Brutus and George Wallace
By Cort Willoughby
Okay, here’s another story from my career as a Law Enforcement Officer after I retired from the Navy.
Dispatch sends me on a call at 0515. Always a pain in the rear since shift ends at 0545. You always have your mind on the clock at that time in the shift. We were pulling twelve-hour shifts, four days on and four days off. I enjoyed the schedule as did most of us who worked the road.
A call comes in for me to go to an address on 166th Avenue. They told me the lady had vague complaints. Which I took to mean that she was Bat-shit Crazy. Probably more fucked up than a port-sided football bat. The crazy calls were becoming a specialty of mine. The dispatchers had great fun at my reporting from the scene.
I ease into the drive and lock my PoPo ride. I knock on the door and a lady in her late middle ages opens the door. The aroma of Thanksgiving dinner emanates from the house on this early June morning.
“You cooking turkey, Ma’am?
“Hell yes, you smell it don’t you?
“Yes Ma’am, and I can also smell that fresh dog turd over there by the kitchen table.”
“Brutus, you son-of-a-bitch, I told you to stop shitting in the house!”
“Where’s Brutus Ma’am, I don’t see him. Is he a dog or a man?”
“He’s a fucking dog!”
“Sure he is Ma’am.”
“Well, he’s hiding ‘cause he knows I’ll find that pile of shit and whip his ass for shitting in the house.”
Yes Ma’am. Why don’t you take him out a couple of times a day and he won’t have to shit under the table.”
“You here to tell me how to raise a stupid mutt?”
“No Ma’am. You called and dispatch sent me to make sure all is okay. Are you fixing a big dinner for relatives?”
“Do you see any relatives?”
“No Ma’am, only you. I have yet to see Brutus.”
“How that little dog shits a turd like that, I’ll never know.”
“The next time you take him to the Vet, you can ask.”
“Why would I do that for?”
“Well Ma’am, it might answer your questions regarding the size of his turds.”
Hell no! I won’t do it!”
“Yes Ma’am, now what can we do to find out what is wrong and why you called? You have a turkey baking and that’s all. Just curious if it’s related to your calling us!”
“Well, it’s that damned George Wallace gang!”
“He’s been dead five years or so Ma’am.”
“HaHaHa, He’s got you sucked in like all the others around here. Turkey is done. I’m gonna take it out of the oven. Want to eat some turkey?”
Uh, no, Ma’am. Looks big enough to feed twenty-five people. Is George Wallace the reason you called?”
Oh hell yes he is. Every time I start cooking a turkey, that Bastard shows up with his crew and does all manner of shit.”
“You mean like the dog shit, Ma’am?”
“I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s gonna get snooping around here.”
Ma’am, what say I have an extra patrol on your residence and you can fly a flag with a turkey on it and we’ll know when to start looking for George Wallace?”
“Well, I figured you wouldn’t do a damned thing either.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. Enjoy that big turkey, teach Brutus some manners and you will be fine.”
“Dispatch, 10-8. No report.