Cop Tales. Naked Dude

In comments on my "What I really did" post I have been reminded of this story and decided it needed telling.

It's about 1988 or so. I am a green as grass rookie with just a few years in uniform. Working the midnight shift because hey, that's where the rookies go.

Now Monterey is an old city. Among other things it was California's first capitol from 1777 to 1846 and was then conquered by Commodore Sloat and claimed as part of the United States. Lots of old buildings and streets first laid out by the Mexican and Spanish governments a long time ago. One of those streets is Lighthouse Avenue. If you look just below that red line along the coast (where it says Fisherman's Wharf #1) you can see Lighthouse Avenue.

So. One dark and cold morning, about 3 AM,  I was doing routine patrolling in my old and rattle trap of a cop car Dodge Diplomat (remember those?). When I turned from Pacific Avenue onto Lighthouse I espied a person jogging down the sidewalk next to the street. He was far enough away and the street lights were spaced far enough apart that I couldn't see much of him except that he seemed to be dressed kinda sparsely. As I got closer it became apparent that he was very sparsely dressed. Like naked to be exact.

Now I was no jaded and experienced veteran officer but even I was pretty sure that there was something peculiar about the situation. It's no more than 40 degrees out, it's 3 in the morning, it's a very public street and he ain't wearing a stitch. Hmm. Might be I should talk to this guy. I flip a U-Turn and approach. It's my first "naked guy in public" call. It will not be my last.

Aside here. Like all contacts I called this one in to dispatch but I made a rookie mistake. I mentioned a nude man. Usually on all calls and contacts at that time of day another car will roll automatically as backup unless called off which I most emphatically did not do. Except when it's a naked dude. Then you couldn't find another police car in the city available for follow up no matter how hard you tried. Naked chicks are another matter altogether. Then you'll get responses from 5 cities away. Cops.

The Naked Dude (Let's just refer to him as ND for brevity's sake shall we?) sees me approaching, lights rotating on my roof, but he's not making eye contact. He just keeps his head down and continues jogging down the road. Perhaps desperately hoping I'll chalk it up to the full moon and leave him alone. But, alas for him, my curiosity has been piqued and you know, naked guy on public streets and all that. Finally he gives up and stops. He stands there in the harsh glare of a thousand watt street light and surrenders to his fate.

Now anyone who has ever met me knows that I am what is colloquially known as a Smart Ass. But on that morning I was at a temporary loss for words. Here was a man totally starkers casually jogging down a main boulevard. Whatever could be the reason?

"Hi. How you doing tonight? Out for a jog I guess?" Hardly words that will go down in the annals of snarkish history but hey, I was a bit put off at the time. I took immediate pity on the man, not to mention any motorists passing by at 3 in the morning, and grabbed my emergency blanket from the trunk and threw it around his shoulders. As I did so I noticed a fine oily sheen on his skin. All his skin if you catch my drift. Everywhere is the idea I'm trying to get across here. He was grateful for the wrap and covered himself as best he could.

"Anything you want to tell me? Like what you're doing, where you're going and why you're doing any of that sans suitable body covering materials?"

He indicated his home was nearby and that he was just trying to get there. I offered him a ride as it was apparent by that time that he was neither under the influence of dangerous and intoxicating substances at that moment nor absent his saner wits. During the ride he volunteered the story of how he came to be running down the streets of my fair city is a state is disrobedness. This was a story I was dying to hear.

Seems our intrepid ND was hitchhiking south down Highway 1 toward the Big Sur area,. Why was unclear but as he was being forthcoming I declined to interrupt to the extent I could stand the suspense. Along the way he was picked up by two men....in a van. At this point my every cop sense was tingling and I was starting to get the idea that this story was going to go downhill in a hurry. I was correct.

