tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72623527431890338762024-02-18T20:38:03.112-08:00Fish-Cop Out of WaterPlaying Pattycakes and Pinching Poachers: My life as a mother and a state game wardenFChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-17325212682471417472012-01-26T07:30:00.000-08:002012-01-26T07:30:48.845-08:00Uh...What?I knew it was going to be bad..I didn't know it was going to be this bad. My task this month has been attempting to finish a big project I started in the spring of last year. It is not anything too exciting (therefore the lack of blog posts for the last week or two). I've been tasked with coming up with a "report writing curriculum" to teach new incoming officers as well as our seasonal law enforcement officers how to write a good police report. <br />
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I've always been a little shocked at the poor quality of reports coming from officers who supposedly somehow graduated from college. But now I'm questioning the quality of some of our state universities! Granted, those of you who follow this blog may say that I'm a pot calling the kettle black, but in my defense, whatever happens to appear on the screen before me the first time I type it is what gets posted on the blog. I'm typing with one hand while changing a diaper with the other- I don't have time to edit. However, I do write a column for a magazine bi-monthly and I edit the hell out of that. I think the only thing I edit more than my magazine column are my investigative reports. <br />
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So, recently in my pursuit to finish my report writing training booklet that will be used later this spring, I decided to add several "good examples" of investigative reports for officers to use as models. This sounds like it would be rather easy doesn't it? Just shoot some emails off, get some reports back, change them all to first person (as our department has always written in the 3rd person and I've managed to change our future practice to bring us into the modern era of police writing), spell check, grammar check, change all the names and stick them into the appendix of my booklet. I was wrong.<br />
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I sent emails out, I received reports in return. And I was horrified. Mostly because I sent these requests to officers who I thought would be decent report writers. Instead what I received were a slurry of documents chock full of "police jargon", entire pages that were entirely made up of one sentence, randomly punctuated paragraphs and extremely poor choice of quotations (but without the quotation marks of course). <br />
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Here are a couple examples (names changed):<br />
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<em>Officer Smith went to the rear of his truck opened the tail gate and sat down; To Smiths surprise so did Mark. Officer Smith looked at Mark and stated in 27 years of law enforcement you are probably one of the worst liars I have ever encountered. Mark did not say anything, he did hang his head.</em><br />
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I don't know about you, but I think, aside from the obvious problems with the structure and punctuation, the choice of quote might make the officer look, oh, I don't know, kinda nasty mean? Or, how about this:<br />
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<em>When the door open Officer Smith stated Mark, The man answered yes, Officer Smith stuck out his hand and shook Mark's hand introducing himself as a Game Warden. Officer Smith advised Mark that he would like to talk to him about his turkey hunt, Mark said OK and Officer Smith let go of his hand.</em><br />
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It is good to know that he held his hand throughout the entire greeting.<br />
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<em>Officer Smith gets up from the tailgate and moves to about the front door of his truck, Mark follow, and Officer Smith tells Mark that he has been doing this for a long time. About 90% of the people Officer Smith deals with are good people, 20% would bend the rules if they thought no one was looking. The last 10% are just poachers.</em><br />
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Hmmm....I'm no math prodigy but....<br />
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I feel bad poking a little bit of fun at the officer here, but really? Anyway, I better get back at it. This might take awhile.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-77884367715793259952012-01-12T08:41:00.000-08:002012-01-12T08:41:00.717-08:00Til Death Do Us Part- A Deer Poaching Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-MXs-fTuodAhgPQLrsgNuSTDcHffyBKVao3wTu2OfRwgx26Gfm4K5-kFZ0wDbxVRM4W_lqcg46HFfRmN8sH9Dog-77F1IZTqJdbIlcATlYuDJ6W24-2avHt7NfbhgGt7Um_f1XBTQwim/s1600/imagesCAHC9A92.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-MXs-fTuodAhgPQLrsgNuSTDcHffyBKVao3wTu2OfRwgx26Gfm4K5-kFZ0wDbxVRM4W_lqcg46HFfRmN8sH9Dog-77F1IZTqJdbIlcATlYuDJ6W24-2avHt7NfbhgGt7Um_f1XBTQwim/s320/imagesCAHC9A92.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sometimes I just plain don't understand people. This little, elderly, balding man fell into that category. All I know, is by the time I heard my neighboring officer fill me in on "Bob's" (fake name to protect the idiot)background, I REALLY wanted to pinch him for spotlighting. <br />
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Turn's out that Bob found himself in a bit of hot water about five years ago. At that time my neighboring officer cited him for killing a deer over bait (illegal in this state). My neighbor (I will call him "Scott") received a tip from Bob's WIFE that Bob had poached a deer.<br />
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When Scott was telling me this story, I was a little surprised that Bob's wife had turned him in. Ex-wives and ex-girlfriends make pretty good witnesses, but rarely current wives. So I asked Scott if Bob and his wife ("Nancy") were still married. Scott replied, "Nope. Nancy died 3 weeks after she turned him in." <br />
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Now I was interested.<br />
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Here is the story:<br />
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The one thing that Nancy took pleasure in was feeding "her deer" a bucket-full of corn every day. She filled her bucket, took it out to the backyard and scattered it around. The deer would come into the yard every day and devour the corn while she watched from the kitchen window. She LOVED the deer. But especially loved a small doe that she had nicknamed "Sweety". Sweety was especially trusting, and was never spooked if Nancy decided to step out onto the back porch to watch her eat the corn.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxNQQVgQQpYeZMvOQJxBv1TVbsYmd3IwaJRz9ExWrnW0vK4kG_t7ndfJCNC23zF16L6O64MVvvptgoCbmqNmyvpdgiudIWKjicnKNoBtkRdGuWLzjGxYW1gkK4RQlok5SLg8zbcgvG8gp/s1600/imagesCA822H37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxNQQVgQQpYeZMvOQJxBv1TVbsYmd3IwaJRz9ExWrnW0vK4kG_t7ndfJCNC23zF16L6O64MVvvptgoCbmqNmyvpdgiudIWKjicnKNoBtkRdGuWLzjGxYW1gkK4RQlok5SLg8zbcgvG8gp/s1600/imagesCA822H37.jpg" /></a></div>One day Bob decided that he wanted to kill a deer. He is the type of guy who always obtained the really cheap "landowner" licenses. And he was known to spotlight deer at night by driving around his cornfield and shining a beam out the window. My neighbor Scott had been working on him ever since receiving a call from one of his neighbors a few years back, but so far hadn't had luck catching him hunting by artificial light.<br />
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I'm sure you have guessed the end of the story by now, so I will cut to the chase. Bob decided to step out onto the back porch one day while Sweety was partaking of Nancy's corn, and put a slug through her head. Nancy was walking into the kitchen when she heard the shot. She was upset (to say the least) and called Scott to report the poaching.<br />
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Scott arrived at the house to find Sweety hanging from the tree in the front yard with Bob's landowner tag attached to her leg. He went to the door and found a haggard, gaunt, tired-looking woman with tears in her eyes. She led Scott to the attic where she had hidden Bob's still-loaded Remington 870. She handed it over to him and told him the details of the incident. <br />
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Nancy went on to tell Scott that she had been diagnosed three months prior with terminal cancer. The doctors had given her just a few months to live. Feeding Sweety and the other deer was truly the one thing she lived for each day. Her husband took away the one pleasure she had left in life. <br />
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Turns out the doctors were right. She died from cancer three weeks after the poaching incident. <br />
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After Scott told me told me this story I started to think a lot about marriage, love and human decency. What could have been so wrong, that this man would kill his dying wife's "pet" deer. It is one of the saddest things I have ever heard. And it seems to run much deeper than my husband "Red's" assessment that "He must not have liked her much."<br />
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Scott and I sat on top of a hill overlooking Bob's cornfield and watched him pull out of his driveway and slowly drive around the field. We could see his head crane from side to side, obviously on the lookout for deer. But, it was still light enough that he didn't break out the spotlight, and didn't kill a deer. Scott assured me that it is just a matter of time before he catches him. I just hope I am there when he does.<br />
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I just don't get it.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-51423134210430834542012-01-10T18:54:00.000-08:002012-01-10T18:54:12.220-08:00A Note on Home DecorOk, so maybe there is something wrong with me. But, I left for work last Saturday morning, and stopped home for lunch later on to discover that "Red" had taken on some home decorating. Usually it is my territory. When we were married, most of his things ended up in a box stashed in a storage room. And yes, I admit I have made sneaky little trips to the storage room to rid our house of some of his possessions...one...by...one. So far he hasn't noticed. <br />
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Cruel you say? Maybe. But ignorance is bliss. Anyway, I stopped home for lunch and found that he had added this to our wall:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEQ0nKV0QPDHTU2AjTWNKd48w5BZPwpIjI8yv-1RGoLjU8VN7vSGgIBYcntW9Ni_93591crnfNb-LeNhvKLLdmZsAPbtS1vTh63htW7Y1Hlvf1G7OQeZyQdqKCMhc93qCJ_2qW0by76Id/s1600/kay2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEQ0nKV0QPDHTU2AjTWNKd48w5BZPwpIjI8yv-1RGoLjU8VN7vSGgIBYcntW9Ni_93591crnfNb-LeNhvKLLdmZsAPbtS1vTh63htW7Y1Hlvf1G7OQeZyQdqKCMhc93qCJ_2qW0by76Id/s400/kay2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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And I admit. I like it.<br />
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Red has built three such kayaks. The one on the wall is mine. He is a superb woodworker and really it deserves to be someplace better than hanging in the garage. Obviously the water would be the ideal place for it, but it might as well be stored where it can be shown off. It is a work of art- to me at least.<br />
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You see, I am a little picky about home decoration, so this was a bold move for my man of few words. I may be one of the only game wardens (and I hope I don't offend anyone here) that doesn't allow taxidermied things on my walls. Nothing against anyone who does like deer heads, stuffed fish etc on their walls (or I would be putting down virtually all of my friends)...I just prefer "different" things. For some reason, the idea of a deer head poking out of the wall really seems odd to me. Maybe if it was the whole deer it would seem less weird, I don't know. But we aren't going to go there. So, as it is, poor Red has some antlers in a box, and his "wildlife art", mostly obtained from various banquet auctions, in the guest bedroom. <br />
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I admit- I've grown weary of wildlife art. Maybe it is because I have attended so many banquets (Whitetails Unlimited, Ducks Unlimited, Pheasants Forever, etc etc), that after a while, the art starts to look the same. There are only so many prints of deer with enormous antlers, and turkeys in full strut (amidst a forest floor full of morels and Dutchman's Breeches) that I can look at before I get the urge to throw darts at them. Again, no offense.<br />
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So, the kayak was a good choice. It is unique. It is handmade by my dear husband, and it has some stories behind it. Not to mention, it is usable. Other artwork that graces our house are paintings done by my mother (an artist), drawings done by me, lots of photographs, lots of bookshelves, driftwood, some stones and fossils and a giant mess of toddler toys. <br />
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So...what is your favorite decoration in your house?FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-68051105253999455222012-01-09T18:25:00.000-08:002012-01-09T18:25:18.700-08:00Preschooler Induced Nostalgia- A list of 22Ok, this blog is supposed to be about being a game warden AND being a mommy. So, I thought it was time for a mommy post. My daughter had me thinking about this...<br />
