Raindogblue

Overheard

"You sperm belching gutter whore, get the fuck away from my car."

Satan

My first ride in an ambulance

was back when I was a pup;

boots still black, barely broken in.

Multiple burgs in progress

blasted out of the radio.

All caused by the same man,

smashing his way into houses, 

destroying what lay at hand,

only to race out the back door

through the back yard into the next house

repeating his intrusion and havoc

in a line of destruction ten blocks long.

The calls all coming out of sequence.

My old coach said,

"Head five blocks ahead of the last call.

We'll find him there."

We did. 

Half naked, stripped shirtless, screaming,

"I'm Satan! You'll all burn!"

he charged the patrol car.

My coach coated Satan in a stream of pepper spray.

"I'm melting! I'm melting," screamed Satan 

as he threw his hands in front of his face.

Without thinking, without pause,

I lowered my shoulder and charged.

Satan collapsed  as I hit him

square in the stomach

and tackled him to the ground.

A blue tide of arriving officers followed

forming a pig pile of hands and feet and heavy officers.

When Satan was cuffed, 

my coached looked for me, 

but couldn't find me. 

Relieved to find me at the bottom of the pile,

he said, "You'll do alright. 

Now, get in the ambulance and guard Satan. 

I'll follow you in the patrol car."

The ride was unremarkable.

Satan kept his eyes shut

insisting he was dead.

Smileys

A lock put in a sock and swung as a weapon:

 an improvised mace and chain.

Biohazard

Monday

I was AWOL.
I was on the roster.
I wasn't at work.
I wasn't at court.
No one knew where I was.
My Sergeant called my Nextel
and my home phone.
They asked the shift.
They began calling my wingmen, 
present, then past.
K2 called Kappy at home.
Kappy said, "He's on vacation.
You should let the sergeants know."
In closing South, 
in the transfer to West,
they forgot to adjust
my annual vacation 
for my new days off.
I called in last night
to make sure my absence 
on the next two Mondays
would not be a surprise.

Guest Post, Deputy Dog: "Elephant."

Elephant

I am the elephant in the room.

I am standing in the middle of the room.

Family and Friends come in the talk to mom, try to make her feel better.

Her son was at the end of the driveway. 

She turned around and he was gone.

She got in the car.

She drove up and down the street.

Knocked on doors and called friends.

It is dark now. The volunteers are called out. The dog tries to find a sent trail.

2 hours go by.

I am elephant.

The son is found 6 miles away on a highway walking and returned.

I can leave.

Guest Post, Renee: Keys in the Lock

I once lived in a pretty decent rental community on the outskirts of a decaying mid-sized city. Most tenants were college students or people associated with one of the region's largest employers, a medical-industrial complex of some renown.  There were also a number of elderly residents, who appreciated having someone else take care of the yard work and facilities, and a smattering of families with children (not many, possibly because house prices in the area were so low).  

One such family lived in the apartment next to mine: a mom, four kids, and a well-loved dog. We weren't friends, or even properly introduced, but I knew them by sight because they took turns walking their energetic and demonstrative bundle of unconditional love on the path that ran parallel to my windows.

The oldest daughter's boyfriend sometimes chatted with my roommate.  Never with me.  (He single-mindedly sought man-to-man advice - I hold two X chromosomes.)  Boyfriend's pronounced reticence and cluelessness, especially where his girlfriend was concerned, was more pitiful than sweet.  He had a whiff of oddness about him, but I probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't spent so much time sitting on the grass outside my apartment building.  Alone.  

People don't *ever* sit on that grass.  This is partly because the grassy regions between the buildings are very public spaces, where one can feel uncomfortably scrutinized.  But mostly it's because they're typically muddy swamps, or they're mined with the vile consequences of too many residents who can't be bothered to curb their dogs - or both.  

Also, there didn't seem to be a good reason for him to loiter outside, by himself.  He didn't live in the complex, so if he's in the neighborhood shouldn't he be in the company of his girlfriend rather than hanging out, solo, on the lawn?  My roommate and I figured things weren't going well with the girlfriend, but, because we didn't catch a stalker vibe from him, we didn't pay him much attention.    

This apartment community offers many laudable services and amenities.  I could go on and on.  But, it has one major failing that eventually drove me out:  hideously inadequate sound insulation.  When I was in my kitchen or living room I could hear, clear as a bell, conversations conducted throughout the common lobby joining the eight apartment units.  

The walls separating our apartments' adjoining living areas thankfully spared me from the curse of being able to eavesdrop on my neighbors' casual conversations, which were muffled and unintelligibly garbled.  But, I was unhappily aware of their every footfall - and don't even get me started on the subject of subwoofers.  

However, what I found the least forgivable was the absolute lack of aural privacy in the bathroom.  The wall shared by our bathrooms could as well have been a curtain.  

