We’ve all seen it a hundred times, on a dozen cop shows. In fact, it’s such a staple that it’s become a cliché. A criminal (murderer, burglar, drug dealer - take your pick) is strolling down a lonely street, seemingly safe from the prying eyes of the law, when a fleet of police cars encircle the bad guy and screech to a halt. The cops get a bead on him from all angles and take him in.
That was me a few days again, playing the role of the scofflaw. Well, not really. But that’s how it seemed at the time.
There I was at 5:15 on a cold, dark morning, huddled on a deserted side street with our chocolate lab Aquinnah as he did his business, when a police cruiser emerged from nowhere, its blue roof lights flashing menacingly. The car pulled to a sudden stop at an intersection about 40 feet from where I was standing, blocking the street I was on. There were no other cars, and no other pedestrians, in sight. Headlights blinded me as I stood frozen in fear (or, as now seems more likely, because of sub-freezing temperatures).
I immediately recalled that a local cop once reprimanded me for failing to pick up after Aquinnah on one of those rare occasions when I forgot to grab a plastic bag on our way out of the house. So my fevered imagination jumped to the conclusion that the police, in a bizarre reordering of priorities, were cracking down on pooping pups and their enabling owners.
Reaching into my coat pocket (“hey, it’s not a gun”), I pulled out a plastic bag and made a big show of pulling it over my hand. When Aquinnah wrapped things up I picked “it” up. We then headed nervously toward the intersection - and the cruiser - on our way back home.
Amazingly, no cop emerged from the car, gun drawn, demanding that I drop the bag of canine contraband and put my hands over my head. Only then did I realize that the cruiser was blocking the intersection so the heavy equipment of public-works crews could lumber up the street on a snow-removal mission.
A run-in with Kojak wasn’t in the cards after all. At least not that day. Who loves, ya, baby?
That was me a few days again, playing the role of the scofflaw. Well, not really. But that’s how it seemed at the time.
There I was at 5:15 on a cold, dark morning, huddled on a deserted side street with our chocolate lab Aquinnah as he did his business, when a police cruiser emerged from nowhere, its blue roof lights flashing menacingly. The car pulled to a sudden stop at an intersection about 40 feet from where I was standing, blocking the street I was on. There were no other cars, and no other pedestrians, in sight. Headlights blinded me as I stood frozen in fear (or, as now seems more likely, because of sub-freezing temperatures).
I immediately recalled that a local cop once reprimanded me for failing to pick up after Aquinnah on one of those rare occasions when I forgot to grab a plastic bag on our way out of the house. So my fevered imagination jumped to the conclusion that the police, in a bizarre reordering of priorities, were cracking down on pooping pups and their enabling owners.
Reaching into my coat pocket (“hey, it’s not a gun”), I pulled out a plastic bag and made a big show of pulling it over my hand. When Aquinnah wrapped things up I picked “it” up. We then headed nervously toward the intersection - and the cruiser - on our way back home.
A run-in with Kojak wasn’t in the cards after all. At least not that day. Who loves, ya, baby?
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