Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (8 page)

Three.

I bent down, unclipped Brigit's leash, and gave the dog the order to charge the fence Just as she bolted forth, I whipped out my Maglite and turned it on the men like a spotlight. Three surprised faces on the other side of the fence blinked against the blinding light.

Brigit leaped at the fence right in front of them, ricocheting off it with a metallic
ching-ching.

“Shit!” cried one of the men, jumping backward.

“Jesus!” hollered another. “What the fuck was that?”

The one with the wire cutters yelped and fell back on his ass.

“Hold it right there!” I yelled, rushing forward now, too. Not that there was much I could do from this side of the fence other than shoot them, which I had no intention of doing.

They didn't listen, though. Instead of staying put as instructed, they turned and ran smack-dab into two male officers who'd come up behind them.

I turned off my flashlight lest I blind my coworkers. “You got this, boys?” I called.

“Yep,” they called. “We got this.”

I turned to my partner. “Good job, girl.” I held my hand out palm up. Brigit pawed it, giving me a low five.

After a quick dinner at the food booths, Brigit and I headed into the arena to watch the evening rodeo. We passed the pens where men wrangled the rough stock, the untamed bulls and broncs, into pens. No easy task if the number of curses was any indication.

We stopped at a gate spanning a wide, open doorway that led into the arena. The vantage point would allow me to keep an eye on both the crowd seated inside and the crowd milling around the perimeter.

Frankly, I'd never cared much for rodeos. Some of the equestrian events, like the barrel racing, were fun to watch, but the calf roping, mutton busting, and bull wrestling seemed overly dangerous and somewhat barbaric to me. But Texans were nothing if not traditional, and rodeos had been a way of life in Cowtown for over a century. They wouldn't be stopping any time soon.

The oblong arena was flanked with rows of bleachers, above which hung colorful banners and signs advertising various products. Wrangler jeans. Stetson hats. Ultrashine boot polish. Directly across from me at the far end of the arena, through another open doorway, sat an ambulance. The back doors hung open, a team of paramedics sitting on the bumper. Two more EMTs had stationed themselves near the gate, ready to spring into action if necessary.

The first event was calf roping. Calves were shoved out of pens and into the bright lights and deafening noise of the arena. The startled animals were given a few seconds' head start before a cowboy on horseback launched out of a chute, swinging a lasso over his head as he and his horse pursued the terrified calf. Most cowboys were able to hook the lasso over the calf, yank it to a stop, and leap from their horse to tie the poor calf's legs together. The crowd cheered with each successful toss. As for me, I cheered on the rare occasion when a crafty calf had the smarts to zigzag across the arena and successfully evade the cowboy's rope.

As I stood there, a group of rodeo clowns came out of their nearby dressing room and headed past me to wait at the entrance of the arena. One of them stopped in front of me. Over his red and white checkered shirt and jeans he sported a large wooden barrel, which hung from his shoulders by wide nylon straps.

He reached out and took my hand, pretending to give it a kiss. Then he pointed to me, back at himself, and wagged his brows, which were coated in blue face paint. Though he'd said nothing aloud, his message was clear.
You and me. How about it?

I gave the clown a smile. “As much as I like a man who sports a lot of wood, I'm going to have to pass. I make it a rule not to date anyone who wears more makeup than I do.”

He feigned a frown, stomped a foot in mock indignation, then waved good-bye with a yellow-gloved hand as he turned to follow the other members of his clown troupe into the arena.

The entrance of the clowns could only mean one thing. The bull riders would be up next.

The clowns spent a few minutes entertaining the crowd with silly antics. Pretending to be bucked from broomstick horses. Rolling each other around in the protective plastic barrels situated around the perimeter of the arena. Using oversized shovels to toss plastic poop at each other. When they were done, they gathered up their props and backed away, positioning themselves at even intervals around the oblong arena, ready to perform their duties as needed.