One sunny afternoon the building was pleasantly quiet, and I was lounging in the living room lost in a book.  Boyfriend and Girlfriend were together next door, but I was only distantly aware of them.  

Then, without warning, the peace was shattered by a half-growl / half-cry erupting from the depths of a feminine diaphragm.  This guttural cry must have been propelled by two full lungs of air, because it was powerful from the first and remained strong over what felt like half a minute.  It was stunning.  I've never heard a more eloquent non-verbal declaration of:

"You have finally found my limits.  Get. Out. Now. Or. Suffer. My. Wrath."

I was still in its thrall when I heard someone next door running down the hall.  Boyfriend, at speed, exploded out of the apartment and into the lobby.  He stopped cold as the unit's door slammed behind him, and he announced loudly to no one in particular:

"There's no problem!  No Problem!  Everything's OK!"

"Everything is Fine!  There's NO problem!"  

"Nothing's wrong!  There Is NO PROBLEM!"

 

Having run out of things to say, he then bounded out of the building, while I, by way of getting a second opinion, listened.  I heard soft crying coming from the direction of the bathroom, so I went in and sat on the edge of my sink.  

Girlfriend was in her bathroom rhythmically sobbing with no accompanying gasps, wails, or discernible movement.  To my ears they were tears of release - not of pain, fear, or anger.  I left the bathroom after a couple of minutes, satisfied it wasn't necessary for me to seek help.  

The crying continued for a while longer, and then all was quiet again.  

I forgot about the incident, ran a couple of errands, and was in the kitchen when a few people entered the building, proceeded up to Girlfriend's door and tried key after key after key after key after key in her unit's door lock.  Curiosity piqued, I used my peep hole to check out the situation.  

Two police officers were standing behind a man, employed by the apartment community, who was methodically trying every key on his very large ring in Girlfriend's lock.  

I couldn't think of any reason for this.  

I went back into the kitchen, but kept listening.  After no key produced the desired results, the staff member apologized, mumbled that the correct key must be on another ring back at the office, and left to retrieve it. 

The officers used this opportunity to knock on my door and speak with me.  In the course of being asked whether I'd observed anything out of the ordinary, I learned Boyfriend had walked into the police station and insisted he should be arrested.  He wouldn't give any details - he would only say that he had done "Something Bad".

I could feel myself blink a couple of times as I pondered the implications of the phrase: Something Bad.

The officers watched me with serious eyes as I related what little I'd heard.  My mind raced as I replayed the day's events over and over in my head, trying to figure out what I'd misinterpreted.  But there was nothing.  Nothing I could suspect of betraying the commission of a crime so sinister as to deserve the label: Something Bad.  

After they had spoken with me and I had retreated back into my apartment, the officers resumed waiting for the complex's staff member.  They were silent for a while, and then one spoke to the other:

"You know what I hate?  I hate going into a place when I just *know* there's a dead body inside."

"And the worst is when it turns out to be in a back room."

"I prepare myself, open the door, walk in ... and it's not there."

"But.  I Just Know."

"Then, I have to prepare myself again."

"I walk down the hall, look in the first room ... and it's not there."

"I check the next room ... no."

"Then I turn the corner and ... "

"BAM!  There it is."

"Oh, man."

"And then, when there's blood ..."

He was interrupted by the staff member returning with more keys.  They soon gained access to the unit, and I heard them walk a circuit through the apartment.  

They didn't speak, and there was no pause in their steps.  The inspection took only a couple of minutes: in, around, out, and then they were gone into the night. 

The building was quiet again, and the lack of resolution was jarring.

Thoughts of the recent undefined events between Girlfriend and Boyfriend swirled in my mind along with the officer's words to his colleague.  

As Americans, we are a people conditioned to contact the police whenever we're in distress.  Hear a strange noise downstairs?  Gunman threatening lives?  See someone suspicious lurking about?  Someone being assaulted?  Mom hasn't picked up the phone in a few days?  Hit and run?  Fed up with the drug deals taking place down the street?  Want to report vandalism?  Found a dead body?

Whatever it is, all you have to do is call the police, and they will come.  You can place your concerns into their hands, you can put your trust in them and step into their protective shadow.  They'll know what to do, they'll take care of it, they'll give you the help you need.  

And they do.  Whatever.  Whenever.

The officer's comments were a reminder of how extraordinary it is to expect this of another person, regardless of how skilled and well-trained.  His words carry the message that becoming a police officer does not confer an emotional immunity to events - inner strength must be found and mobilized to push through any misgivings and act.

While it's likely many people could find it within themselves to rise to the occasion once, when there's no other recourse, how many could do it a few times?  Or over a career?  