They spent some time together, the three of them imbibing intoxicating beverages of the Hops and Malt variety. At some point in the (allegedly moderate) party in the van he lost consciousness. Nd claimed that the next thing he knew he was waking up behind a bush in a park in downtown Carmel (for reference about 4 or 5 miles from where I picked him up). He was also quite naked and covered with the aforementioned oily substance. ND decided his best bet was just to try and get home as best he could.

Now I want you to envision yourself in my place. Rookie police officer confronted with an oil covered man with that story. The questions boggle the mind. Who? Why? What? What kind. How much? How many times? Etc.etc. etc.

"You jogged from Carmel to here!? Naked!?"

But I knew my duty and asked him two things. First, Do you want to go to the hospital because I'm pretty sure stuff may have been done to you and perhaps a medical checkup is in order? ND quickly and flatly declined stating he was fine and just wanted to go home. Second, is there anything you'd like to report because see question the First? Again ND stated he was certain nothing untoward had happened to him, oily skin and state of nakedness notwithstanding. Ok then.

We reached his home and I let him out. He politely offered the emergency blanket back to me but I took another look at that oil on his skin and hastily declined. " No, no, That's Ok. You keep that." I gave him my card and asked again if there was anything I could do for him but he refused.

In those days and in that small town we had a lot more discretion than is the norm now. It wasn't unusual for any officer to decide that an arrest in a situation like that was probably not the best solution. SoI tipped my cap to ND, wished him a good evening and left.

In looking back on that contact both in the short term and again years later, I am absolutely positive ND was lying or at least not telling all he knew or remembered. My attitude toward weird police contacts like this has always been to appraise the situation and if it's not clear police action is warranted leave it with "Do you need help? You Ok? Need to report something, a crime maybe? No? Well, call if you do and have a nice day." Clearly something untoward happened that resulted in the state I found him in but I'm pretty sure he was more of a willing participant that he wanted me to guess. Perhaps not to the extent it ended up but if you're gonna play those kind of games the night may end with a naked moonlit stroll down a city street. Intoxicants stronger than beer were unquestionably involved but again, I got the clear impression of chagrin as opposed to horror so I was pretty sure the imbibing was consensual even if the end result was somewhat unexpected. All in all it seemed to be a case of  "Oh shit, he passed out. Now what?" as opposed to something felonious.

So. Word to the wise there kids, drugs/alcohol, sex games and strangers in vans are a bad mix. Don't be Naked Dude.

Six

Use Of Force, Mindset And Choices

On Saturday I mentioned that I'm reading a new book by Myke Cole. Today I was perusing his blog and ran across this post on Use of Force. I encourage everyone to go read it. It's short and very much to the point. Agree or disagree it's at the very least food for thought. I happen to agree with him.

I spent 33 years in uniform. 9 as a soldier (Army and UTARNG) and 24 as a cop. In all that time I never once badly hurt anyone. I know you tactical guys will look down your noses at me for such a confession but it's a record I'm proud of because my duty was to Protect and Serve first. No shootings, no stickings, no taser use. Heck, I never even used my OC/Mace. Lots and lots of hands on (we had a lot of bars and drunks are generally not open to logical dissuasion) but I never had to ratchet up the use of force beyond that and pointing my firearm at a very few. Close but only that. Why? I like to think it's because of my mindset and the choices that mindset triggered. Let me explain.

When I began my career as a blue suiter I was asked a question. What martial art would I study? I thought it over and chose.....none. I decided early on that my job, my duty, wasn't to beat someone senseless it was to control violent situations using as little force as possible. That's right there in the UoF continuum, use as little force as necessary to gain control and compliance. I decided on another direction. The gym. I became a power lifter. I got as large and strong as I legally could (no PEDs. Ever). Why? Again it goes back to the use of force continuum. The first rung on that ladder is presence. An officer by his or her very presence in a law enforcement situation is exerting force. The uniform, gun and badge. Don't think so? Think back on any encounter with authority you've ever had where you were either the focus or directly (or indirectly) involved with those who were the focus. Did you feel tension? Perhaps a bit of trepidation or even intimidation? That's force and the officer was exerting it on you. I fear that too many of my brothers and sisters make one of two mistakes in this area. Either they forget how intimidating their very presence can be or they rely too heavily on it's 'magical' ability to quell any situation, no matter how potentially violent. The former is a flaw in the veteran and the latter in the inexperienced.

