Ok, here's the next installment of Friday's macabre debacle:
Let's see. I left off where the fat-ass fuzzy pig cop waddled off instead of investigating the ominous, freshly-dug, shallow grave behind my house. That reminds me. Remember when the cool people called them "the fuzz," or "pigs?" Maybe I should coin a term to put a new twist on an old expression. How about "hairy hogs?" "Pudgy/portly police?" "Obese officers?" "Corpulent cops?" I always adore alliteration, so I like these. Especially, the last one. We could call them CC-PoPo. Or just C-Po. Hey - that's the ticket! Pardon the pun.
Now. Back to the saga. After C-Po assured himself that I wasn't a fugitive, and then used me like his own personal Google to get the phone number for the church's pastor, he left. Apparently satisfied that all was peachy. Which probably made him head straight for Chik-Fil-A to get one of those peach milkshakes. You can't blame him. They're here for a limited time only. Which reminds me about my recent disaster with an exploding peach milkshake in my brand new car. But that's another post.
I was furious about the way C-Po handled (or didn't handle) the obvious crime. I'd asked him for his name and badge number, as well as his supervisor's number. He begrudgingly gave it to me, after telling me that his lieutenant was the one who told him he shouldn't waste his precious time. Because, obviously, if four suspicious men told an 81 year old man they were burying their beloved pet, they were buring their beloved pet. Never mind that the elderly, speech-impaired man didn't actually see said dog. It was delusional to think that they might have murded an actual person. And golly, it would take a back-hoe to dig up the loose pile of dirt that covered the alledged victim. Besides, I hadn't gotten the license plate of the perp's truck, so shit, what right did I have to want to be sure my backyard wasn't a makeshift mortuarium for murder victims? C-Po had bigger fish to fry. Which reminded him that he was late meeting his brothers-in-arms at Captain D's. After all, he needed to take advantage of the limited time, summer celebration, $4.99 Full Meal Deal. Who could blame him for wanting to take advantage of "The Sampler?" It has fried fish, fried chicken tenders, and fried shrimp, and includes slaw, hush puppies and a side of mashed potatoes or french fries, and an ice cold coke. After all, he had to keep his strength up after hiking a tenth of a mile through the rough terrain of a church field in 89 degree temperature.
It was all I could do not to yell, "Fuck you, mother fucker! I hope you get dispatched to a U-Haul full of hungry, angry dogs who've just been transported all the way from California by a couple evil bitches who operate a sham animal rescue organization (this really happened here not too long ago.) And that after you open the back of the truck, you trip and fall when you try to run from the vicious curs, and they cover you like a swarm of killer bees, with a few fire ants mixed in. And that all that's left of your big, fat ass is a scrawny skeleton. Which the dogs are divvying up to gnaw on before they dig a shallow hole to bury your pathetic bones in. So fitting.
But being the reasonable, sane person I am, I didn't do that. Instead, I grabbed my shovel, which was handy since I'd just planted my lilac bush with it. I indignantly, intrepidly marched across the field to the gruesome grave. And started digging. At first, nothing but dirt. And then, just like something out of a movie, I hit something. And like the movie, I threw the shovel aside and used my hands to gently push the dirt aside. After all, I couldn't be sure there wasn't a baby who was hanging on to life by a thread. Like that poor infant in Japan who'd been flushed down the toilet, but was safe and sound after being rescued by the hard-working, caring Kobans.
For some reason, I wasn't afraid of what I'd find. Which turned out to be a blue tarp, which enclosed an old bedsheet, which encased a dog. A pit-bull. He looked so peaceful. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't bloody or maimed. Or decayed. He hadn't been dead long. Instinctively, and without a shred of revulsion, I stroked his poor lifeless head. He was still warm. He looked like he was just sleeping. I sat down next to him, and spoke kind, comforting words. My heart was breaking, and tears were spilling from my eyes.
Around that time, the church's pastor appeared. Complete with suit and tie. He was very kind, and listened as I told him of the horror which had just happened. He asked me if I was all right, and encouraged me to go home and calm down. So I took his advice. I covered the sweet dog back up and walked home.
I spent at least two or three hours on the phone, trying to get someone to care about this poor dog. Turns out, no one does. No one except my friends. Finally, I passed out, exhausted, only to toss and turn all night. Because I couldn't get the poor, sweet dog out of my mind. And the fact that he was lying in the dark, and could be a midnight snack for a racoon or possom, and worms and maggots. Or the frustration of not being able to find anyone in authority to care.
After my sleepless night, I went back to pursuing help. I started back with the Humane Society's animal cruelty investigation division. Their hours are 10 - 3. Prime time for pit bull fights. Went to voice mail. Left a message. Never heard back. I called the Mayor's Action Center. Same thing. Then my US Representative. At least there, I spoke to a real person. Who told me the animal rights specialist was in a staff meeting, but that she'd call me back soon. Which she never did.
At that point, I decided I'd go check on things. We'd had a bad storm early in the morning, so there was a pile of mud in place of the dirt. I saw the tarp and the sheet, but no dog. Turned out, the pastor had instructed the church secretary to call the city's animal pickup division. The roadkill clean-up people. Who'd already come and disposed of him.
Well, I think I've shared enough. I took pictures of the dog, but I'm not sure I should share them yet. They're not gruesome, though. He looks peaceful. I'll think on it.
I'm not sure if I should do anything more, but I'm just haunted by it. I can't make sense of it, and I'm not sure I can rest until I find closure.
For now, though, there's nothing I can do. Because it's not between 1:00 and 3:00 Monday through Friday. And next week is a holiday week. So it would be unreasonable for me to expect anyone in authority to deal with such unpleasantness so close to the celebration of our great country's independence.
So I'll close.
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