A police officer's everyday reality - acknowledging that the parameters of the next emergency are unpredictable and may change at any time, being unable to assume a witness has all the facts or has given an accurate account, keeping a level head and taking the correct actions in the midst of chaos, accepting the substantial risk of responding to dangerous situations, among other things - is difficult for me to imagine.  

It's even more sobering to me when I consider police officers are not spared from additional strains like sleep deprivation, skipped meals, overly long days, and meeting everyday demands of life as fathers, mothers, spouses, brothers, sisters, and friends.  

I realize the officer didn't intend for his comments to be overheard, but I'm grateful to him for gifting me with this dose of perspective.

Epilogue:

Boyfriend's crime remains a mystery to me - I heard nothing else about it and saw no more of him.  The next people to enter Girlfriend's apartment were members of her own family, and their return was entirely without drama.  Over the next few days I caught sight of the mom and all four of her children, and none appeared injured.  A couple of weeks later the family moved out, to parts unknown for reasons unknown.  

I've thought about what might have compelled Boyfriend to turn himself into the police.  I've suspected delusions, the commission of a sexual assault, and his having an overly sensitive nature that was devastated when Girlfriend screamed her displeasure at him.  Whenever I consider these and other possibilities, I conclude they're not likely - and my thoughts turn back to the family's dog.  

After Boyfriend's last visit, I didn't see (or hear) the dog again ... despite my looking (and listening) for it.

Guest Post, Claude:

Raindog

I should start by introducing myself.  Raindog and I have known each other almost 20 years.  We were dormies in college, I graduated with a degree in Physics with h. and our families hang out together on a regular basis.  My wife and I live in a smaller town in the Mid Valley and if we lived much closer RD and h. they would probably get sick of us.

If you have been reading this blog for a little while you will know something that I have known for a long time, Raindog is a singular individual.  I know there are plenty of excellent officers in the Stumptown force, I have met quite a few, and I am friends with some, but I have always admired Raindog’s approach to his job specifically.

When he first started pursuing the policing profession, he talked about being a beat cop, walking the streets, knowing the business owners, the neighborhood and the neighbors.  As long time readers have come to understand, P-town is short on officers.  When he first joined the force in the mid 90’s there were a decent amount and over the past 10 years just declines in Uniforms due to budgetary issues that I will probably complain about later.

During this time, I have seen Raindog struggle to keep that attitude about his policing with success.  It is really what people refer to as ‘the small things’ that matter in this effort, keeping the stickers ready for the kids (of all ages), fulfilling the promises of revoking citations for complying with the law, and addressing the concerns of the community at large patiently listening to sometimes petty grievances.

This all takes huge amounts of effort that are rarely recognized in the policing world, either by your superiors or by the community you serves.

So this is my hats off to all of you Raindogs out there that go that extra mile, that do truly Protect and Serve the communities you work in. 

-Claude

Funding

People don’t seem to want to pay for anything anymore if they do not see immediate benefit for themselves.

We as a people seem to forget the emergency services are there, “IF” we need them, not just when we need them. 

Over the course of my life, I have seen funding bleed out of all of the State and Local services and the dependency on Federal dollars increase with that decline.

The amount of pressure on the services has a direct correlation with what is seen on the ground: Response times suffer; investigations are slow, preventative actions cease.

Stumptown is running very lean on Law Enforcement personnel.  When I did my ride along years ago, the force was about 25% stronger then it is today.  I see the strain in my friends that serve as they try to hold to the level of service they once provided.

Angry letters to local papers show that the expectations are high.

For the average citizen investment in the potential need is very low.

-Claude 

Overheads: Interior

Guest Post, Deputy Dog: Chocolate Milk

Chocolate Milk.

Strangely, I am craving it.

Saturday, a Mom calls. 
Her daughter has mental health issues.
She hasn't heard from her in a day. 
No one will open the door at her residence.
They're waiting for an officer.

When I get there, the landlord has kicked the door in.
The daughter is unresponsive in the bed. 
There's a note and an empty bottle of oxycodone. 
It was filled the day before with 60 pills.
There's an almost empty glass of chocolate milk. 
I grab her foot and call her name 
while I wait for EMTs.

When EMT's arrive, they immediately give 
her something to counter act the pills.
She regains some consciousness and mumbles.
I help the EMTs carry her out. 
As we start to take her to the ambulance,
she starts throwing up: Chocolate milk,
over and over again.

We carry her through the house and have to stop to tilt her, 
so she can throw up more chocolate milk.

We bring her to the ambulance with her family is watching.
She continues to throw up chocolate milk.

I follow the ambulance to the hospital.
The EMTs unload her. 
I look in the back of the ambulance 
expecting nothing but chocolate milk.
EMTs catch me.

"What you looking for?"

Checking to see if the ambulance is covered in chocolate milk.

"She threw up the whole way, but we managed to catch it."

Two days later, I still want chocolate milk.