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Being a mother to a preschool age child means many things. It means cracking up when they say something silly, or feeling helpless when they are sick. It means exasperation. You learn that there was a whole new level of humbleness that you were not aware existed before. And of course it means a whole mess of bodily fluids--snotty noses constantly gooping, midnight bed-wetting accidents, and more puke than you care to think about. It means worry, and more worry and worrying some more.<br />
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But the biggest gift my preschooler has given me are short, vivid moments of pure nostalgia. She makes me remember what it was like when I was four years old. Witnessing the way a preschooler thinks, reminds you that you used to think that way too. <br />
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Before I go any further...I must show off my four year old daughter "Chatterbox". Here is a photo I took of her just the other day:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriCbXSTXAK4Rc3wnUbqpQ3v6VWdu54rxm6MMUpbMuSafM7Hh6N7UyVtAnOAV98C5Sr4J3lsW3HpF5AaWaKUBljkpEIo4nT029LsvFa_Aj_S_5wjNOOlYDrS4Fhl4pCxZ7epFWYWOt-7aR/s1600/pup008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriCbXSTXAK4Rc3wnUbqpQ3v6VWdu54rxm6MMUpbMuSafM7Hh6N7UyVtAnOAV98C5Sr4J3lsW3HpF5AaWaKUBljkpEIo4nT029LsvFa_Aj_S_5wjNOOlYDrS4Fhl4pCxZ7epFWYWOt-7aR/s400/pup008.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you don't mind me saying so, I think she is a beauty. But behind those little eyes, that brain of hers is in overdrive. And though her mouth is closed in this picture, this is usually not the case (hence the nickname "Chatterbox"). She is a pistol and a wildflower and I love her more than I thought possible.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Watching her grow up and listening to her thoughts reminds me what it was like when:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1. Going to the grocery store was not a chore that needed finishing. It was fun. It was time spent alone withm mom. It was all about heading straight for the cereal aisle and looking for the box offering the best prize regardless of calories or sugar content.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">2. There was nothing better than getting permission to go outside after dark, past bedtime, in pajamas to run around and catch lightning bugs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">3. The only use for money was to listen to it plink into the bottom of my piggy bank.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">4. Women became mothers merely because they wished really hard to have a baby.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">5. There was absolutely no concept that the world was round, that there was war, that there was famine, that some people were evil, that the people I loved would die someday, and that it was not a given that tomorrow would be just as good as today. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">6. Going to "school" meant entering a colorful place filled with the smell of paint, crayons, and Scholastic book orders. Where teachers read stories, and passed out snacks, and where it was fun to take part in show and tell. Where there weren't rich kids, or poor kids, black or white kids, fat kids or skinny kids, smart kids or slow kids- there are only "our friends".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFGDJjnZczWAbegCFnsEEC3l9P8EtJSMByhC6NbbQQs_RhAEnJiSmbFsXxa_QVvD7RSiaCjsIcPEkYx2eXsISAkBvUMCK-_LEIx37CU-kOah-dtPb-aoY2xtyKEirs0FBc6YpFTucXo4u/s1600/ander001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFGDJjnZczWAbegCFnsEEC3l9P8EtJSMByhC6NbbQQs_RhAEnJiSmbFsXxa_QVvD7RSiaCjsIcPEkYx2eXsISAkBvUMCK-_LEIx37CU-kOah-dtPb-aoY2xtyKEirs0FBc6YpFTucXo4u/s320/ander001.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">7. No matter what, it was safe when lying between mommy and daddy in bed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">8. Someone would bring "just one more drink" every night after getting tucked in. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">9. There wasn't laziness, or bad headaches or too many chores to prevent playing outside. The answer was always "yes". </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">10. It was the best feeling in the world to cross the monkey bars the whole way all by myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">11. Mom and dad always knew the answer. And they could fix absolutely anything.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3E-IIDauZbW4XSCES8myVcpTvASs8wkZeTWeN1irHO1fdxKS6D_3kFJyRIUj4swLiRIU7I1gDQRXVdImpfIzHd8mhhnRz-_4Fj8baqKIzek-SlJzGIKN93rG_C5rtBxMgAHX3fHDLSRA9/s1600/redand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3E-IIDauZbW4XSCES8myVcpTvASs8wkZeTWeN1irHO1fdxKS6D_3kFJyRIUj4swLiRIU7I1gDQRXVdImpfIzHd8mhhnRz-_4Fj8baqKIzek-SlJzGIKN93rG_C5rtBxMgAHX3fHDLSRA9/s320/redand.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">12. Looks were not important. Clothes were not important as long as my new tennis shoes made me run fast, and panties were pretty enough to show off to strangers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">10. The best part about vacation was swimming in the hotel pool and sharing a bed with mommy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">11. Going for a walk didn't have anything to do with exercise.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">12. There were no reservations about believing that a fat man would squeeze down the chimney and deliver toys.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">13. Bedtime stories</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">14. There was no shame in answering "Dish washer" or "be a dog" to the question about possible future careers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t074xC9gqKC6jfmq6KZoz3P3GfJe6MTQrF8fCIRiLecv9swLmy5alyzFuSjEY2zWdEG7UCoaDGmfskozlVGgHveEFWpsBtmbzqvgJTLM154B5_upo29n9T-dW6_PSJmO78v6fyAlaCwK/s1600/pup007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1t074xC9gqKC6jfmq6KZoz3P3GfJe6MTQrF8fCIRiLecv9swLmy5alyzFuSjEY2zWdEG7UCoaDGmfskozlVGgHveEFWpsBtmbzqvgJTLM154B5_upo29n9T-dW6_PSJmO78v6fyAlaCwK/s320/pup007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">15. Streaking naked through the house after a bath was acceptable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">16. Using imagination was an every day occurrence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">17. It wasn't necessary to "fit in" with anything.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbx-rqA9Xq3Jld7bOijKSuUlVH9hbKBRSHY5WriHzM595zE4H_JovzlN6IC5sk4_ZKq6C8guXIi0UkTuypHXwB4TuB4xi43wyxtdqmIdxTmfsy2bymyWVsE8M01kcGWAaoBSInWXiOg2u/s1600/redapp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbx-rqA9Xq3Jld7bOijKSuUlVH9hbKBRSHY5WriHzM595zE4H_JovzlN6IC5sk4_ZKq6C8guXIi0UkTuypHXwB4TuB4xi43wyxtdqmIdxTmfsy2bymyWVsE8M01kcGWAaoBSInWXiOg2u/s320/redapp.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">18. No days were thought of as "wasted"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">19. Looking at the pictures and inventing a story were just as good as actually reading it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">20. Someone would hold your hair while you threw up and bring you 7-up and Ritz Crackers with peanut butter when you started to get your appetite back (while you watched Brady Bunch).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">21. There was no comprehension that someday you would move out of your parent's house.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">22. All you felt, all the time, was unconditional love.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-42962251710659362062012-01-09T08:54:00.000-08:002012-01-09T08:54:20.106-08:00A Word to the WiseI'm glad to see that almost everyone here shared my thoughts regarding this "accident". Working alone all the time, sometimes I question my own perspective. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NS7lgBC-4CBGEX0bdQdAeqUbgDlOJJXZ7jw6ZEjQGXRkbJGvPXH3qZ2pqr-HAXgu1Cjs2l_IKVCb-ZISBUlxqLaKOdhMr0u_qgrmzsVjNV8_ik2FdzweZFl8JD8zml_kVef0Yi3HYosh/s1600/reduc01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NS7lgBC-4CBGEX0bdQdAeqUbgDlOJJXZ7jw6ZEjQGXRkbJGvPXH3qZ2pqr-HAXgu1Cjs2l_IKVCb-ZISBUlxqLaKOdhMr0u_qgrmzsVjNV8_ik2FdzweZFl8JD8zml_kVef0Yi3HYosh/s320/reduc01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The first thing that struck me when I arrived on the scene were the small children watching tv in one of the houses. ALL I could think about was, "What if..." If I had been their mother, I doubt I would've slept that night. Living in town, I'm sure it is easy to take your safety for granted, at least in terms of hunting accidents.<br />
<br />
I was also rather irritated that the hunter immediately dismissed his own actions. He excused them because of the distance. And actually, another officer that came to assist me that day also dismissed his actions. That day the officer said to me, "Well, you don't have anything- he was outside 200 yards." My immediate thoughts were, "But wait...that doesn't seem right". <br />
<br />
We teach not to shoot at deer (or anything) that is running up a hill or standing at the top of a hill. Why? Because you don't know what may be coming up the other side. We teach to look beyond your target. Either the hunter didn't pay any attention to what was beyond his target, or he just didn't think his 12 ga. Remington 870 would shoot a slug that far. Well, guess what...a word to the wise- if you lob a slug at an angle, it goes a hell of a long ways. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJSmh79m9IcdZYAePfJGhRkLfIl_oeM7k8V8DwOWxIT8yrRHW7zdYS4K2Z82bhJA-oB_dXv0LvF2-2_iGEmNfVq8JQkoOAOZu4CfYLtE7NrOeswHqEFPYjYwBEqERgEvt5FaNUfJhBbWX/s1600/red02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJSmh79m9IcdZYAePfJGhRkLfIl_oeM7k8V8DwOWxIT8yrRHW7zdYS4K2Z82bhJA-oB_dXv0LvF2-2_iGEmNfVq8JQkoOAOZu4CfYLtE7NrOeswHqEFPYjYwBEqERgEvt5FaNUfJhBbWX/s320/red02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I told the hunter that he was lucky he didn't kill someone in the process of discovering how far a slug will travel. At that distance it still packed enough punch to go through the siding and shower wall of one house, and the window and drywall of the next house. <br />
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And, lastly...if you haven't hit the deer in the first four shots, what are the chances you are going to hit it with a Hail Mary fifth shot? I'd say the chances are slim.<br />
<br />
So, I made an appointment with the county attorney. After describing the incident to him, and letting him research "case law" he decided that he didn't feel comfortable prosecuting a "reckless" charge. Careless? Stupid? Yes. But "Reckless", no. Unfortunately sometimes the law works against us. Because of the definition of "reckless" he didn't think he could get a conviction. But my opinion is...isn't it worth a try?<br />
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Another word to the wise...it is pretty easy to blame law enforcement sometimes. Why didn't the cop arrest the guy? Why didn't the game warden charge him with this or that? Sometimes it is out of our hands. My county attorneys office is a never-ending source of frustration for me. If I moved one county east or west, they would prosecute, but not here. The county attorney only wants to take time with cases he is sure to win. I guess I realize they are busy with big deal things like murder and rape, but it would still be nice to have fish and game stuff taken seriously for once. <br />
<br />
So, if your house is on the edge of town, I guess I would take the sarcastic "advice" of one of the commenters and outfit it a blaze orange vest.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-23264118352332445472012-01-08T08:14:00.000-08:002012-01-08T08:15:04.019-08:00To Charge or Not to ChargeLuckily, so far (knock on wood), this hunting season has been pretty uneventful as far as accidents are concerned. I have had exactly one (knock on wood some more) accident to investigate. But this one simple property damage did leave me with a little dilema. "To charge or not to charge.."<br />
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In this accident two separate homes were shot with two different shotgun slugs. Five people had been hunting a section on the outskirts of a small town, which consists mostly of large, expensive new homes--urban sprawl to the two cities situated on either side. <br />
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Usually in these types of accidents I never find out who the shooter was. The home owners arrive home after the fact to discover holes in their houses. But this time one of the home owners was home at the time the house took the slug (luckily the person was in the room next to the one that was shot). So, as soon as the houses were shot, the hunters were gathered up by the sheriff's department and were waiting for me at a house down the road from those that were shot.<br />
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I pulled up to talk to the hunters. They had already determined who the shooter was- a man in his fifties. The first thing he said to me was, "I didn't see any houses. We were a quarter mile away! How was I supposed to know?" His story was that he was shooting at a deer that was running up a hill (in the direction of the housing development). <br />
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We went to the spot where he was when he took five shots at the running deer. The empty casings lay on the ground 450 yards from the first of the victim's homes. BUT, the rooftops of the houses WERE visible from the shooting location. When I pointed this out to the shooter he said, "Yeah, I guess so."<br />