Back to the gym and why it was my choice. In my experience bad guys run into three distinct categories;
Serious Felons
Psychosis/Hard Drugs
Everyone Else
There are some overlaps and it's not by any means all inclusive but it'll do for the purposes of this post.
With Everyone Else I wanted to give them every opportunity I could to recognize their error of their ways and realize that challenging me was probably a losing proposition and to not go there in the first place. Oh, there is always the guy who bristles and pumps his chest and is going to fight just because but they're the exception not the rule. Anecdotally it seems to have worked as I seldom got challenged and when I did...well, let me cover that further in just a bit. With Psychosis/Hard Drugs it's a crap shoot. Nothing is really certain except for the presence of Murphy and there's just no way to predict how they'll react. I've arrested guys on Meth/PCP/Coke who went readily into custody. I've arrested drunks that fought like madmen. I've also had skinny little crankers try to take knives to my tender hide so, like I said, it's anything goes.

Serious Felons are people for whom crime and a criminal lifestyle are choices. They are what they are. They will seldom reform (there are notable exceptions, one of whom reads this blog and to whom I tip my cap) and are always looking for easy prey. They are always watching, measuring and calculating. Take a tour through your local jail or better yet a prison. You'll see what I'm talking about pretty quick. When they have an encounter with law enforcement you can rest assured they're taking the officer's temperature. But they are not stupid, just narcissistic and coldly calculating. When they are contacted by an officer they go through a risk/reward analysis. I break them down like this;
1. I can't take him and if I try I'll get hurt.
2. I might take him but I'll probably get hurt.
3. I can probably take him but I'll probably get hurt.
4. I can take him but I might get hurt.
5. I can take him and I won't get hurt. 

It's simplistic but you get the idea. It's a classic OODA Loop, one that both Serious Felons and Everyone Else goes through if they have ideas about challenging the police. Now here's where my choice comes back in. By my obvious size and strength I have altered the Loop. They don't have to be concerned just with what hangs from my bat belt and my skills (or lack) with those tools, they have to consider what I might do to them with just my hands if they choose poorly. Physical power is something both the Felons and Everyone Else understands at a gut level. The Felons because they have been through one of the toughest Darwinian schools out there, prison, where the strongest and most ruthless makes the rules. It's pure intimidation, I readily admit that, but it kept both me and everyone I ever had contact with alive and relatively unscathed. And if the Felon, Everyone Else or Psychosis/Hard Drugs got frisky and tried me then I was in a better position to control them short of an ass kicking or terminal ventilation. Most went compliantly into cuffs even if they then went off as they were being put in the cruiser. It's all about face. Give most people, especially Serious Felons, a chance to save face and they'll usually react predictably and even reasonably. Back them into a corner and challenge them and you'll get a fight. Every time.

Anecdotal? Theory? You bet but here's my bonafides (besides my record). It's story time. Some of you have already heard/read this one. If so I apologize but it precisely sums up my points about mindsets and the choices that come from them

Many years ago, when I was right at that salty 5 year veteran stage, I had an encounter with a man who tried very hard to kill me. I was sitting on a street at odarkthirty, in a parking lot, watching for drunks to come careening by when I saw a car go flashing by with one of ours following closely. No lights yet but it was obvious the officer was interested. Now this particular officer was a slug. Ask Murphy's Law about them sometime. Slugs are the bane of any police department. They live to do as little work as possible, existing only for the promise of a paycheck and a pension. Every cop knows them and can tell stories. At first I dismissed him as simply Deuce hunting (DUI for the CVC section for drunk driving-23152). Then the little voice in the back of my head started screaming for attention. That small, usually quiet, voice that every veteran officer develops or dies. Mine started shrieking. He's a slug. He wouldn't even be taking any action at all unless there's a very good reason. Go. Back him up. Right now. I obeyed the voice and went after him.

