming in from the rain to lick them dry (only makes matters worse, but he tries).

Connor was a junkyard dog who outlived his usefulness and was kicked to the street with his teeth brutally grinded off.  He is ever grateful and loves his purple dinosaur toy.

Pippins lived almost 4 years locked in a laundry room with very little contact, and it still shows, bless her little savage heart.

Emmett was carried out of the woods by a hiker who found him so emaciated, he could no longer stand.

Stella was a mess, and still is, but she's my mess.

Fergus is just a baby. I fell in love with him when he was hours old.

Cash was damaged goods that had lived as a stray for 10 years before a no-kill shelter took him in for 2 years.  Still bald over large patches of skin from previous mange, scars galore, chronic heartworm infection, one damaged eye and pretty sure he's deaf. He deserves a quiet place to come spent his last year or two.  

So, when this little number shows up at my house, the neighbor tells me to ignore it, "you can't save them all".  

True, but you can be part of the problem and ignore an animal who so obviously is asking for help, or be part of the solution.  

I choose the latter. 

It doesn't take much time at all to feed, bathe, give him a Capstar for fleas, Benadryl for the flea dermatitis, do a quick temperament test and make some phone calls to my network of rescuers.

Legacy, it's built one brick at a time.