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Next I went to the houses that were hit. The first house took a slug through the siding, through the shower wall and landed in the middle of the bathroom floor. Thankfully, the elderly woman who was home at the time happened to be in the neighboring room (though she told me that she had been in the bathroom a lot that day working on cleaning it).<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHSJlXS4XOxtlpGmmAYTyRtdJpsa98zpVjntHEUXhdaMGxp96_Md4EdbcYHonz0tXzqw-JExkIBgEI_nNPWQKTJah3Y8gaWRWuqRLmikHn1XaxulFWxK0m6q9lZso1Bj-FggEVnIeov7-/s1600/reduacc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHSJlXS4XOxtlpGmmAYTyRtdJpsa98zpVjntHEUXhdaMGxp96_Md4EdbcYHonz0tXzqw-JExkIBgEI_nNPWQKTJah3Y8gaWRWuqRLmikHn1XaxulFWxK0m6q9lZso1Bj-FggEVnIeov7-/s400/reduacc.jpg" width="266" /></a>The other home was shot through the bedroom. The slug burst through the bedroom window located above the bed and lodged in a wall on the other side of the room. Nobody was home at this house, but by the time I arrived, they were home- a family of four with two small children.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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So, the dillema...to charge or not to charge. In this state you have to discharge a firearm outside of 200 yards if you do not have permission to be closer, so the hunter was legal in that sense. The only option I had was "Reckless discharge of a firearm."<br />
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So, you tell me, is it reckless to discharge a firearm at a deer that is running up a hill when you are 450 yards from a home? <br />
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I will tell you in my next post what the county attorney told me.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-11962126204319871392012-01-06T16:08:00.000-08:002012-01-06T16:08:40.556-08:00Slueth AnswerThis was great! You answers were all very good. I especially like Brookfield Angler's guess of a "treasure map" or the "fountain of youth". Steve gets the award for the most detailed description- "residue traces of medicinal marijuana, bottle opener, 3 bottle caps and an electric bill to a nearby trailer court with the owner's name and address" (I wish). My all time favorite though comes from Kirk..."Hello Kitty stuff". I think it is my favorite because I am impressed that he knows such a thing as Hello Kitty exists.<br />
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But the award to the most accurate guesses belong to those of you who guessed drugs. Actually, there were no actual drugs, just this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6fftYk4KiFXKV2cqUbGiQswgq3RLQtkRa5hzevyGfRoBp9fDB7c3Our-r4PmPFI8FbT_WcydMuQ6_9M2rKkpUnCIqwysSFxltyA0Cg823KlN9e9f6-vbR-ew6VWvyd_NLibvUlZO8SLZ/s1600/reduc01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6fftYk4KiFXKV2cqUbGiQswgq3RLQtkRa5hzevyGfRoBp9fDB7c3Our-r4PmPFI8FbT_WcydMuQ6_9M2rKkpUnCIqwysSFxltyA0Cg823KlN9e9f6-vbR-ew6VWvyd_NLibvUlZO8SLZ/s320/reduc01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
A nice bong made from sockets...very creative...and a corn-cob pipe (and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal).<br />
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I must admit I had visions of a stolen gun, or maybe a safe full of drugs. But most of all I wanted a box full of photos of these little &^%^$#$ shooting the pelican that we found full of shotgun pellets a few days ago near this spot. <br />
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Someone already asked how we are going to catch them. Good question. The answer is, we probably won't. But we did set up a trail cam. Here is one of the Corps rangers setting it up (can you see it?):<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, I guess we will see what happens. Thanks for all your answers!!</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-2803060265767248582012-01-05T18:40:00.000-08:002012-01-05T18:40:16.340-08:00Slueths WantedBusiness was a little slow today. It was 65 degrees. This worries me a little because in this part of the country it should be about -6 degrees. But rest assured, one of the Corps of Engineers Rangers I helped today told me that the warm weather wasn't due to the global warming I was fretting over. No, it was because she purchased a brand new snowblower, so therefore, there will be no snow.<br />
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Which brings me to today's activity. I helped out the Rangers with some suspicious activity on the federal property. It seems people have been joy-riding and partying/camping in areas in which it is illegal to do so. Crime of the century? No, but it is still frustrating that whoever is doing this feels that it is completely ok to mow their own private paths for atvs:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rPa8o7eumkzVmZMzUTiJX4W3x2iltl4ZY4D45xec7jf0uU1u46NtFDd9ec6sdLGIb1RR3vCUfl8jUPJSRxuLL7zOepOYRyCK7BiEAQRKg8ahVUPMobgycBsa8RL3G5kJvLQAZqwpmDWj/s1600/reduc05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rPa8o7eumkzVmZMzUTiJX4W3x2iltl4ZY4D45xec7jf0uU1u46NtFDd9ec6sdLGIb1RR3vCUfl8jUPJSRxuLL7zOepOYRyCK7BiEAQRKg8ahVUPMobgycBsa8RL3G5kJvLQAZqwpmDWj/s320/reduc05.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And camp, and build bonfires:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqcrILWt3teO8noa2_nvXlUTBT1hltnntOzqqd6KWiw-DEPtwciQd9TTA8IuG8D_rIyEJdOMRCna5G9Wyrsko5i6wyBNwTuc04KaR8FyPkht_k7pSe__lPGEp_uEfrv2F77kRB5nOxpl7/s1600/reduc06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqcrILWt3teO8noa2_nvXlUTBT1hltnntOzqqd6KWiw-DEPtwciQd9TTA8IuG8D_rIyEJdOMRCna5G9Wyrsko5i6wyBNwTuc04KaR8FyPkht_k7pSe__lPGEp_uEfrv2F77kRB5nOxpl7/s320/reduc06.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxu8xw0cYMvKDEtVth5RqsFFWtdKdBNSNUYUNvECw39U5P1oNoV2M8RUXYf-pL-B6zZG73GkBNZ1nN4cD9AitP3kQMofxtRhx856sQUjsMTWAhQa_o_jpPOLN4V_50JH0UTlfzEB0czZf/s1600/reduc02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxu8xw0cYMvKDEtVth5RqsFFWtdKdBNSNUYUNvECw39U5P1oNoV2M8RUXYf-pL-B6zZG73GkBNZ1nN4cD9AitP3kQMofxtRhx856sQUjsMTWAhQa_o_jpPOLN4V_50JH0UTlfzEB0czZf/s320/reduc02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And of course we found a bunch of beer cans, litter and other stuff:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_mWJ7_hytz6ZWmltJhvqvduE-TgPtoaj9cK2FC-Pu11MyQHhM9oIkD7X1m0S7FLiDOn6nZRY-L7PuZ-yR-NnUfVmNU9dDKETsMN9TbHTUvdOZqQvVlWSVBJ1YjGqJwdknfp1PHJlal_I/s1600/reduc07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_mWJ7_hytz6ZWmltJhvqvduE-TgPtoaj9cK2FC-Pu11MyQHhM9oIkD7X1m0S7FLiDOn6nZRY-L7PuZ-yR-NnUfVmNU9dDKETsMN9TbHTUvdOZqQvVlWSVBJ1YjGqJwdknfp1PHJlal_I/s320/reduc07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And WAAAY back in the weeds and prickly bushes we found this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JzRlHHiv17IAYJJBbVYXvhc8DINBxAiLD_UX0xvdMz_Qnh5Jjm1l5n1DqJieQYzW7988hc_DgQAauKSi3KSt9py87JuY4R0vv_oixVXqKL56yIvxPZ67M46vL5KPiFQ6jodELdkNz6rT/s1600/reduc03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JzRlHHiv17IAYJJBbVYXvhc8DINBxAiLD_UX0xvdMz_Qnh5Jjm1l5n1DqJieQYzW7988hc_DgQAauKSi3KSt9py87JuY4R0vv_oixVXqKL56yIvxPZ67M46vL5KPiFQ6jodELdkNz6rT/s320/reduc03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here is a closer look:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywchJPuDGtAvZne49SkKerXb_nFA_KEDF-a9M-YldX4kEflUKwdh_Wh9gv_VoZylghuTleRavyLh3QHwIkSmZuJb2eJX_BQ2tVbfL9iz4EI7z-ErBuMC1NUqwb80ki0FBdm2sXpTIMeAw/s1600/reduc04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywchJPuDGtAvZne49SkKerXb_nFA_KEDF-a9M-YldX4kEflUKwdh_Wh9gv_VoZylghuTleRavyLh3QHwIkSmZuJb2eJX_BQ2tVbfL9iz4EI7z-ErBuMC1NUqwb80ki0FBdm2sXpTIMeAw/s320/reduc04.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yep. It is a safe. And of course it was locked. So...I thought it would be fun to take some guesses from everyone to see if anyone can guess what was inside (after we busted it open with a pry bar and hammer).<br />
What do you think? Write your guess in the comments section!FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-68604725272853771662012-01-04T18:56:00.000-08:002012-01-04T18:56:24.204-08:00Monkeys and Goats and Monkeys and GoatsI made the mistake of answering my phone. I thought perhaps someone had a quick law question, or wanted to know when the next hunter safety course would be. Instead I was on the phone for thirty minutes with Linda. The conversation was very random, and I had a hard time deciphering what exactly my role would be in the outcome. Here were some of her complaints:<br />
<br />
Her neighbors were:<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>1. Stealing her goats.<br />
2. Butchering her goats.<br />
3. Shooting guns at the "bus" parked in her yard.<br />
4. Trapping deer.<br />
5. Shining her house. And deer. And her goats.<br />
6. Harrassing her goats.<br />
7. Building the fence on their property higher than is allowed by law. 8. Stealing "things" from her yard.<br />
9. Moving "things" around in her yard. <br />
10. Making her feel like she is crazy.<br />
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Sometime amidst her stream of complaints (mainly to get her off the phone) I told her I would come over and take a look at her property. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A few days later I called up a neighboring officer and asked him to come along with me to see Linda's place. I told him that I was questioning her sanity, but thought I could use a <strike>witness </strike>second opinion. And I promised to buy him lunch.</div><br />
We arrived at Linda's place to find her not at home at the scheduled time. So, we got out of the truck and the first thing my partner said was, "Oh Boy". That about summed it up. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33RX1WbONhHXNAvphX2ZGovf8A9_Q2-5f9KYm4QhUyuAB7mYGG3j2FlPngfC9vxc7vLZRKC_lcdJ3Q-eGQhBLdxhxdjJ9ysi8kqGyI89ByTMs7C3Jf58US1ofsXEIIPeEp5_iqOl9h4fP/s1600/12142686154V27KZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33RX1WbONhHXNAvphX2ZGovf8A9_Q2-5f9KYm4QhUyuAB7mYGG3j2FlPngfC9vxc7vLZRKC_lcdJ3Q-eGQhBLdxhxdjJ9ysi8kqGyI89ByTMs7C3Jf58US1ofsXEIIPeEp5_iqOl9h4fP/s320/12142686154V27KZ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Let me paint a picture: there was a house that had been added on to, which had been added on to, which had been added on to; the windows of the house were boarded up; there was a chain link fence surrounding the property, though parts of it were collapsing so someone had MacGyvered the situation by stringing along black netting (like that you put on a dog kennel) to fill in the holes; there was a bus full (and I mean FULL) of <strike>rusted out random junk, trash and garbage</strike> her possessions; the yard hadn't seen the blades of a lawn mower in years (ever); there were piles of <strike>refuse </strike>more possessions scattered randomly around the yard; you get the idea. In other words, I was a little frightened of walking about the property for fear of falling down a hidden cavern full of goats (because I certainly couldn't see any on her property anywhere else).<br />
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As we were standing there <strike>aghast</strike> inspecting her property, Linda arrived. It is hard to sum up the following conversation except to say that numerous times she stated, "I know I sound crazy...I do. I know I sound crazy- but it is the neighbors that are making me seem like it." and "I know the place is a little bit of a mess, but it is hard to clean it up when you are being harrassed by the neighbors." and "the sheriff is out here all the time. You can talk to them. They will tell you I'm not crazy."<br />
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Long story short...I did some checking. I checked the backgrounds and hunting history of her neighbors. There wasn't any background of having had hunting licenses, which after much checking, I surmised it was because they weren't hunters. In my experience, most "poachers" are smart enough to buy a hunting license.<br />
<br />
Then I called a friend sheriff's deputy. I only had to say Linda's address and the deputy said, "You mean the monkey lady?" <br />
"The what?"<br />
"The monkey lady. And the goat lady. She had so many monkeys in her house that we had to remove her from the house. The septic system was overloaded."<br />
"From the monkeys? So the monkeys were using the toilets?"<br />
"I guess so. She has been in and out of the mental ward for years."<br />
<br />
Upon hearing this I started to laugh....then later it dawned on me- it was sad. I drove by her place later that day and found her sitting in her truck in the yard, watching the neighbors house. I counted my blessings and hoped that my children will never have to deal with a mental illness. <br />
<br />
From then on, whenever I drive by her place- I'm reminded how lucky I have been. And I try to get a glance over her fence to make sure nobody is butchering her goats....you can never be too sure.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-65393236808904484002012-01-04T12:56:00.000-08:002012-01-04T13:00:43.186-08:00Help Me Grow! <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkHNSPkfZihGfhXumJMTPxqe-WIlbqtxJ0eh-cp87N5hHS9x-7iI1I6PRxEwQGpagrQUIX57D-wLtMSEDaLYqqCFE6dtEMUZ1M6ZvuKTtYvl8S9taG9ws16RbTjC01aj5FreHlysFiV0T/s1600/IMG_2536.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkHNSPkfZihGfhXumJMTPxqe-WIlbqtxJ0eh-cp87N5hHS9x-7iI1I6PRxEwQGpagrQUIX57D-wLtMSEDaLYqqCFE6dtEMUZ1M6ZvuKTtYvl8S9taG9ws16RbTjC01aj5FreHlysFiV0T/s400/IMG_2536.1.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of the Day: Twisting Tree<br />
Minnesota</td></tr>
</tbody></table> As you can see, I'm trying to grow some changes to improve my blog. I've added a couple of pages and moved stuff around. <br />
<br />
I feel it is important to try to be a well rounded person. Sometimes for people who work in law enforcement (especially a job where you don't work a shift and therefore bring your job home with you), it is easy for your life to revolve around work. I want to incorporate some of my other interests into this blog...reading, photography and art among others. Please feel free to add comments or make book suggestions. I'm always looking for a good read!<br />
