Every pair in my keeping came through one of two doors, and friend, both doors have forms.
For the rancher, the farmer, and the pet owner standing in a vet's parking lot holding something they can't bring themselves to throw in a bin. I know that parking lot. I've stood in it. Bring it to me and I'll take it serious as a deed.
Now and then a visitor hears the sermon and wants to give more than a dollar. The Legacy Pledge is for those who intend, when their natural time comes, to join the keeping — same as I intend to. It's the most serious thing I offer, and I treat it that way, so don't wink at me when you ask about it.
That is not bragging, that is the mission statement. Below is the census, kept current in my own hand. Check it before you write me — if your species has an empty box next to it, friend, you and I need to talk, because you might be the one who completes a line in the book.
First legacy pledge ever registered has my own signature on it, notarized in Kingman, filed with my attorney. When my number's called, I join the keeping in the Oatman hall, under a brass plaque I've already worded and paid for.
I don't bring it up to be admired. I bring it up because a keeper who exempts himself ain't a keeper — he's a landlord, and the world's got plenty of those.
The building fund takes any amount and every cent goes in the ledger in pen. The ledger sits open on the folding table at every stop. Come audit me. Bring the kids.