By the time I got to him he had pulled the car over and was at the drivers door talking to the driver. I made a passenger side approach and shined my flashlight into the interior. Just to see and let the occupants know the slug wasn't alone. There were two in the car, the driver and front seat passenger. The passenger looked largish but I didn't particularly remark on it at the time. In just a few seconds it would become monumentally important to both of our lives. The slug suddenly looked up and said "Pat search that guy." He would later say he told me he'd seen a gun (as he indeed had) but he never mentioned that little tidbit no matter what he says. If he had things might have turned out much differently.

I opened the passenger door and asked him out. As he got out he just kept unfolding. He was big, much larger than me, both in height and girth. I'm 5-11 and at that time went about 260 so you can imagine the size I'm talking about. Significantly larger than yours truly. Still, I was in my prime, strong, well trained and experienced. But his bulk gave him an answer to mine. Was my choice going to fail me here?

I told him that I was going to do a short pat down, just of his outer clothing and if he'd just turn around....
"No,"
I wasn't used to that answer. I went through it again. If you'll just tun around we'll get this over no muss no fuss...
"No." Flat, no emotion whatsoever.
By this time I'd lost sight of the slug and had focused in on the passenger. Tunnel vision. Now polite time and requests were over. I got insistent. I grabbed one massive arm and started to physically turn him and used my command voice. Turn around and put your hands behind your head right now! I was done with games.
Suddenly he wrenched away from me and his right hand darted inside his jacket (he was wearing a suit coat). As he did that he announced "I've got a gun! I've got a gun!"

Now I'm faced with an instant and life altering decision that needs to be made RIGHT NOW. Do I back off, pull my gun and almost certainly shoot him as he presents his own or do I take him on physically? For better or worse I chose to take him on. Now it's not as insane as it sounds (though if presented with a similar problem at my current age and physical level I'd probably do it differently). I was prepared, both physically and mentally for this very choice at this very moment. I'd trained hard, was fit and strong as an ox and full of the confidence that only comes from youth, training and experience. Some might say overconfidence but be that as it may.

I finished spinning him so his back as to me, wrapped my arms around that massive chest, grabbed both wrists in my hands and held on for dear life. I picked him up and slammed him face down on the ground just as hard as I could. It was pure pro wrestling..There I held him whilst I pondered my predicament. I'm sure you can all see the scene. Me and my opponent flat on the ground, me on his back and him on his face screaming about his gun and trying desperately to pull it free. By this time he had his hand on it and was trying really, really hard to pull it out. I later learned the hammer had snagged on his coat. A lesson for all you CCW holders. Hammerless revolvers are your friend. I've got my hands and my legs involved in keeping us both on the ground and bloody hole free. I've got no idea where my partner is and no way to get to my radio to holler for help. Stuck. Still, it was working. I had control of him and even if he'd managed to free the gun I was, and still am, confident I would have managed him. My choice was still valid. Then I heard that sweet music of approaching sirens. The slug's guy had caved immediately and been cuffed. Slug boy had called for assistance (but not rendered any himself you'll note, not that I'm bitter) and eventually the cavalry arrived. You want to know the longest time increment in the world? It's that time you spend wrestling with a mountain of a man for possession of a gun he wants to kill you with. Endless doesn't quite cover it.