<br />
You have no idea how much I appreciate those of you who regularily follow my blog (as irregular as my blog has been). Reading your comments is the highlight of my day sometimes. I wish I could get a few more followers, though I am not quite sure how (hint hint).<br />
<br />
Wishing all of you a great day!<br />
<br />
Fish CopFChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-36111118170245788592012-01-03T12:56:00.000-08:002012-01-03T12:56:48.985-08:00Happy to Be Here<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvwABh1ecu65ex5rtHAM_Hm4oNOWmRoBRRXojkXqVKDYI9NffNJCEBzLMjUXHAsmuKI__u6BZV3yIrbn5J16vMigSBLqEGKZ688FYQpuy82F3V_GNnzyzWXk2cUDB_m2sYMbxqHM8cSDL/s1600/IMG_0112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvwABh1ecu65ex5rtHAM_Hm4oNOWmRoBRRXojkXqVKDYI9NffNJCEBzLMjUXHAsmuKI__u6BZV3yIrbn5J16vMigSBLqEGKZ688FYQpuy82F3V_GNnzyzWXk2cUDB_m2sYMbxqHM8cSDL/s320/IMG_0112.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of the Day: taken this morning-frost crystals <br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was late October when I was driving through a state wildlife area in my territory. I noticed a black pickup parked in one of the parking lots, so I pulled in to see if I could decipher the activity of the owner based on the contents of his vehicle. <br />
<br />
I hopped out of my truck and was walking towards the black pickup when I saw someone coming out of the woods nearby, carrying a shotgun. As he approached, the man greeted me with a friendly wave, and a "Good Morning Ma'am,". Sometimes when people call me Ma'am I am suspicious (the cynical side of me) that they are being overly friendly for a reason- like they are trying to hide the fact that they are indeed a dirtbag. But not this guy. His eyes were bright and kind-a true gentleman. The man was wearing camo pants and an old camo coat with a flannel shirt peeking out from the collar. He appeared to be in his late fifties.<br />
<br />
We had a nice chat about the weather, and his lack of luck trying to get a fall turkey. Eventually the conversation lulled and the man chuckled and said, "Well, I suppose you came to check my license, not just listen to me talk. I've got a lifetime license (which means he had to be over 65 years old)" as he reached into his pocket to dig out his wallet. Because there is rarely a point in looking at someone's license when they actually offer to show it to you, I told him that I was really just interested in how his hunt went, and he needn't fish through his wallet and freeze his fingertips. The gentleman laughed and said, "Please let me show it to you- it will make it worth my money."<br />
<br />
I obliged and took his license. Not paying much attention to the details aside from noticing that it was an old license, still the hand-written variety which isn't too common anymore. I thanked him and wished his luck in the rest of his day. And that is when he said lightly, "Oh, I really don't care if I get anything. At my age, I'm just happy to be anywhere! I turn 88 years old next month."<br />
<br />
88?!? <br />
<br />
He went on to tell me that he a few years back he had decided that he probably wouldn't do too much hunting anymore, so he sold his nice collection of guns to a young man and was left with an old, junky single shot. But he didn't mind. Mr. 88 told me that he planned on heading home for a bite of lunch and then he would see where the day led him after that. The game plan for the next day (unless the wind was still whipping) was to take his canoe out on the marsh to see if he could shoot a duck or two. <br />
<br />
I think I have a crush on an 88 year old man... or at least his attitude and outlook on life (though he was damn good looking for 88!). I complimented him on his ability to keep himself active and outside. Even though I am not 88 (I certainly hope to get there eventually), he demonstrated one of the great lessons we can all learn from: Take it one day at a time. Find the good in each day. Do what you love. Don't be afraid. And be happy to be alive.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-85275483226837227322012-01-02T10:43:00.000-08:002012-01-02T10:43:47.451-08:00Gut FeelingDear My Followers,<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am so sorry for my slacking. I have a few excuses lined up to dish out...mainly my 4 year old and 2 year old, my 4 month old german shorthair, my 6 year old lab, my husband, hunting season, Christmas preparations, and did I mention hunting season? I've been bad about posting. It is a new year, and my ambitions are high. I think I will try to add maybe a "Photo of the Day" section to this blog, starting with this one (Maple: age 4 months):</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqKpRnTxF7D7eHkHoW7gxAXj1AFIEs4Nmp5l6FKW24C4XRMSafO7Pg9g8RTwmmkoKrQ5mIGJrfAd9Wgl1PO7Pa3qSkMHXg21Nwqr78Nw2LDRVc0bpk5ehTeCh-GzcJLZazLeZEfOEZuh_/s1600/pup006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqKpRnTxF7D7eHkHoW7gxAXj1AFIEs4Nmp5l6FKW24C4XRMSafO7Pg9g8RTwmmkoKrQ5mIGJrfAd9Wgl1PO7Pa3qSkMHXg21Nwqr78Nw2LDRVc0bpk5ehTeCh-GzcJLZazLeZEfOEZuh_/s400/pup006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I have a few tales from this hunting season I can't wait to tell you about....</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">However, since reading the story last night, my mind has been with Mt Ranier National Park Service Ranger Margaret Anderson and her family. We are often notified via email regarding law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty, but for some reason this one hits home. Maybe it is because she is about my age, with two children who are the ages of my two children. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Every time I think of the events that must have taken place yesterday morning, I find myself wearing her boots and sitting in her patrol vehicle. Would I have realized the potential danger? Honestly, I don't think so. So many times we, as officers, take our safety for granted more than we should. I think this problem runs deeper for fish and game officers and park rangers. Most people we run into are decent people. Most of the time people are compliant. Unfortunately it only takes one.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Today while on patrol, I thought of Margaret and what must have been going through her mind as she set up her vehicle for a road block. Did she see the vehicle coming toward her? Did the hair on the back of her neck stand up?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I thought of her children. Did they watch their mommy get her uniform on that morning? Did they tell her they loved her? Did she tell them? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I thought of her husband. Did he hear the radio traffic? Did he hear his wife's call for help? Were his first thoughts about her or their children?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">If only there was something to say to make sense out of it. There isn't. At least I can't think of anything. She should have finished our her shift. She should have gone home to her kids to make them macaroni and cheese for supper. She should have spent the first night of the new year in bed with her husband. She was a mom, and a ranger, and a wife, and it she shouldn't have been stolen from her family and ours by her random encounter with a desperate armed man.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I don't get it. And I can't stop thinking about it. All I know is that from now on I will follow my gut: no vehicle stop I make will be "routine", no person I encounter will be harmless, and every time I leave for work I will remind my daughter and son that no matter what, I love them more than they will ever know.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dz6tKUhNYvMsljyZt4bIbD9JD2g3ie6pZwfIQ6A2ZF6C2xisKYMy2RCwEzq0zYTx8CcJU-1BLAjclUMQ2181ykaVgEoXS996D9szwbR3eXdOZsi2kWI5Dp9p_Mg7CivbtQydWIQieEVU/s1600/383066_2726413492600_1625061700_2604044_1774348014_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dz6tKUhNYvMsljyZt4bIbD9JD2g3ie6pZwfIQ6A2ZF6C2xisKYMy2RCwEzq0zYTx8CcJU-1BLAjclUMQ2181ykaVgEoXS996D9szwbR3eXdOZsi2kWI5Dp9p_Mg7CivbtQydWIQieEVU/s1600/383066_2726413492600_1625061700_2604044_1774348014_n.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-23840970954769438092011-11-10T08:28:00.000-08:002011-11-10T08:28:31.140-08:00What Was I Thinking...Ok. Here she is. The reason I have not had any time to write a post. The reason I haven't gotten a full days work in for at least two weeks. The reason my house is a mess. The reason my patrol truck is no longer lonely. The reason I am smiling.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_q0iXKjFS_AihtW9avoPiNPxlzF-o8VfnW3TE4b7UA6TLBTwOVDdGk3P1ePtxOCIFHgWGeqYLBzZ0oAHf_ZrQjSkCVqGivLr5w6h2-M93cXQHm5cM3bUaYALo3F6pZejuYanZzBsbeRhO/s1600/mapleh005%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266px" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_q0iXKjFS_AihtW9avoPiNPxlzF-o8VfnW3TE4b7UA6TLBTwOVDdGk3P1ePtxOCIFHgWGeqYLBzZ0oAHf_ZrQjSkCVqGivLr5w6h2-M93cXQHm5cM3bUaYALo3F6pZejuYanZzBsbeRhO/s400/mapleh005%255B1%255D.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maple on patrol</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN-7klsTB5GRj8_uBgE1naULAnwdl3ybZlZCeBRTkHNBXUfnSRS0QYMNqYvrBPGKAWkViYeJTSrWQwG95c0jgOSNkbVbX0QwwUplblqk5OOw1lS-l93rQuVJneIsuvhzhBn3ISJajiHYp/s1600/map003%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213px" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN-7klsTB5GRj8_uBgE1naULAnwdl3ybZlZCeBRTkHNBXUfnSRS0QYMNqYvrBPGKAWkViYeJTSrWQwG95c0jgOSNkbVbX0QwwUplblqk5OOw1lS-l93rQuVJneIsuvhzhBn3ISJajiHYp/s320/map003%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320px" /></a></div>A German Shorthair Pointer- and her name is Maple. Ok, dog experts out there, I need advice. This great white hunter will not leave the house because it is cold outside. She goes out, tucks her tiny tail as far between her legs as she can get it, then sits down, whimpers and shivers. Tough girl. It is kind of hard to wear off all that GSP energy if she won't leave the house. I'm looking for suggestions...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7amMAEWedy2Tv6LxCHVPzI89RdlO66uKO07GK_ysJ_dRjDaWhKmVcnGf7mRvbhDY_6oOTColRkxReIVe7grcl3_KYc_l27XWK1mZzgE670FMaW78CZmU4G7KIg7bPnzOOriavrm-bpMKB/s1600/map005%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213px" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7amMAEWedy2Tv6LxCHVPzI89RdlO66uKO07GK_ysJ_dRjDaWhKmVcnGf7mRvbhDY_6oOTColRkxReIVe7grcl3_KYc_l27XWK1mZzgE670FMaW78CZmU4G7KIg7bPnzOOriavrm-bpMKB/s320/map005%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOU2x6KN5bzU1Y2lVZr04Wa4emFEd0FM7GCV-KTUIJDyTrCoDs7I8zeLJjo-4Urx-FWaPFc4QCS6L8WtG_dELhaF6ARRvS6dc-u3C29QjXv9kKbVc-kc9ME596XVZNrOukRha18Ae1axu/s1600/pups02%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOU2x6KN5bzU1Y2lVZr04Wa4emFEd0FM7GCV-KTUIJDyTrCoDs7I8zeLJjo-4Urx-FWaPFc4QCS6L8WtG_dELhaF6ARRvS6dc-u3C29QjXv9kKbVc-kc9ME596XVZNrOukRha18Ae1axu/s320/pups02%255B1%255D.JPG" width="213px" /></a></div>Help!! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-61045624155142259802011-10-12T19:52:00.000-07:002011-10-12T19:57:26.949-07:00Hackles <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-E0mSQzERhEwzSfPp_QboHCGwnrJkMLU2Sfku6r49R3f9QP7gi1FRKUkvzT8eoNVhZGeaIgM-SIMKe4IiUz8AwLJNWTPN4UMCLk0p5A7mBciubvu0gY-MAbRWH9HLN-E8kw45f5oC5n5/s1600/karchccfcheetahs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-E0mSQzERhEwzSfPp_QboHCGwnrJkMLU2Sfku6r49R3f9QP7gi1FRKUkvzT8eoNVhZGeaIgM-SIMKe4IiUz8AwLJNWTPN4UMCLk0p5A7mBciubvu0gY-MAbRWH9HLN-E8kw45f5oC5n5/s320/karchccfcheetahs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pay attention to your hackles</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I told him it was a bad idea but he didn't believe me. <br />
<br />
My neighboring warden (I'll call him Tim), often calls me up and says, "Are you ready for this one?" I'm almost never ready, but rest assured he always tells me anyway. Sometimes his stories are outrageous- for some reason the people in his territory are twisted. But this time, after asking me if I was "ready", he filled me in on a pretty typical deer baiting case. Tim wanted to know if I'd be able to help him out.<br />
<br />
It is kind of a complicated story, but the short version was that he had information that a father and son would be deer hunting that night over bait (a mineral block and scattered corn). Tim has photos of the baited stand and has good information coming straight from a neighbor of the bad guy.<br />
<br />
I agreed to help him, and we met later that afternoon at a gas station along with the informant. Tim said, "I was thinking that I would walk in on the dad and you could walk in on the son." He went on to say that the dad is supposedly a mean drunk, and it was quite likely that he will have had a few drinks before climbing into his tree stand. But don't worry- Tim will be looking for him while I will be after the 20 year old son. I asked Tim and the informant (Matt), how far away his son will be hunting from him. Their answer? "We're not sure". <br />
<br />
I didn't like that answer, but Tim was convinced that the son would be hunting about 1/4 mile from his dad in a tripod stand out in the middle of a pasture. He assured me that the boy would be easy to find. <br />
"So, what do we do when we find them?" I asked Tim. Tim told me that he planned on just taking his ticketbook into the field with him to reduce the amount of time he would need to spend talking with the mean old bat. I hate taking my ticket book when I'm walking in on a hunter. It tends to make them nervous.<br />
<br />
"This is just an idea...since we know that Dave is a mean bastard, and we know where he will be, why don't we walk in on him together. We will seize his cell phone temporarily so he can't call his son. Then we can have him lead us right to him, since we really have no idea where his son will be," I suggested.<br />
<br />
