THE RESCUERS

THE RESCUERS

Police Officers spend countless hours not in car chases and shootouts. Sometimes things happen on a shift that are kind of cute, and my fingers fairly itch to connect with my keyboard so that I can share my experience.

First of all I must tell you: I hate graveyard shift! There is no doubt in my mind that when the good Lord created darkness, he did it so that folks would lie down and close their eyes.

Alone in the women’s locker room at the police station, I struggled to cinch up my heavy gun belt over that second helping of dessert.

WHY didn’t I take the whole night off? Might have known the party wouldn’t really get going until it was time for me to leave for work. Oh well, there are probably lots of people out there—well, maybe five, or . . . three, who would love to switch places with me. I suppose there are worse ways to make a living than driving a police car in aimless circles in the pouring rain waiting for disaster to hit somewhere.

My partner had been patrolling alone for three hours. I could hear him calling my name as I grabbed my night-stick and slammed my locker door shut.

"Hurry up! he shouted, I've been waiting for you; we’re going on a mission!"

"Great,” I replied, picking up my briefcase and jamming the portable radio into its carrier at my waist. “The busier we are the faster the night will go. What have we got?"

Beaming with anticipation he asked, “How do you like birds?"

"Usually roasted in melted butter with a little salt and pepper and a touch of garlic," I answered glibly.

"No! I mean the flying kind."

"Well . . . I don't like them flying in small circles around my head."

He ignored my attempt at humour and announced: "We have to go on sort of a rescue-type-mission."

The plot was thickening. I started to envision swarms of fluttering, frenzied birds getting tangled in my hair. My stress level was rising. Unlike my partner, I am not into intimate contact with nature. I prefer looking at it in pictures.

"If you think I'm climbing up onto anything high to rescue some bloody bird—forget it! Call the fire department. They probably aren't even in bed yet!"

"No," he shouted, his anxiety starting to show, "It's not like that. It’s fallen down the storm sewer in an alley, and it wont be able to get out! It's still alive . . . and it's only a baby!"

"And you think I'm going to crawl into some filthy storm sewer, in the middle of the night, in the rain . . . to fish out a stupid bird? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!! Do you realize that thing is probably a bloody Starling—they're a pest! People pay good money to exterminators to come and get rid of them!"

His smile faded. I felt like Hitler.

"You don't like animals do you," he asked sadly?

"Yes I do. I like animals fine. Come on,” I mumbled, “show me the damn bird."

"By the way," he chirped, "There were two birds, I've got one already! It's in a box in my car. Caroline can take it to kindergarten tomorrow."

I tried to look pleased for him . . . and for Caroline.

On the way to our destination, my partner relayed details of the saga that had brought us on this rapidly developing sortie:

"I was just cruising up and down the alleys, waiting for you, when I saw two little brown bumps on the road. I didn't know what they were and I almost ran over them. I stopped to take a closer look and realized they were baby birds that must have fallen out of their nest. I went back to the station and got a box. I scooped one up, but the second one started fluttering around. It flipped over on its back and fell through the grate into the storm sewer."

Ever the pessimist, I declared, "It'll have drowned by now, forget it!"

"No, there's mud at the bottom . . . I looked with my flashlight. It’s just sitting down there . . . I can't just leave it to die!"

We arrived at the scene. He wanted me to look. I don't like looking down storm sewers in the daytime—let alone in the middle of the night when it's raining. Everybody knows there are "things" down there that can grab you and pull you in!

We flooded the area with light. Sitting amidst the muck, nine feet below, is a tiny creature. It was not a pretty picture. It wasn’t a nice place to be.

"Well?” he said, looking at me with anticipation.

"Well what?" I replied, giving him my ever-patient-mother-dealing-with-over-stimulated-child look.

"We've gotta get it out!"

"Just how are we going to get the grate off?" I inquired . . . stalling for time.

"We’ll call out the City Works guys."

“Oh sure, they’ll be really pleased . . . I might as well say farewell to my ‘Wonderwoman’ reputation!”

"Nah, he replied confidently, I'll just lift it off myself."

"So . . . you gonna jump in . . . or what?" I challenged, knowing that I wasn’t going down there for anything.

"We need tools!" announced the nature lover.

Into the car and off we drove to pilfer the City Works yard.

Fifteen minutes later we returned to the scene with our cache of rescue equipment: A street cleaners' broom, a shovel and a cardboard box.

Greatly amused and eager to share my adventure with the police radio operator, I began to document the saga by typing the details into the computer terminal in the car. Far from the expected guffaws, I discovered yet another nature lover. She promptly launched a telephone search for a wildlife facility that would take our waifs off our hands—should the rescue prove successful.

Off came the grate, on went the floodlights. "Cheep Cheep." It was still alive!

The city's finest went into action. Everything was lowered down into the sewer . . . broom, shovel and cardboard box. My partner, ever resourceful, cut a hole in the box with his trusty pocket knife and pushed the broom handle through it. He was now holding a giant scoop.

Relegated to holding the flashlight, I pondered how unusual this procedure must appear to the local insomniacs.

The bird—now presented with the option of climbing into the box or being crushed to death by it—opted for the former. Inch by inch, shovel, broom and box scraped up the slimy side of the sewer, until the rescue was completed!

Returning to the warmth of the car I discovered that the interest in our saga had broadened. The computer screen displayed a . . . less than sensitive message from the Communications Sergeant. “Don’t shoot ‘em, drive over them, it’s quieter!” I determined he too was a person of somewhat restrained compassion, and chose not to share his rather graphic suggestions with my partner.

"The Rescuer,” was now flushed with success, filthy and sweating from the exertion of replacing the heavy storm sewer grate by himself.

Our mission was accomplished when the radio operator finally made contact with a local bird hospital.

We proudly delivered our feathery survivors to a sleepy looking veterinary attendant. Rather than presenting us with a medal for courage above and beyond the call of duty, she admonished us to "leave nature alone next time."

Back in our patrol car, we drove off into the blackness of the night, ready to slay dragons, or . . . whatever.

MM