The announcer's voice came over the loudspeaker. “First in our bull-riding competition tonight will be a local favorite, Dusty Moynihan from just down the road in Saginaw, Texas. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give Dusty a big hand!”

The rider stepped onto the platform, decked out in black boots, black jeans, and a red western shirt with black accents. He slid a rubber tooth guard into his mouth and raised his black felt hat, circling it over his head, waving to the crowd with his free hand. The crowd erupted in applause, whistles, and catcalls, fueled by a primitive bloodlust.

I supposed these events weren't entirely unfair; after all, nobody had forced these cowboys onto the backs of these animals, some of which weighed in at more than a ton. These sporting events weren't much different from boxing tournaments or karate matches or even pro football games. But the thrills came from the risk posed to the riders. Frankly, the whole thing seemed akin to the Roman gladiators of ancient times or, more currently, that
Jackass
television show. But perhaps I was being too judgmental. After all, many people would find the things I was interested in—art films, science museums, psychology, baton twirling—to be boring or stuffy or ridiculous. It took all kinds to make the world go round. Well, that and the physical laws of conservation of angular momentum and inertia.
Wow, Seth was right. I really am a nerd.

The crowd grew quiet, all eyes on the bucking chute as the rider settled onto the back of the bull trapped inside. The narrow chute prevented the bull from bucking, but once that gate opened, it would be a free-for-all. We held our collective breath.

The bull snorted and tossed his head, his long, pointed horns banging against the metal of the chute. The gate swung open in an instant.
Clang!

The bull sprang from the chute like a horned jack-in-the-box. He headed in a sideways fashion toward the center of the ring, bucking every few feet in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the rider on his back. When throwing out his hind legs proved futile, he turned his head, his horns nearly gouging the rider's leg as he whipped himself around in a circle, his enormous, pendulous testicles lagging a fraction of a second behind.
My God, those things are the size of bowling balls!

The size of Moynihan's testicles evidently rivaled the bull's. He hung on, one hand on the rope, the other in the air. After he'd held on for the eight seconds necessary for a qualified ride, he waited for an opportune moment, then leaped from the bull and ran for the perimeter fence, waving his black hat in the air, raising a fist in victory.

Time for the clowns to get to work.

My barrel-suited would-be suitor dashed into the arena from one side, while another clown ran up on the other side of the bull. Now freed from the rider, the bull settled down enough that the clowns were able to steer the beast toward the exit ramp, where he'd be rounded up and returned to a pen.

The next rider wasn't so lucky. He immediately slid to the back of the bull, his hand now between his knees rather than at his crotch where it ought to be.

“Damn!” called a man in the stands nearby. “He's strung out.”

In three seconds he was thrown, tossed into the air like a rag doll, landing flat on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs, the consciousness from his mind, and sending up a cloud of dust. The bull continued to buck nearby, his hooves pounding the ground dangerously close to the limp and lifeless man. The crowd gasped as the bull flailed around, the tip of his long, pointed horn missing the man's skull by mere inches.

The clowns rushed forward. The one in the barrel barreled toward the bull, ramming him in the side to force him away from the prone form on the arena floor. This bull would not easily surrender, however. He continued to buck and circle, buck and circle, until one of the clowns roped him and, together, the clowns dragged him toward the exit gate.

As soon as the bull's hindquarters had cleared the threshold, four EMTs rushed forward, scooping the unconscious rider from the ground and onto a gurney, running with him back to the ambulance. They slipped him into the back, slammed the doors closed, and drove away, their lights flashing and siren wailing.

The crowd sat in silence for a few seconds, but after a respectable period, it was business as usual. No sense getting all worked up. After all, the rider knew the risks and had voluntarily taken them on, right? Besides, they'd come here to have a good time and weren't going to let this mishap ruin a fun night out. The announcer called out another name and another rider slipped onto a fresh bull in the chute. This rider had the sense to wear a helmet instead of a cowboy hat.

The gate burst open once again.
Clang!