Nah, Tim vetoed that plan on the grounds that nobody in their right mind would voluntarily hand over his cell phone. We would be going our separate ways. While Tim took off to go pinch Dave, I jumped into Matt's car and we set off in search of the son. Matt had a general idea where the boy would be located, but he was unsure how to get us there. Eventually we pulled into a driveway that looked like it had access by way of a back field. When we drove up to a barn, an older "gentleman" stepped out and asked us if he could help us. Matt told him that he needed to get to "Dave's" pasture and wondered if it was possible to access it by way of his back field. The old guy leaned over and squinted into the car, then asked, "What for?" We were both dressed in camo, and we preferred not to say who I was because Matt wanted to remain anonymous in this whole mess. But as we scrambled to try to explain why we needed to get to the pasture, another "gentleman" emerged from the barn holding a shotgun in both hands, and asked us who we were. I told him that I was a game warden and was working a case. I needed to go talk to someone who was hunting the pasture. We noticed him take a giant gulp, and his swagger with the shotgun was over. He told us how to get to the pasture. <br />
<br />
We slowly pulled through the gate and shut it behind us. As we were creeping up the hill in Matt's car, he pointed out my window and told me that he believed the boy was hunting the pasture to my right. We got out of the car and walked up to the fence. I glassed the field and didn't see anything. "I don't see any tripod stand out there," I told Matt. We got back into the car and drove past the next set of trees and got out of the car again. Hesitantly, I agreed that we would just walk out into the pasture and walk across it to see if we could get a good look at the pasture on the other side of a draw. As Matt and I were on our way to this spot we discussed the possibility that these two idiots might very well be holding shotguns or rifles instead of bows. It made me a little (a lot) nervous to be walking across a field when I had no idea where my bad guy was, and what kind of state he would be in. But stupidly, I went anyway.<br />
<br />
I grabbed my M-16 and fumbled my way over a barbed wire fence. Matt followed and soon we were crossing the pasture. You know that feeling that someone is watching you? I had it- big time. And just as my hackles were starting to raise, I heard a loud and distinct (and very angry) voice yell, "What the FUCK are you DOING? Who the fuck are you?"<br />
<br />
Matt made a beeline for the trees and I slowly turned around. I had walked right past him. The son was approaching me from an area of the pasture I had just walked past. I quickly identified myself as a game warden and walked up to him. As I was walking up to him, my cell phone rang. It was Tim. He whispered, "Where are you? Are you ok?" I told him that I was fine so far, and that I had just met Dave's son. I tried to describe my location, which was quite difficult since I hadn't the faintest idea where I was. Tim then whispered, "I don't see Dave. He isn't where I thought he would be." Wonderful. I politely told Tim to get his ass over to my location (wherever that might have been).<br />
<br />
I began my interrogation of Dave's son, Luke. Luke didn't have a deer license, so I had him with one charge, but as he led me to his treestand (which I had walked right past without seeing), I realized that it wasn't baited. I asked Luke for his phone, which he handed over without a fight.<br />
<br />
At this point I was beginning to worry about how Matt would go about getting back across the field to his car without being seen. I also worried that he would blunder right into Dave and end up getting shot by the drunken idiot. I decided to take Matt's bow and arrows, his i.d. and his phone and have him walk over to the farm house where I would meet up with him later. Matt agreed and began walking across the field. My phone rang again. "Where are you?" Tim asked again, "Are you ok?" I explained what was happening and told Tim that he could meet us at the house. "Which house?" he asked. Then he said, "Right now I'm in a field with horses. I don't see a house." I had no clue where Tim was, and just as I was about to describe the house, I heard someone yell, "Hey!". Off to my left I saw a guy dressed completely in camo approaching me. <br />
<br />
My first thought was, Whew, Thank God Matt is ok. I pointed towards Luke (who was walking across the field), so that Matt wouldn't let himself be seen. It was at that moment that I realized it wasn't Matt. The guy yelled again, and Luke turned around and started walking towards him. Just peachy. Now I had both Luke and his lovely, mean, drunk father. The guy that, don't worry, Tim was going to take care of.<br />
<br />
I quickly called Tim and updated him on the situation. I tried my best to once again describe my location. Tim was clearly confused, and out of breath. He kept saying, "I feel like I've walked two miles! Where the hell are you?" I wanted to shout, "I'm in a pasture in the middle of nowhere right next to the non-existent tripod stand you wanted me to find!" But I didn't. <br />
<br />
I'll speed up the ending of the story since it lacks excitement. I managed to keep the two men at ease until a bedraggled Tim found his way to us. Neither treestand had bait, but neither man had a deer license. By the end of the night, the two men were shaking our hands, and pretending to be very ethical hunters. They continually lied, "We would never hunt over bait. Someone must be trying to set us up." I'm not that stupid, but what could I do. We cited them for what we could, and walked the mile back to Tim's truck (which included a nice little field trip through a field with one VERY big bull).<br />
<br />
I got into Tim's truck and vowed never again to do something so stupid- especially when I knew it was stupid going into it. It is a bad feeling knowing that Luke was watching me the whole time and I didn't have a clue where he was. If he had wanted to (or if Dave had been drunk and desperate enough) they easily could've put a bullet through my back. <br />
<br />
Tim and I were lucky. Next time he calls and says, "Are you ready for this?" maybe I'll hang up. (Kidding of course).FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-61061298209071534072011-10-08T09:55:00.000-07:002011-10-08T09:56:04.011-07:00The Grand Prize<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZY87vIH98CDZnwjnckfdVERZUp6IGFbjwgGbpJtoScUtvJ65oWIjqgm0XoSt5VVTTeQRscnL2tjUBGPUZnsbSzz2mSZztS9Eb83-V8jj4BE5WW_6s9lA79q_G2LZY3K62EK67BGr5w3e/s1600/three+stooges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZY87vIH98CDZnwjnckfdVERZUp6IGFbjwgGbpJtoScUtvJ65oWIjqgm0XoSt5VVTTeQRscnL2tjUBGPUZnsbSzz2mSZztS9Eb83-V8jj4BE5WW_6s9lA79q_G2LZY3K62EK67BGr5w3e/s200/three+stooges.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AJ is an idiot. I don’t know how else to describe him. The first time I heard about AJ was from his mother who called me one day wanting me to come over to her house to “scare” her son into behaving better. She was just sure he was out spot-lighting at night and needed a talking to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The second time I met him was after the school superintendent called me to complain that AJ was skinning raccoons in the back of his truck in the parking lot of the high school. AJ not only had no trapping license, but also had a truck full of untagged traps in his truck along with about 5 raccoons.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then there was the time that Red caught AJ out at a wildlife area off-roading through the mud and fields in a wildlife area. Red called me and asked if I knew AJ. “Yes,” I moaned, “I know AJ. Whatever he did, tell him I’ll be over tonight to write him a ticket.” I wrote him a ticket that night and thoroughly explained that he needs to keep his vehicle on the roadway. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Red caught him again- the very next day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AJ is an idiot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every time his number pops up on my caller i.d. I groan and weigh the pros and cons of actually answering the phone. Every time I do, I regret it. For reasons that are beyond me, he acts like my best friend in the world. Like instead of receiving tickets every time he sees me, he is receiving a check for $100. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AJ can no longer legally drive. Anything. He is barred from driving as a result of having too many traffic tickets. But like many idiots, this doesn’t slow him down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This past winter he was arrested and taken to jail TWICE in one day. The first time he was caught driving a snowmobile following a blizzard that left the county buried in snow and ice. A deputy hauled him off to jail, where his grandparents immediately posted bail. Later the SAME afternoon, he called into dispatch from his truck (a white beater with an orange flashing light on the roof—which is always flashing) to report a road that “needed plowed” (just like EVERY road in the county that day). The city cop arrived. Then took him to jail.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AJ is an idiot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He called me recently to ask me if he needed anything special to be a waterfowl guide. Aside from a brain, in this state no other licenses are needed. When AJ calls he always has a list of about 25 questions that he fires at me, one right after the next. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of his questions this time included, “What is a woodcock?” and “Is a rail one of those brown and white birds?” I told him that he might want to bring a bird book along before he shoots anything with his clients.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last night I went to a Whitetails Unlimited banquet. I had just finished telling another officer about AJs big plans of becoming a waterfowl hunting guide. The officer responded by chuckling and rolling his eyes. Then I sat there with Red, listening to the announcer describing the next raffle. There were four gun cases. Inside one of the gun cases was a gun. Inside the rest were other prizes, one of which was a “one day duck hunt with a local guide… worth over $200.00!” I leaned over to Red and said jokingly, “It’s probably guided by AJ.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Red and I laughed. Not 5 seconds after I cracked that joke, the announcer said, “AJ, are you here tonight?....Well, I guess AJ isn’t here, but he is a local, experienced waterfowl guide, ready to take the winner on a once in a lifetime duck hunt.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stopped laughing and nearly choked on my prime rib.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just goes to show: </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This particular Whitetails Unlimited Chapter should look into background checks of their prize donations.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The poor fellow who “won” this guided hunt is either going to know what he is doing and figure out that his prize was really the unusual form of punishment called, “Being stuck with an idiot for 4 hours”, OR he will shoot a Kill-deer under AJs instructions to shoot a Woodcock.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I can find AJ hauling his client out to the puddle where his blind is located, I will laugh all the way to jail after I arrest him for driving while barred.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">AJ is an idiot.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlNr52oCu3cSIESfVUl7dyQQXz0ssqBaRhZG0RiJ4tY9qCAvELPodxSzdVmh1aKurarOYNmtlvlCxMeEEbqz4MJlBe8UUDMK0OheoHYkr8p-9mVGBk_XlMc1360by4bmilHFsfxq72P9t/s1600/dff95_prNM0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlNr52oCu3cSIESfVUl7dyQQXz0ssqBaRhZG0RiJ4tY9qCAvELPodxSzdVmh1aKurarOYNmtlvlCxMeEEbqz4MJlBe8UUDMK0OheoHYkr8p-9mVGBk_XlMc1360by4bmilHFsfxq72P9t/s320/dff95_prNM0.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><br />
