What is it Lassie? Is Timmy in Trouble?

We missed it. The swearing in ceremony of the new police dog. Damn. The dog is a law enforcement officer, and as such must swear before all that is holy - in this case a district judge - that he is willing to uphold the laws of the land. Now, close your eyes and get the picture: Maple paneled courtroom, subdued lighting, quiet carpet and portraits of all the Judges Who Have Gone Before looming down at you. The Judge, tall, somber, balding and reeking with all the dignity a black nylon robe can impart, steps down from the bench and comes to stand directly in front of the new officer.

"Raise your right paw."
The dog does. (I swear this is true - they train 'em to do this.)
"Do you solemnly swear to uphold the yadda, yadda, yadda...?
The dog says "Woof."
"I hereby appoint you an officer of the P-Ville Police Department."
"Woof, woof, woof!" The dog shakes hands with the Judge.

We missed it. Got filled in on the festivities a day later by the court reporter.

So, instead, we are going to today's swearing in ceremony for the new District Attorney. A pale substitute for yesterday's canine solemnities.

I'm going to miss the old D.A. If you watched any major network news magazine shows about four years ago then you have seen him. He has his bad points - poor judgment in his choice of undercover drug sting operatives, drunk driving, wanton womanizing, and rampaging good ol' boyism. But I'm still gonna miss him.

The first time I was ever in court with him I had just started this job - one week out of college. I didn't really know what to do other than to sit next to the D.A. and fill in the blanks on the form in front of me as the hearing progressed.

The defendant was testifying and the D.A. became bored. He started to swivel back and forth in his chair, like a five-year-old. Then he yawned and stretched. And stretched. And leaned back in the chair, stretching more until his right hand grabbed my foot (dangling in the air as it was at the end of my crossed leg) and he squeezed it. Repeatedly. And grinned.

To this day I have no idea what the hell he was doing. Was he flirting? (His record would hold this truth to be self-evident.) Was it an accident and he wasn't sure what he was holding? (If so what the hell did he think it was?) Or was he just trying to cut the tension for me, the probably overwhelmed newbie?

We've had a lot of fun in the court room over the last 10 years or so. There was the time he hunkered down under the counsel table during a court hearing as if he was tying his shoe (he wears cowboy boots) and tried to place a clandestine take-out order for fried chicken over his cell phone.

He had a bad experience with a blue ink pen once. It burst all over his hand during court. He wasn't paying attention and proceeded to rub his chin, knead his eyes and scratch his cheek with that hand before noticing what had happened. The Judge called a recess while I scrubbed his face with a damp handkerchief. (No, I didn't spit on it - there is always a pitcher of water on the table.) I couldn't really help him much and we finished the court hearing with the State being represented by Papa Smurf.

I am a lover of change and I am excited to see what happens next. But to be honest, I am going to miss the devil I know.

I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV...

Andres is one of the older gentlemen on my caseload and we had our monthly meeting this week. He told me he'd seen his doctor the week before. He had a rather grave expression and asked my what chemotherapy was.

I was immediately concerned for him and went into a long and involved explanation of the various forms - pills, injections, intravenous pumps. Then I told him about some of the effects and emphasized that even though it may be hard on your body, the end result is positive and would help him survive to live a long, happy life.

I then asked him very gently if he had been diagnosed with something requiring chemotherapy.

"Well, yeah." He seemed a little confused, but continued, "I had an accident Friday and cut my foot pretty deep. I went to the doctor and got stitches. He said he would probably send me to chemotherapy."

Ooohhh. Physical therapy!

(I would have pounded my head on the desk at this point, but he already thought I was nuts.)

Malapropistic Malfeasance

Alan is a character. He sees himself as a patriarch. A man who has suffered much, worked hard and is deserving of a long rest.

Trouble is, he is only 55, can't get approved to receive disability, and is trying to complete a felony probation for welfare fraud.

Alan does not have a strong grasp of the English language. He graduated from high school, but in a school where he was probably passed due to his athletic ability. I keep a notebook full of what we call "probation diseases". Medical terminology is hard enough to understand when you are a college educated person who uses it every day. The people we deal with have an even tougher time and it makes for some hilarious moments.

Alan is one of the best - a poor man's Gib Lewis. He recently told me about his brother-in-law who suffers from phosphate trouble. I referred him to a cancer support group in the area. During the same visit I commiserated with him over his wife who has ammonia. Told him there is now a pneumonia vaccine available and where they could go to get it at a reduced charge.

Then, as he was getting ready to leave, he promised me that he would finish up his community service hours this month. He planned to go work at the minefield and then he would be done. I immediately thought 'hell yeah, he'll be done!' and then realized he meant the landfill.

Conversations with Alan are never boring.

Taking my job a little too seriously...

I decided to go out for breakfast this morning. This means a crummy little Mexican food place on the highway with excellent salsa and substantial bacon, egg and cheese burritos. It is usually only me, a few tables of construction workers and a handful of retired farmers who seem genetically incapable of sleeping past sunrise. Being the only non-waitress female usually results in a few stares. They seem to be asking “Why aren’t you at home cooking breakfast for your husband?” (Answer: he’s still in bed, he doesn’t eat much breakfast, and he’s damn well capable of cooking it for himself and besides all that, who said I was married?)

This morning a group of hardhats were sitting at the back. They all turned to look when the door opened. Unimpressed, most of them turned back to their eggs. One guy didn’t. He kept staring. I stared back.

Throughout the meal, whenever I looked up from my book, I would catch him staring at me. I would stare back until he flinched into eye contact and had to look away. The longer I stared, the more familiar he seemed.

I bet he is on probation. I bet we filed to revoke the probation and there’s an arrest warrant out for him, or something. The more I stared, the more it made sense. He is probably worried that I’m going to call the cops and tell them where he works. It became clear. When I got to the office, I would go through the photos on the revocation files and see if I could find him. Then I would call the police and tell them where to pick him up. Satisfied with my plan, I finished breakfast.

When I got to the office the secretary greeted me and said “Did you know your hair is sticking straight up on top? I didn’t know if that was the look you wanted.”

I decided not to waste my time searching for a warrant on some poor guy who has probably never seen such a bad case of bed-head.