Night at the Speakeasy

Working an assault 1 and an arson case today.  After a long day, several detectives planned to go to the local watering hole.  Once there, some drink beers with weird names (Fat Tire?); I have Diet Pepsi.  I’m not saying I’m a teetotaler, but after 23 years of having drunks breathe on me, booze has lost its appeal.  

 

While in this “pub”, a drunk comes in and wants to breathe on us, regaling us with his exploits in love and war.   No cop wants listen to drunks; especially when said cop is not being paid for it.   So this gentleman was made to feel... unwelcome.  Nothing bad; it’s just that I’m sure he overheard some of the comments made, and most were very funny.  So Mr. Drunk becomes offended, said offended drunk is then asked to leave by a group of three female bartenders.  Drunk starts screaming at bartenders.  When drunk raises arm in “threatening manner” (oh how many times have I written THAT in a report), I walk over to drunk, grab drunk by arm and shoulder and escort drunk through front door, encouraging him to continue walking away by a hardy push.  A side note here: behind me were 5 other cops wanting a slice of drunk pie, I like my co-workers- I knew they had my back. 

 

After returning to our table, the bartenders began fawning all over us, remarking that we should get free drinks (including Diet Pepsi) and that we all were brave, courageous people.  This adoration went on for about 1 minute, until another bartender came up and told the first group that we were cops.  Then the fawning stopped, the offer of drinks ended and the comment was made, “Oh… I guess they were just doing their job”.  What for a “normal” person was seen as heroic and courageous, was for a police officer seen as expected and unremarkable.  

 

Don’t know what to think about this… at least the whole story seemed to entertain my family, I sure love it that they think I’m heroic; even when no one else does.

The dog I shot

A while back, working uniform, I responded to a late-night domestic call in a trailer park (if there was a Graceland for domestics, it would be in a trailer park).  I pulled up and saw directly in front of me two dogs fighting.  Behind the dogs was a group of drunken tweakers*, one of them bleeding from large lacerations on his arm.  The other drunks were doing one of three things:

 

1) Screaming at the bleeding guy, telling him how much of an idiot he was to try and separate fighting dogs.  

 

2) Screaming at the first group for yelling at someone who was losing most of his blood (diluted as it was by Bud Light and methamphetamine).  

 

3) Screaming at me, telling me to just “Shoot the damn dog!”  

 

I could not get to the injured man because of the fighting dogs, so I grabbed my trusty spice can and blew the load of pepper spray at the dogs.  This did not stop them for more than 10 seconds; and then the ambulance arrived, forcing me to deal with the dogs so they could save the bleeding drunk guy.  

 

Just a side note here, I don’t think that most meth addicts are in that much danger of dieing.  It seems the drunken tweakers are always the ones that survive when those around them die- a Lt. from the SO nearby told me once that in order to kill a tweaker you have to cut off his head and eat it. 

 

Anyway, while many of the crowd is telling me to “Shoot the dog”, one of the animals (a chow… I hate chows) peals off the fight and runs directly at me.  It looks like it finally realized that I was the one who made its nose burn, and it was pissed!  When It got about 5 feet from me, I shot it with my P-226 (I know… a 9mm, but it was a long time ago).  The dog went down, then all of the tweakers came out of their collective haze and yelled at me, “You shot the wrong dog, that was OUR dog!”  I beg to differ; this officer shot the correct dog, the one that was trying to eat me!  Things went from bad to worse, the tweakers were now talking about killing me, of course all their petty bickering was over once I had shot their dog (the dog rates right up there with cousin Festus in the family tree) .  Of course, nothing unites dopers like being pissed at the Police.  After a moment or two they settled down and came up to me, begging for me to “Finish off” their dog because it was going through what looked like death throws.  I refused to coup de' grace thedog, as I had Animal Control enroute, and had to give them a chance to bandage a wounded dog (they all seceretly want to be Steve Erwin; wrestling alligators, large snakes and wounded chows). 

 

Well, a long story short, it turned out that my 9mm had just grazed the dog on the jaw and knocked it loopy for a time, an hour later it was up and being disinfected by Animal Control.  My Sgt convinced the tweakers that I was a very good shot and intended all along to just “Wound” the dog, they asked him to thank me for them.  

 

Finally, I thought that this was surely a tweaker’s dog- it’s still alive because I didn’t cut the head off and eat it.

 

*Tweeker. Noun. 1) Someone who is taking methamphedamine; "The Tweeker took apart the entire Chevy".  2) Some who is exibiting the effects of Methamphedamine or "speed"; "Look mom, that tweeker is convulsing and spitting up blood!"