</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-72753874360287912272011-08-31T19:28:00.000-07:002011-09-01T05:20:37.662-07:00Vacation Blues<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I just survived, or maybe I should say that “Red” just survived our family vacation. It was a close call. If I had had my duty weapon, he might be dead by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize that many who read this blog are men, but I’m sure there will be a few mothers/wives who can relate to the “vacation blues” that a mother/wife experiences during a family vacation. The cause of the blues is mainly due to the realization that you are not only vacationing with the two children who plowed through your birth canal, but also the one you married.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5x1jyJxyLvoydNhWr8U3HH40NMqU5lwLXEjrkpXrXwfARwsW5YVnrw3dy8k_049TKrNZQnSX-DQV7AxK1aOxYySlzP7SyR6y8VulnXnuqMSd-wWL23fbjR2bDyalJ0OkX_4FZk-jp_41/s1600/the-scream1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5x1jyJxyLvoydNhWr8U3HH40NMqU5lwLXEjrkpXrXwfARwsW5YVnrw3dy8k_049TKrNZQnSX-DQV7AxK1aOxYySlzP7SyR6y8VulnXnuqMSd-wWL23fbjR2bDyalJ0OkX_4FZk-jp_41/s400/the-scream1.jpg" width="308px" xaa="true" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">First off, there is the actual traveling. I was a prepared mother….I had a bag stocked with “travel presents” that Chatterbox and Towhead would be allowed to open every so often in an effort to reduce the chances of tears and boredom and the “Are we there yet?” syndrome that strikes every child within the first hour of any trip. I have been staunchly against the car dvd players. I want my kids to remember seeing the landscape, and experiencing travel, instead of being zoned out in front of Spongebob Square-pants or some other equally stupid cartoon for the entire length of the trip. In short, I’m an idiot. The travel presents were a failure. I made the mistake of getting the kids different “presents” therefore causing Chatterbox to immediately scream, “I want ___________ (whatever Towhead just received)”. Who knew that a 4 year old girl would want the same toy/book/snack as a 2 year old boy? Me of course. I am the mommy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Secondly, Towhead was teething. I think. Or he had an ear infection. Or he simply hated traveling. Whatever the cause, he felt it necessary to cry. And cry. And cry. I found myself leaping from the front seat to the backseat. Singing. Putting on puppet shows. Playing numerous games of “This Little Piggy” (only to have Chatterbox scream, “No-It’s my turn!!”) Coloring. Head caressing. Peek a booing. Face making. Ear plugging. Cursing. And shooting dirty looks to…. Red.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Red was driving. The whole time. He was in pure bliss. Red has the ability to simply block out all else that is happening in the car, and enjoy the ride. He gazes out the window, watching for birds to add to his life list. He goes no faster than 2 miles over the speed limit (even when Chatterbox is whining, “I have a tummy ache” translation: “I have to go poopy really bad”). He even has the gall to apply the brakes now and then, just to piss me off. I distinctly remember the same thing happening when I was pregnant and needing to pee. He would go at idle speed two blocks from our house. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He gave off the vibe: No worries here! Mommy will take care of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Red’s other downfall? He can’t handle changing plans. I have to give him several days warning if I so much as think about asking him to stop at the store on the way home from work to pick up a loaf of bread. Otherwise I must explain in great detail what I expect. And it must be worded very carefully. “Would you mind swinging into the store and getting a loaf of bread? I didn’t have time, since it is deer opener and all.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(What I want to say is- Stop at the store and get bread. I didn’t have time because I too have a full time job- two hours of which was spent trying to come up with an idea for supper since the only suggestion you ever have is ham-steak. And because you used up the last slice on your day off with the children at home. Even though on my days off (as well as my days on) I frequent the grocery store with both our children. And no, it isn’t fun but I do it anyway.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Silence. Silence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You mean, like the gas station (which is less out of the way)”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, I mean like the grocery store. Where bread doesn’t cost $7 a loaf. It is the place where there are rows upon rows of food. Many people go there. And some people even take their children. I rarely purchase our roast beef from the BP. “</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Silence. Silence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ok.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, ten minutes later he will call me, while inside the actual grocery store and ask me to direct him to the correct aisle.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I digress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After three hours spent in the car with my miserable children, cramped into the backseat and stressed out, we finally pull into a rest stop so Chatterbox can take care of her tummy ache. This is accomplished by me standing inside the stall with her and telling her, “Chatterbox, you have one mission here. You need to concentrate on pooping. Don’t ask me why there is a bug on the wall, or ask why there is water on the floor or ask why fish like to swim. You should have only one thing in your mind right now. Pooping. And don’t ask me why.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Red, in the meantime is standing out in the grass with Towhead who has also filled his pants. Red apparently doesn’t do diapers on vacation. So, while I’m changing Towhead’s diaper, Chatterbox locates a playground at the rest stop and proceeds to have lots of fun going down the slide. After I finish changing the diaper, I feel it is only fair to let Towhead slide for a while too. I could use a little break myself. BUT. This wasn’t part of Red’s plan. He shoots me a dirty look as I tell Towhead to try out the fun slide. After about three turns Red tells the children it is time to go. They disagree. Usually this is when I step in and remind them that they must obey their father. Only this time I stay quiet. He can be the bad guy for once in his life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thirty minutes in to a two hour side trip on the second day. Towhead was grabbing his ears and bawling. I was miserable. Finally I said to Red, "You know, I don't think we are going to make it all the way." He looked at me in confusion. Had he not been hearing his son (and his wife) crying for the last half an hour? "Towhead is obviously in pain. I don't know what to do." His response? "I don't think there is anything you CAN do." He continued driving in peace. So I said, "Well, how about NOT driving for two hours?" Sure enough, as soon as those words left my mouth, little Towhead shut up. See? Red was right again (or so his smug look tells me). We continued on our merry way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, there is the continental breakfast at the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room was packed when we arrived. The hotel was hosting a wedding party and a church group and they all wanted breakfast at the same time. So we walk in. I’m holding onto Towhead so he doesn’t bolt for the pool and holding Chatterbox’s hand for the same reason. But there are no tables available. Instead of helping me come up with a plan of attack for providing our offspring with the most important meal of the day (without losing them in the melee), Red makes a break for the food. Two minutes later he arrives back with a plate full of biscuits and gravy (for himself) and looks at me like I should’ve found a table for all of us by now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ok. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m regaining control. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is more to the vacation from hell story. But I think this is good enough for now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is safe for me to remove my handgun from its safe in the morning and go to work. I look forward to chatting with people who, though they may be wearing shirts that read, “If It Flies It Dies” (it is dove opener, after all), at least they won’t expect me to cook for them, do the dishes and put their children to bed. After baking a cake. And having sex.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanks for letting me vent. I better go now- we are out of milk. And I need to unpack Red’s bag.</span></div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-63510222392409726132011-08-24T20:37:00.000-07:002011-08-25T14:09:00.919-07:00Squeal Like a Pig<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_T1b9LTnE671pxceB7VUw5u0gjBbZCkvRv-3na__yNMxBLEfmyqyAzNVpqmIV525A-2U0oNvzaThSCQx6YQNo9zQRAJJS3AP4bJWCb6T8uY2ZQrgJkmXVlsMnaLKp5F3zzNPcGq-bZFwH/s1600/600full-my-profile.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_T1b9LTnE671pxceB7VUw5u0gjBbZCkvRv-3na__yNMxBLEfmyqyAzNVpqmIV525A-2U0oNvzaThSCQx6YQNo9zQRAJJS3AP4bJWCb6T8uY2ZQrgJkmXVlsMnaLKp5F3zzNPcGq-bZFwH/s320/600full-my-profile.png" width="320px" /></a></div>Sometimes I can hear the banjo from the movie Deliverance before I even get out of my truck. It is almost like a version of having the hair raise up on the back of your neck. And my heart-rate speeds up a notch. <br />
<br />
And it ticks even a little faster when, after running a driver's license, the dispatcher responds with, "Are you 10-61?", meaning, "Are you standing right there with this dirtbag?" Immediately I know that the person I am dealing with has a warrant for their arrest. I don't check the record of every person that I run into, but sometimes I get that feeling, (um...not profiling), that I ought to check into things a bit.<br />
<br />
I was working a "dirty" wildlife area in my territory late last Saturday night. I'm always a little bit creeped out working this area by myself, especially at night, and my nerves become even more high strung when I see someone's campfire, down by the river, and well off the road. <br />
<br />
So it was 11:30 pm, when I drove my truck over a dirt barrier and made my way to the river. I parked the truck and walked to the river's edge where I found two guys, both with lines in the water. And a dog. A snarling, unfriendly dog. <br />
<br />
I always approach people in a friendly manner- asking if they have had any luck yet. First clue- Sleazy guy #1 wouldn't look at me. Second clue- Sleazy guy #2 didn't call off his mean dog. They had driven their car over the same dirt hill I had and parked it on the edge of the trees, near where they were fishing. I asked for their fishing licenses and as they were digging through their wallets, I casually walked over and looked through the windows of the car. There was the usual clothes, cans, and assorted junk....and, covered in a blanket on the floor behind the front seat was an uncased .22 rifle. I bit my tongue and walked back to the men.<br />
<br />
Each man handed me a license. Sleazy guy #2's licenses had a first name of Ann. I was pretty sure that this tattooed, greasy-haired, person standing before me was not named Ann. After pointing this out to the man, he admitted that Ann was his fiance. He handed me a driver's license and asked if I could "call it in". "Sure!" I said, and walked back to my truck.<br />
<br />
The first person I called was the dispatcher at state radio, and that is when I found out that Sleazy guy #2 had an arrest warrant. After asking me if I was 10-61, she asked me what my "20" (location) was....Sleazy guy #2 had an aggravated assault on is record. Great. No troopers available, but they would try to get a deputy on the way to back me up. <br />
<br />
Next I called our licensing system. No fishing license on record either. Just before getting out of my truck to talk to the men again, my phone rang. It was the sheriff's department wanting to know exactly where I was. First off, I must explain that many of the sheriff's deputies in my territory are rather clueless, so my chances of getting one of the few good ones was pretty slim. You would think a county deputy would be familiar with all the roads in the county. But you would be wrong. And it didn't help matters that I wasn't on a road at all. The deputy (of the clueless clan) said he would "try to find" me. <br />
<br />
So, I was left with a decision...do I tell Sleazy guy #2 that he has a valid warrant? Do I let Sleazy guy #1 know that I saw the rifle in the car? <br />
<br />
It is always a balancing act. How long can I stall before the deputy shows up without aggravating, or making these two guys nervous. I had already spent plenty of time on the phone, and Sleazy guy #1 was pacing. I decided it was best to leave sleeping dogs lie. I didn't say anything. <br />
<br />
My fear was that if I dealt with Sleazy guy #2 about his warrant, it would make him nervous (and perhaps desperate). If I dealt with Sleazy guy #1 about the gun, I might find out that either Sleazy guy # 1 OR Sleazy guy #2 had another gun tucked conveniently in his pocket. <br />
<br />
This tactic has worked pretty well for me in the past. Rather than get the suspect all hot and bothered without back-up, I wait until help arrives before dropping the bad news. One hunting season I happened upon an individual who had a $50,000 federal warrant from a state on the opposite side of the country. And the state was happy to extradite. It took about 10 minutes for 3 troopers and a deputy to show up on the dirt road, out in the boondocks to help me out. Unfortunately, my deputy back-up on Saturday was a wee bit on the tardy side.<br />
<br />
Eventually I felt I had stalled as long as I possibly could, and decided to tackle the "rifle in the back-seat" issue first. I informed Sleazy guy #1 that I had spotted the rifle in the back of their car. I acted like it was no big deal-I just needed to make sure it was unloaded to make it safe. Then I asked if I could search the rest of the vehicle to make sure there were no more guns. Slezy guy #1 decided not to cooperate. No, I couldn't search (meaning either...yes, there are more guns in there Mrs. Warden....or do you like drugs Mrs. Warden? Because that is what you will find....or both).<br />
<br />
By this time Sleazy guy #2 wanted to know what was going on with his fishing license. So, I broke the bad news that he had never purchased a license for the current year, and that he would receive a citation for not having a license. Just as I was about to break the especially bad news about the warrant, the deputy came thumping over the dirt mound. Just in time.<br />
<br />
Sleazy guy #2 found out he was going to jail, and Sleazy guy #1 found out he was getting a citation for the uncased gun. Luckily, though they were obviously disturbed by this turn of events, neither one decided to act on it. They were cooperative.<br />
<br />
The fiddle music went away. This time. FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-12374258242518091802011-08-14T19:31:00.000-07:002011-08-14T19:31:27.770-07:00Translator Wanted.Sometimes I run into a stumbling block. It happened last night. <br />
<br />