After just three seconds, this rider's hand came down to touch the bull's flank. This so-called slap meant his ride was now over as far as judging was concerned.

My radio crackled to life. “Officer needed at the outdoor beer booth.”

I pushed the button to activate my mic. “This is Officer Luz and Brigit. We're on it.”

The event continued, bull after bull, rider after rider, clang after clang. I tugged on Brigit's leash. “Let's go, girl.”

We ventured back out onto the stock show grounds. The wind had picked up now, bringing blasts of icy air with it. Most of the people had gone into the livestock barns to stay warm. The few that remained outside huddled together lest they freeze to death.

I zipped my jacket all the way up and looked down at Brigit. She had her nose in the air, sniffing the various scents carried on the wind, the cold not seeming to bother her at all.

“I wish I had a nice fur coat like you,” I told her.

She responded with a tail wag.

I turned and headed to the beer booth with Brigit trotting along beside me. I arrived to find a large man in a sweatshirt bearing the Coors Light logo standing watch over two boys who appeared to be in their late teens. They sat on the ground, outraged expressions on their faces.

I circled the slack in Brigit's leash around my hand to draw her closer in. “What's going on?”

“These two boys tried to buy beer,” the man said, “with these.”

He handed me two laminated cards purporting to be Canadian military identification cards. The photos on the cards depicted the faces of the two boys sitting on the ground. Though the boys didn't appear to be twenty-one yet, I knew age could be difficult to guess. Some people had baby faces, others aged prematurely. Still, I was with the beer man on this. I thought these boys were trying to pull a fast one.

“Those are real IDs!” said the taller of the two boys. “We're in the Canadian army.”

“They certainly look real.” I gave the man a discreet wink and looked down at the boys. “You wouldn't lie to a police officer, would you? That could get you in big trouble.”

“No,” they mumbled, sounding less sure now.

“Where in Canada are you two from?”

“Montreal,” said the taller one.

“Yeah,” agreed the other. “Montreal.”

“Where'd you do your basic training?” I had no idea where the Canadian army held its boot camps, and I suspected these boys had no idea, either.

“At home,” the tall boy said. “In Montreal.”

Montreal seemed to be the only city in Canada these boys could identify. Americans weren't known for excelling in geography.

“Wait a minute.” I narrowed my eyes at the boys. “I've heard that the Canadian army holds its boot camp in Vancouver.” I was just making stuff up now, screwing with them a little. Might as well have some fun on the job.

“Vancouver,” said the tall one. “Yeah. That's what I meant to say.”

Riiight.

“What brings you to Texas?” I asked.

“We're on vacation,” said the first.

“Yeah,” agreed the second. “Vacation.”

“Funny,” I said, “you don't seem to speak with French accents. Your military ID cards aren't in French, either.”

The two said nothing now, fear gleaming in their eyes.

“If you're from Montreal,” I said, “you must speak French. That's the primary language there.”

The two exchanged timid glances.

I decided to test their linguistic capabilities by speaking the only French I knew, the chorus of “Lady Marmalade.”
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”

The two looked from me to each other.

“Jig's up, boys.” I held out my hand. “Give me your real IDs.”

The two grudgingly reached into their back pockets and pulled out their wallets, handing me their Texas driver's licenses. The tall one had just turned seventeen. The other was only sixteen.

After calling dispatch to run a quick search, I learned that neither had a juvenile record. I decided to cut them some slack. Kids do dumb things sometimes. What was childhood for if not making mistakes and learning from them?

“Call your parents,” I told them. “Tell them to come get you.”

“But we drove here ourselves,” said the taller one. “In my car.”

“Either your parents come talk to me here and I'll let you go with a warning, or I can take you two down to the station and they can pick you up there after you're booked for passing false identification with the intent to commit a crime.”

Suddenly they couldn't wait to pull out their cell phones to summon mom and dad.

I thanked the beer man and led the boys to the exit, where we waited for their parents. When they arrived, I told them what their sons had been up to and showed them the IDs.