The plane had just landed in Reykjavik. Mr. Iceland was still frustrated about how the other Nordics at Norway's place behaved towards his news. Although he was disappointed in the results, the DNA test wasn't supposed to be a big deal. He only meant to share his test results so they can move on with their lives, but just as expected, they only took it as an excuse to treat him like a child again. Sometimes I think he puts too much value into how they treat him, but sometimes the Nordics can be real nor-dicks, amirite? (Yeah, that one didn't get much of a laugh out of him either.) Poor kid…

But back to my story.

Mr. Iceland was walking home from the airport. He walks everywhere. He's not very big on motor travelling. He says some bullshit about liking the "alone" time, but he's never really alone. Obviously I'm always right behind him, but he likes to forget that I exist. Oh crap, I'm doing it again.

Mr. Iceland was walking home from the airport. I remember trying to cheer him up with some of my bawdier jokes, but getting bummed on by the others made him moodier than usual. At least, until he got distracted (much like myself. Crap.)

Anyway, he was just walking past an alley between the local pharmacy and a pub, when he heard a racket. At first, I thought it was just going to be some drunk that stumbled out of the wrong door at the pub, but Iceland stopped and started peering into the dimly lit alley. I told him that going in there was a bad idea! (What if the drunk was violent?) But he just waved me off and started walking towards the rustling sound at the back of the alley. He must have heeded my warning to some degree, because it was agonizingly slow as he cautiously moved forward.

The noise seemed to be coming from a pile of trash next to the dumpster. (Who the fuck couldn't be bothered to put their trash in the dumpster?) As Iceland got closer, a rattling sound started. Whatever was under the trash pile was getting nervous. As it should. If that thing attacks the kid, I'll gladly teach it some manners!

A small whimper was heard. Iceland kneeled down beside the dumpster and started sifting through the trash pile. He groaned in disgust as the rattling got more desperate, but whatever it was, it wasn't trying to escape. Layers of trash were peeled away to reveal the saddest and ugliest little creature I have ever had the displeasure of seeing. It wasn't human. That much was obvious, but what it actually was, was much less certain. Was it a dog? A cat? Heck, maybe it was a tiny troll, for all we knew. Sometimes when I'm stal— uh, I mean, spying — on Mr. Norway, I overhear him talking to some Mr. Troll, but I've never actually seen this "Mr. Troll" character. But there's a first for everything, right?

It didn't matter what it was, though, since Mr. Iceland clearly took pity on it. I perched myself on his shoulder as he tried to unmangle the mass in front of him. It looked like it was covered in fur in some places, completely matted with mud and crap. Some patches weren't, and instead were scabbed over. Oh look, a tail!

So whatever it was, it had a tail.

Iceland started coaxing the frightened thing, probably trying to calm it down or something. It was trembling violently. It was such a frail little creature. It couldn't have been more than 10 pounds in its malnourished state. I certainly didn't pity it… But Iceland clearly did.

"Stay here while I go into the pharmacy," he said as he turned to me.

I couldn't exactly say no, so I just dropped down to the ground while Mr. Iceland scampered back out of the alley. It was much creepier without him there what with the darkness and the ominous sounding music coming out of the pub (clearly the owner had bad taste). The trash-racket coming from the creature only made the creepiness worse. It was obvious the damn beast was getting scared too, since its whimpering increased. Iceland was only gone a few minutes. He came back with a cheap blanket he bought, kneeled back down beside the thing and picked it up as gently as he could as it whined.

"What the hell are you doing, kid?"

"I'm taking it to a vet," he replied. I was frankly too shocked to come up with a snarky reply. The nearest vet was almost a mile away. Did he really want to carry this stinky mess all the way there? Probably. Besides, it was getting late, so it was probably closed anyway. Not that he would listen to me. (Who in their right mind listens to a smart-ass bird?) Kid can try as hard as he may, but he can't disguise his empathy forever.

He walked for an extra hour and a half out of way to discover that — lo and behold — I was right! The vet had been closed since 5 pm, and it was now 10h30 pm. The thing had stopped whimpering somewhere along the way. (I stopped paying attention and started humming Lady Marmalade repeatedly.) Mr. Iceland stood in front of the building for a few minutes before finally deciding on a brilliant course of action.

"I guess I'll just have to return tomorrow at 9," he said.

"Okay, good. Maybe you can leave it here on their doorstep. It's not like it can move on its own anyway."

"I can't do that, Mr. Puffin. I already carried it all the way here. I can't just abandon it here."

"Why not?"

"It's just not ethical. I'll bring it home with us."

Hallelujah! The kid has a heart of gold. I figured there wasn't much of a point arguing with him, so I just let him have his way. What's the worst that can happen, right?

The absolute worst, as it turns out. But I'll get to that later. Much later.

Three hours later and we're finally home. Finally. He fumbled with the keys for a while because he wouldn't put the thing down to unlock the door. It was so incredibly and undoubtedly frustrating. By this point, the thing started growling. I started thinking it was a canine, but not of the domestic sort, such as a wolf or a coyote. They weren't prone to trekking through the city, but there's a first for everything. (Woah, déjà vu anyone? I am amazed the word "déjà vu" is even in my vocabulary. Shut up. Don't judge me.)

Once we were in the house, I went to perch on the dining room and I watched as poor Mr. Iceland wandered around the house looking for old newspapers. Having found some, he laid them down in multiple layers on the floor in the entrance of the house. All this while holding the sad looking creature in it's blanket. When he finished setting newspapers down, he finally put it down on top. Now with his hands free, he went adventuring into his old friend the refrigerator and took out some leftover grilled chicken from three nights ago. He chopped the chicken up, put it in the bowl, and put the bowl down near the thing I am still assuming is a dog. After all, it's not like he had any kibble around for St— Woah! That was almost a spoiler. Close call. He then laid a bowl of tap water next to the bowl of chicken. Wow. I wish he went through that much trouble for me once in a while. (Recovery = nailed it.)

Anyway, Iceland wound up sleeping on the couch to stay close to it overnight. I wasn't very far away myself, since I usually tend to nest in the crook of Iceland's knees to sleep. (What? Despite what certain people might think, I'm actually quite attached to him.) Even though Iceland was knocked out the moment he laid his head down, I couldn't sleep a wink all night. That thing kept kicking and twitching and whimpering and growling. I had half a mind to snap it's scrawny little neck about two dozens times during the night. But I knew helping the helpless beast was making Mr. Iceland happy, so I reluctantly let it squirm in its little nest of thin blankets and newspapers at my own personal expense.

Author's Notes: I've never actually been to Iceland, so if any of you have and would like me to correct something, let me know.

Don't ask me why Mr. Puffin is humming Lady Marmalade. For some reason, it was just the first song to pop into my head while writing it :|

As always, feedback is always greatly appreciated (both positive and negative) so don't be shy!