I was down below a dam checking fishermen when I come across two men who were fishing with a small stick with line wrapped around it. As soon as they saw me, one of the men tried to hide his stick under a rock. Too late- I saw it. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mNk7s8URiI1fz7lu9Lt_e7PVEfZXacqAxS7Ev-rpGnj38HvvKNpSXm6TPIWwanbDCgkCTbKf6Jlo0BddwwB445w_ennlRWBzmw-Wf7X31i7IWjNbPF2tLLsXNXw_BNR-VW71z96pwmee/s1600/br-0392b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mNk7s8URiI1fz7lu9Lt_e7PVEfZXacqAxS7Ev-rpGnj38HvvKNpSXm6TPIWwanbDCgkCTbKf6Jlo0BddwwB445w_ennlRWBzmw-Wf7X31i7IWjNbPF2tLLsXNXw_BNR-VW71z96pwmee/s320/br-0392b.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>So I approach them and ask to see some fishing licenses. Blank stares. I ask again. More blank stares...and then "No Ingles! No Ingles". The men were clearly of Asian descent and I have run into this problem before. Luckily I was prepared, I pull out my handy dandy cards I had a Chinese professor from the local university translate for me. One of the cards says, "Do you have a fishing license?" So, I point to the sentence in chinese characters and one of the men excitedly says, "Oooh! Yes! License!" And he nods furiously. I point to his bag and try to play charades to ask if his license is in his bag. After several rounds of charades I give up, and pick up his bag and mime my way through getting consent to search its contents. Nothing. Not even an i.d.<br />
<br />
When I show the second man the same sentence he furiously waves his hand around in the air like he is saying "Bye Bye", leaving me a bit confused as to whether he means, 'No, I don't have a license" or <br />
'Man this place reeks of dead fish'.<br />
<br />
So I turn back to the first guy and ask (in a loud voice, because it is hard not to do, even though I know he isn't deaf), "License?" I make a motion with my hands indicated that I need to see it with my eyes. I point to my eyes then point to the sentence asking about a fishing license. The man again shakes his head madly and starts saying, "Highway! Highway!" while he is pointing up in the sky. Huh?<br />
<br />
"Your license is at the highway?"<br />
<br />
"Highway! Yes! Highway!"<br />
<br />
I point in the direction of the nearest highway and say questioningly, "Highway? Highway 6?"<br />
<br />
Suddenly he starts making a shape in the air of a box and pokes his fingers into the box, "Highway!"<br />
<br />
I point towards his bike and begin the pedal mime. I'm standing on the edge of the river running in place with my hands on imaginary handlebars, pumping away and saying very loudly, "Go to highway? Ride your bike to highway? License at highway?"<br />
<br />
The Chinese man begins laughing at me.<br />
<br />
I turn back to the other man and he merely begins his wild goodbye wave.<br />
<br />
So, I take my fishing license from my pocket and pretend like I am handing it to an imaginary game warden. Then I switch places and become the imaginary game warden. I take the license from the imaginary me and look at the license admiringly, then give the imaginary me a giant thumbs up, in a desperate attempt to show that they need to show the game warden the fishing license. <br />
<br />
The man laughs more. Apparently I'm putting on quite a show. More fisherman are beginning to watch my little one woman act.<br />
<br />
Finally I pull out my pad of paper so I can attempt to get the man's name. I give him the paper and a pen, then pull out my flashcards. I find the one that says, "Please write your name."<br />
<br />
The man smiles grandly, happy that he can finally do something that I'm asking him to do. He grabs the paper and scratches out what appears to be about 15 Chinese characters. I'm fairly certain that the Clerk of Court won't accept a citation written in chinese characters, so I begin belting out the abc's song. The men look at eachother and begin clapping along. <br />
<br />
I give up. <br />
<br />
I wave my hands back and forth, meaning "NO", then I pretend to reel in a fish, meaning "FISHING". NO MORE FISHING UNTIL YOU SHOW ME A LICENSE!<br />
<br />
"Highway! Tomorrow!" He points to the river, "Tomorrow!"<br />
<br />
"No," I say, shaking my head, "No more fishing!"<br />
<br />
The men laugh and begin clapping some more. "Sank you, Sank you!" they say happily. <br />
<br />
Just as I turn to walk in shame back to my truck, the men pick up their sticks and throw the line back into the water. <br />
<br />
Mission accomplished. Or not.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-28252646531655665262011-08-07T19:35:00.000-07:002011-08-07T19:35:48.415-07:00And the Winner Is...Every once in a while...ok, let's be honest, quite often, I encounter someone that makes me feel like a pretty darn good parent (at least in comparison). <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBbdaw_rJ4qZybPUIjEi4DVYARlUy2jduq5YH8CKbEMQg8rwE0cXQ04q6PyzXuLF6E_X0H-n_8DVU2G3BQpxaptPsWY0UeUn6b3VCQh1Ksr16X1-0DhQASF2k9cpFiDwEXwHGYW5-TD1jv/s1600/Surprised-Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBbdaw_rJ4qZybPUIjEi4DVYARlUy2jduq5YH8CKbEMQg8rwE0cXQ04q6PyzXuLF6E_X0H-n_8DVU2G3BQpxaptPsWY0UeUn6b3VCQh1Ksr16X1-0DhQASF2k9cpFiDwEXwHGYW5-TD1jv/s1600/Surprised-Baby.jpg" t$="true" /></a></div>Tonight I got a phone call from the "Range Officer" at the pistol/rifle hooting range on one of the wildlife areas. He reported that someone brought a baby to the shooting range. The baby was in a stroller, with no ear protection, inside the fenced in shooting range. A blanket covered the baby (it was 90 degrees today), and the child had been bawling for the last half hour. <br />
<br />
By the time I arrived at the shooting range, the couple had gotten the baby into their car to go home. I approached the (very young) parents, and instructed them to never, EVER, bring the baby back to the shooting range again. The father just stared at me like he wanted to punch me, and the mother had a perpetual smirk on her face like she was going to start laughing. <br />
<br />
"You have probably already given the baby some hearing damage by exposing him to these gunshots out here...not to mention all the lead," I said. <br />
<br />
More blank stares and smirks...then the dad said, "Well we put the blanket over top of his stroller to muffle the sound. I stuck my head under there and it was just like wearing earmuffs."<br />
<br />
I lectured him about the fragility of a baby's eardrums, and told them that if I ever saw the baby at the shooting range again that I would pursue Child Endangerment charges. <br />
<br />
"Well, we are taking him to the sprint car nationals next weekend, so he will be exposed to even more noise," the father said (purely to piss me off) as he climbed into the car to leave.<br />
<br />
They drove away and I looked at the Range Officer in disbelief. How could a parent be this stupid? <br />
<br />
After I left, I called a deputy to find out whether Child Endangerment would really fit the bill. He said that he didn't think it would, but it was definitely a candidate for the Dumbass Parent of the Year Award. It was one of those moments when I really wished I could give someone a ticket for being stupid. <br />
<br />
I hung up and called DHS.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-77417515539156547562011-08-03T19:48:00.000-07:002011-08-03T19:48:57.229-07:00Pot? What pot?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aIewcpP4s5FhjyIEeVW-m2JeUYPMWxZ1Rvv1yXqhmRrfjgyVGYAQ4rUcajJkOyDheKD12q7dvrC3YDGy1vEMoJYW52788bXo_mUh-J_I5F8Dc7SbNE59zDoFlvMUpYnJKNXG7f2ZJ4Xn/s1600/joint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aIewcpP4s5FhjyIEeVW-m2JeUYPMWxZ1Rvv1yXqhmRrfjgyVGYAQ4rUcajJkOyDheKD12q7dvrC3YDGy1vEMoJYW52788bXo_mUh-J_I5F8Dc7SbNE59zDoFlvMUpYnJKNXG7f2ZJ4Xn/s1600/joint.jpg" t$="true" /></a></div>I've spent the last several evenings arresting drunk people driving boats. Of course, I always stumble on them as I'm on my way back to my vehicle to head home for the night. Two nights ago I had an especially interesting one. He was not only drunk...but also high. <br />
<br />
Here is a list of things this gem said to me throughout the evening. <br />
<br />
1. "Pot? What pot?"<br />
"The pot that I quite plainly smell right now. Where is it?"<br />
"I don't have any pot. Do you guys have any pot?"<br />
<br />
2. "Pleeeeaaaase? I'm already in enough trouble out here. Can you please pretend you didn't see the pot?"<br />
"What do you mean you are already in enough trouble out here?"<br />
"Two weeks ago some lady said that I raped her. It was a misunderstanding."<br />
<br />
3. "How much did you smoke?"<br />
"I didn't smoke anything."<br />
"I'm not stupid. How much did you smoke?"<br />
"I didn't smoke anything."<br />
"Open your mouth so I can see your tongue....thank you...that's what I thought. How much did you smoke?"<br />
"Maybe one hit."<br />
<br />
4. "Is there anyone you can call to come and load up your boat? We are going downtown, so someone needs to take possession of your boat. Who can you call?"<br />
"I could call my wife, but she is still mad at me about the rape."<br />
<br />
5. "You are under arrest for Boating While Intoxicated. If you are going to be decent with me, I'll cuff you in the front for the ride."<br />
"Wow, I feel like a seal. These are great flippers!" (as he claps his cuffed hands together).<br />
<br />
6. "Can you pleeeeaaase turn on the lights and sirens? This is the worst night of my life, at least you can make it a little more fun for me."<br />
<br />
7. "My nipples are hard. Can you turn down the air?"<br />
"Sure."<br />
"Unless you want my nipples to be hard."<br />
"No thanks"<br />
<br />
8. "And I'm not going to say anything about women drivers. That would be a bad idea right now. So I'm not going to say one thing about bad women drivers. By the way, why couldn't Helen Keller drive?" <br />
Silence<br />
"Because she was a woman! Ha Ha Ha!"<br />
Silence<br />
"Didn't you think that was funny? Even a little bit?"<br />
Silence<br />
"I guess not. Sorry."<br />
<br />
9. "Come to think of it I don't think I smoked any of that weed."<br />
<br />
10. "This is a Drug Recognition Expert. He is here to run you through some tests to see how much the drugs are affecting your body."<br />
"What drugs?"<br />
He fails each test miserably until finally he says,<br />
"Ok, I don't want to do any more tests. You have already looked at my eyes enough"<br />
DRE: "Sir, we only have about 2 more minutes to go in these tests. We would appreciate it if you would just finish it up."<br />
"Well....alright. I guess you probably know by now that I haven't smoked anything anyway. Go ahead and finish."<br />
<br />
11. "I was fired last week because my boss said I have a bad attitude and that all I care about is boating."<br />
"You sure it wasn't for getting arrested and charged with rape?"<br />
"Could've been that too."<br />
<br />
12. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law..."<br />
"That is what got me into trouble with the rape. I told the truth."<br />
<br />
Uh huh-That was about four hours of my life I will never get back. Is it hunting season yet? Pleeeaaase?FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-5100365808490601382011-08-01T19:13:00.000-07:002011-08-01T19:13:18.753-07:00Cops Against CSI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmCh4zTPQMdIfXmGbkpK_rQZkwns6xrK0ALotYPkxhSiHNkt3xUBkIaK3B-HOADVo3BHFfWLdR28qsYqtNc_neMVaCXzeKGoH530KXdjOBMZBmm_8rwXGSpxg0VUuozrLPYrY7mdwqINd/s1600/x13801914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmCh4zTPQMdIfXmGbkpK_rQZkwns6xrK0ALotYPkxhSiHNkt3xUBkIaK3B-HOADVo3BHFfWLdR28qsYqtNc_neMVaCXzeKGoH530KXdjOBMZBmm_8rwXGSpxg0VUuozrLPYrY7mdwqINd/s200/x13801914.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div>People shouldn't be allowed to watch CSI. <br />
<br />
Let me re-phrase that...people shouldn't be allowed to watch CSI and then call me. I wish the department would outfit me with all the gadgets that the folks on CSI have in their back pockets, but to be perfectly honest, even my flashlight barely works...and I had to beg for that. The chance of my supervisor handing me some kind of handheld, fingerprint reader, dna matcher, bad guy-finder do-dad is pretty far out of the question. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbME2sn3LZN9vc8qcXjaAB0wtNuyBNkeG61ubo4_xOGDMBM4QPgGzQztLX2tjBkJ80SRnd5tgtFEbyfDwUpzvWxEF8opE75JLDuL-Bfyo4MvqOr8RzuzzNIwPjHYTJAyHypDsI2hpmwJ43/s1600/CSI-logo-all-csis-3227233-456-352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbME2sn3LZN9vc8qcXjaAB0wtNuyBNkeG61ubo4_xOGDMBM4QPgGzQztLX2tjBkJ80SRnd5tgtFEbyfDwUpzvWxEF8opE75JLDuL-Bfyo4MvqOr8RzuzzNIwPjHYTJAyHypDsI2hpmwJ43/s320/CSI-logo-all-csis-3227233-456-352.jpg" t$="true" width="320px" /></a></div>So, here are some calls I've taken where I think the expectations might have been a bit high. And these are really just the few I could think of in the last ten minutes:<br />
<br />
Q: "My jet ski was stolen, but I found it parked at a sandbar on the river. Can you come and take a look at it?"<br />
A: "And then what? I can come and look at your jet ski that was once stolen but later found. And I can look at it some more. But no matter how long I look at it, I will never be able to take fingerprints from it. And even if I could take fingerprints from it, I have nothing to which to compare them. No matter how long I stare at the jet ski, no visions will come to me. I'm not a psychic."<br />
<br />
Q: "Someone was trespassing on my property last night. I never saw the vehicle, but you should be able to come up with something from the tire tracks they left."<br />
A: "Um. No. I won't be able to determine jack from the tire tracks they left. Unless they happened to drop the vehicle registration on top of the tire tracks, there are only about 100,000 vehicles in the state with the same exact tires making the same exact tracks as those left in your driveway."<br />
<br />
Q:"I found an arrow in the road. I'll keep it for you in case it ever matches up to another case you are working on."<br />
A: "Thank you so much for the help. I'm sure someday I will be able to match up the arrow to a poaching case. Was the arrow hand-made in some unique fashion, or is it a lot like the rest of the billion arrows sold to bowhunters nationwide? I'll scan it with my super-duper arrow identifier 3000, and maybe look at the blades under a spectra-micronoscope to determine the dna of the hairs the arrow might have once touched from the deer that was missed."<br />
<br />
Q: "There are a pile of geese thrown in the dumpster behind our apartment complex"<br />
A: "Did they happen to tell you who shot them? Oh, and did they have a license? Because otherwise, we have no violation."<br />
<br />
Q: "I found a small piece of camo clothing on the barbed wire fence where someone has been trespassing. I saved it in case you can use it as evidence."<br />
A: "Good thinking."<br />
<br />
No, I'm not bitter. Just don't get me started on Law and Order.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-26837085444959569952011-07-30T06:26:00.000-07:002011-07-30T06:27:27.331-07:00Blast Off!I just saw a little too much of the Super Wash guy. <br />
<br />
Super Wash Man is sweet, older gentleman, with a soft spot for cops. Everytime I pulled into the car wash he would come hurrying over to my stall and feed the machine full of quarters so I could give me truck the "VIP" treatment. He'd smile and tell me to have a nice day. <br />
<br />
I always pictured Super Wash Man, going home to his elderly wife, greeting her with a peck on the cheek, and sitting down on the front porch for a piece of apple pie that she baked specially for her sweet Super Wash husband. His cat would curl up on his lap, and he would tell Super Wash Wife all about his day- the cars he saw, the people he talked to, all the squad cars he helped keep clean...<br />
<br />
But then.<br />
<br />
My dream.<br />
<br />
Was smeared.<br />
<br />
Like a bug on the windshield.<br />
<br />
I was driving through the wildlife area, minding my own business, listening to NPR, when I noticed a red pickup truck stopped in the middle of the road up ahead. Slowly, I pulled up behind the car. <br />
<br />
"That's strange," I mumbled to myself. I couldn't see anyone in the truck. Why would someone park their truck in the middle of the road and walk away? Maybe it was broken down.<br />
<br />
There was just enough room for me to pull my truck up alongside the red truck, so I could drive past it. I inched my truck up to the driver's side of the red truck, and looked into the window. <br />
<br />
And that is when I saw it.<br />
<br />
Someone was mooning me from the driver's window...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvPNzSCGo7sNK-UQy58SvswegbDuqRSiMgK-T_qt-FZAu9nERupsvNn7YGCuL6Rjqq8XCDLnC496mWpmWgN6m-bUh8mI7KSn1uMZo2F5QTnmr0GpWdGpsuB2EJ2jJeGWDlLAz6Kz2PRQh/s1600/images1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvPNzSCGo7sNK-UQy58SvswegbDuqRSiMgK-T_qt-FZAu9nERupsvNn7YGCuL6Rjqq8XCDLnC496mWpmWgN6m-bUh8mI7KSn1uMZo2F5QTnmr0GpWdGpsuB2EJ2jJeGWDlLAz6Kz2PRQh/s320/images1.jpg" t$="true" width="308px" /></a></div>"What the hell?" I said. Why would someone moon me? <br />
<br />
But then.<br />
<br />
The person turned and looked over his shoulder. He was thin, and had gray hair. It was Super Wash Man. First he had a look of terror on his face. And then a look of recognition. <br />
<br />
Then suddenly a woman sat up from under Super Wash Man. She had long, curly blond hair. She wasn't wearing any clothes. And she wasn't Super Wash Wife.<br />
<br />
I got out of my truck and walked up to the window and told them to put on some clothes. Then, although I sadly knew the answer, I had to ask anyway, "Ma'am, are you here by choice?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," she squeaked.<br />
<br />
"Ok," I said.<br />
<br />
I turned around, got into my truck and drove away. <br />
<br />
My image of sweet Super Wash Man is forever tarnished. I will never be the same. And I fear, I will never again, get a free car wash.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-80285230832369408092011-07-25T18:57:00.000-07:002011-07-25T18:57:39.936-07:00Summer Fair Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I worked at a booth today for the county fair. I don't know if I pinched the person who was in charge of booth locations, or not. How else could I have deserved this booth location? On one side I had a view of this:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbJQHg4UJ5rUC9g2S8vNtH3r2SdBTFPSCZvVV9Qpo6BW6XRY9AUm8Zlxyan7Egvpwp9H2vfnXw_QYSJF4lHBz9BPGLzR9Qj-I0MJ1ubv3G4EVJp9q0aqJ9vYGlf4oGuHisOqcvCsT7act/s1600/20110725122242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbJQHg4UJ5rUC9g2S8vNtH3r2SdBTFPSCZvVV9Qpo6BW6XRY9AUm8Zlxyan7Egvpwp9H2vfnXw_QYSJF4lHBz9BPGLzR9Qj-I0MJ1ubv3G4EVJp9q0aqJ9vYGlf4oGuHisOqcvCsT7act/s320/20110725122242.jpg" t$="true" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">For those of you who have not had a chance to sit next to this for 8 hours...from what I could gather it was the cow shower area. All day long cows got a good scrub down. Some even got a bubble bath treatment.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">And on the other side of our booth we had a great view of the Ugliest Cake Contest. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">This was my favorite:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrYiMc5AlltZUAzGNHG1yV3KiSgH-GF2NXOWQxQHtxCNZoXrnfkFwRd4UdtEqdvP7QF_uem9j7ozHbuwLdWiEywlGxny7gFmMb4q5igrGCz_VJurusDh-42Nr5pAyydkT4rS2rPXjGzZ0/s1600/20110725121318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrYiMc5AlltZUAzGNHG1yV3KiSgH-GF2NXOWQxQHtxCNZoXrnfkFwRd4UdtEqdvP7QF_uem9j7ozHbuwLdWiEywlGxny7gFmMb4q5igrGCz_VJurusDh-42Nr5pAyydkT4rS2rPXjGzZ0/s320/20110725121318.jpg" t$="true" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You just gotta love county fairs.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-68360333338493063942011-07-24T19:56:00.000-07:002011-07-25T06:45:15.011-07:00Torn<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KSOBulOLhWTn-RbuJLO4Dnwpewfq_AEUyKFzaSqHTDlM-pzllHtvfaLC9n2oMPESfGthyHpJX05SZw4Zs1MUFDKkTDWc3x4U3fJdHAJWorPPkXlSrK_AhUiJuO3eIlH9RNqE5Ddbouk5/s1600/patrol-boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KSOBulOLhWTn-RbuJLO4Dnwpewfq_AEUyKFzaSqHTDlM-pzllHtvfaLC9n2oMPESfGthyHpJX05SZw4Zs1MUFDKkTDWc3x4U3fJdHAJWorPPkXlSrK_AhUiJuO3eIlH9RNqE5Ddbouk5/s320/patrol-boat.jpg" t$="true" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boat I wish we could provide for our seasonal officers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our state hires "seasonal" officers. These are usually college age people (usually guys) who are hired to patrol the water and the various atv parks throughout the state. I am the direct supervisor of three seasonals- two water and one atv. <br />
<br />
Here is the thing...we give them a canister of OC, handcuffs, and a radio (that may or may not work) and send them on their way to perform law enforcement duties. Is it just me, or does this seem like a tiny liability? Therefore, I find myself becoming a mother hen to these boys. I worry about them. I bake them cookies. I call in to check on them. I insist they call me if they run into any problems, and I require that they work together on the water, especially at night. <br />
<br />
Tonight I was sitting out in the yard watching my kids play when I got a call from one of my seasonals. He was alone (the other officer was at a funeral today), and had someone stopped on the water. When he ran the boat operator's driver's license through state radio dispatch, he found out that the guy who had a warrant for his arrest. My officer was understandably a wee bit nervous. He had no clue what to do. I told him to call the communication center and find out what the warrant was for, where the warrant was out of, and whether the person had a history of violence. <br />
<br />
He called me back about two minutes later and said that his guy had a history of assaulting peace officers. Just when I tried to respond, I him begin talking to someone else in the background. Then he began yelling. Then the line went dead.<br />
<br />
I leapt from my lawn chair, ran into the house, grabbed my vest, my gunbelt, and my radio and headed for my truck. <br />
<br />
And then comes the part where it is hard to be a mom and a law enforcement officer...Chatterbox began wailing. Here was mommy sitting in the lawn watching her play one minute, and the next I'm running in a panic for my truck. She followed me in the house bawling, and screaming that she wanted to give me a hug and a kiss. Of course, I snap at her and tell her that "MOMMY HAS TO GO! RIGHT NOW!"<br />
<br />
But Chatterbox didn't give up. She insists on a hug, a kiss, and a butterfly kiss, and a "don't let the bedbugs bite etc etc etc." I tried my best to give her a hug on the run. But it broke my heart to leave her there with tear stained cheeks and confused. Normally when I leave for work I take the time to let her go through her routine. If I don't come home, I want her to know that the last thing she did was kiss me and tell me that she loves me. But all I could think about was my boy, alone and in trouble.<br />
<br />
I took off down my street with my sirens blaring. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw my sweet four year old daughter standing on the sidewalk. Crying and waving. I knew that she was probably crying because I didn't wave back. Her normal goodbye routine was shattered.<br />
<br />
Luckily, my seasonal officer is ok. A couple county deputies and a Corps of Engineers Ranger arrived before me and took the wanted person into custody. <br />
<br />
My officer went home in one piece. And my daughter is asleep in bed. And I still feel bad.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7262352743189033876.post-36560325287573734952011-07-21T19:18:00.000-07:002011-07-21T19:18:44.521-07:00It's a Keeper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiRq6U06UUXveXlHHp16E5vAouIjEYJetLruovsuAO1uUCu2tf-jE2mIzsApcwInYnUduAdPgssLq4wOCDZCs8AsbgedEZHynBUUE6Tx9m9lxuAO-ZjFL0tb3IwDkEIkOFKDUDx45xxwf/s1600/norman-rockwell-gone-fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiRq6U06UUXveXlHHp16E5vAouIjEYJetLruovsuAO1uUCu2tf-jE2mIzsApcwInYnUduAdPgssLq4wOCDZCs8AsbgedEZHynBUUE6Tx9m9lxuAO-ZjFL0tb3IwDkEIkOFKDUDx45xxwf/s320/norman-rockwell-gone-fishing.jpg" t$="true" width="256" /></a></div>It was scorching hot this morning, so I decided to stay in the air-conditioned truck as much as possible. Luckily I have many small ponds in the urban areas of my territory I could drive around and check. So, I set off to find some anglers before the sun had a chance to scare everyone off. <br />
<br />
I came upon a pond in a housing development where a few people were fishing. Of course, I always like to watch for a while first to make sure I know who was fishing and who wasn't. There looked to be a father/son team fishing on one side of the pond. Dad was baiting the hook and helping the boy cast. It wasn't long before the bobber took a dive and the boy reeled in a really (and I mean really) small bluegill. Dad removed the fish and tossed it back into the water. Definitely not a keeper.<br />
<br />
My attention shifted to the other side of the pond where an elderly man was sitting in a lawn chair holding onto a rod- line in the water. He was a "cute" old guy- kind of round, with a baseball cap smooshed onto his head. I hate to say it, but he was even sporting some plaid shorts. It felt like I was watching a Norman Rockwell painting. <br />
<br />
Suddenly the old boy's bobber disappeared, he set the hook and pulled up a fish that rivaled the size of the one caught by the young boy on the other side of the pond. Tiny. But, instead of throwing it back, he threw it into a five gallon pail next to his chair. I watched him do this about three more times- the fish never bigger than a child's hand. Now, there is nothing illegal about what he was doing, I just thought it was strange that he was keeping such small bluegills. It looked like an awful lot of cleaning for such tiny fillets.<br />
<br />
The sun broke over the rooftops of the houses and the air heated quickly. The old guy was calling it quits. He packed up his stuff and started walking around the sidewalk that surrounds the pond. He was walking in my direction, so I decided to wait until he got closer before getting out to check his license (no need to sweat if it can be helped right?)<br />
<br />
Just as he came up to where my truck was parked I got out and started chatting with him. He was a friendly guy- reminded me of my own grandpa. When I asked for his fishing license, he set down the bucket, and a cloth grocery bag he was carrying. I noticed that inside the bag was a half a loaf of Wonder bread. He dug out his lifetime fishing license from his pocket and handed it to me.<br />
<br />
"So, did you catch some keepers?" I asked, nodding in the direction of his bucket.<br />
<br />
"Oh, no. I'm not keeping those," he said.<br />
<br />
"Ummm. Can I ask why you have them in your bucket then?" I asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm going to dump them out over there," he said, pointing toward a house on the other side of the pond, "I want to make sure there are fish in front of my house."<br />
<br />
"Oh," I said (because what the hell are you supposed to say to that?). I didn't want to sound rude by asking him if he really thought the fish would stay where he dumped them. They do swim, you know.<br />
<br />
I gave his license back and watched him continue to his house. Sure enough, he reached the house he was talking about, and dumped his bucket of teeny tiny panfish into the water. Then he sat on the bank and proceeded to rip the remaining half of the Wonder bread loaf into teeny tiny pieces and throw them in the water after the fish. When the loaf was gone, he stood up, brushed the dirt from the back of his green plaid shorts, walked up to his house and went inside.<br />
<br />
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I decided to laugh-just a teeny tiny bit.FChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15440979517690141990noreply@blogger.com13