In the end it turned out well for everyone involved. The backup arrived, the bad guys were cuffed and disarmed and everyone went home at the end of the shift (or after posting bail as the case may be). My guys chief complaint? Whether or not he could get his gun back (He didn't. He was a recent parolee, a felon in possession and with the charges relating to our encounter he went back to the big house for a bit). He never once considered how lucky he was that the incident didn't end up in a shooting. The issue for me in this incident was this; his life was my responsibility. Mine. His actions do count, I don't dismiss that, but I saw a chance to save his life from his own criminality and stupidity and I took it. It could have very easily resulted in his death, my death and even the death of my partner but sometimes the job requires risk. This is where the phrase "Big Boy Pants" is valid and apropos (not at tacticalninja school). If you're afraid of risk find another line of work. RAH (peace be upon him) said it best. My life was not mine to throw away in a vain reach for glory and not mine to keep if the situation called for me to spend it. More importantly his life was not mine to spend if I could find a way to preserve it.  I always felt that I wouldn't hesitate to shoot if it came to it (and I was oh so very near more times than I care to remember) but I also understood the awesome responsibility I carried every minute I served, whether in uniform or out. His life was as valuable as mine. I know a lot of you may disagree with that assessment in this case but ask yourselves this. How do I want my police officers to view my life? The lives of those I love and who are dear to me? It wasn't my right to choose whether or not his life was worth saving. It was my responsibility to make a determination of whether or not I could reasonably save him. Mindset and choices.

So back to the three categories and my choice/mindset. I decided to use brute strength and physical size to enable me to police effectively while carrying the least probability that I'd have to hurt anyone seriously (or wind up as the lead story on CNN). Did it work out? For me it did. I had the genetics to build and carry enough muscle and bulk to make it work and the mindset to trust to my training and strength. For others it may not be so simple. You'll have to find a different answer. For those who decry my blatant use of intimidation I say this. That tactic kept me and everyone I ever contacted, in 24 years as a street cop, safe and unharmed. The worse thing anyone ever experienced at my hands was a manhandling, a twisted wrist and a ride to jail. I treated everyone I ever met with politeness and professionalism. Even when I had to put my hands on them. I didn't bully or browbeat, I let my presence and carriage speak for me. For those who needed me it seemed to bring them a measure of relief when they saw me. For those who found my presence problematic it gave the clear message that I was not to be tried on for size and compliance was the better option. For those who resisted, for whatever reason, it gave me the opportunity to bring the encounter to a conclusion at the lowest level on the Use of Force scale possible, given the circumstances.

And that's my message, tailed on to Myke's. It can be done, indeed it must be done lest all our hard work and the sacrifices by those who came before us be lost in the lurid glare of cameras and horrific headlines.

Since then I've aged and retired. My body suffers from the afflictions age and a lifetime of honorable hard use have incurred. I no longer carry all that size and bulk but one thing has not changed a whit. My mindset. I'm retired so I avoid ugly situations when and where I can instead of seeking them out. Avoidance and de-escalation are my watchwords. I still carry and I'll shoot you in an instant if you force me to but you'll still have to go a very long way to get me to do that. I still carry myself confidently, my head up and my chest out. I still project myself as a man to leave alone (or at least attempt to). I still cause the bad guys to re-visit that OODA Loop and ask themselves if there aren't greener pastures somewhere down the road. That will end, sooner rather than later, but I'm confident I'll find a new answer.

Make no mistake about this. I'm talking about me and my choices here. My particular skill sets and gifts. My job as an American Police Officer. Nothing more. Some aren't so lucky nor are they called to my particular service. Lu is one of them and for her reliance on a tool is paramount to personal safety. To that end you must be a good judge of yourself and your needs, strengths and weaknesses. I'll have more thoughts on this when I post about her CCW choice and how it came to be a bit later (hopefully this week).

Six

Rules Of The Road Bicycle Edition

Let me say right up front that I am a bicyclist. Lu and I do ride on the roads of America. But we avoid narrow, well traveled streets and obey all rules of the road (though I did once give Lu and the DO a near coronary by bombing down a mountain road at breakneck speeds with them following in the truck..another story). Names have been omitted to protect the innocent.

Joan has a post up about those bicyclists who can't seem to act like reasonable people. You know, the ones you fantasize about sideswiping off the road and into the annals of the Darwin Awards. In that light I'll pass along this story to hopefully give you a little satisfaction that there really is justice in the world. Occasionally. I was also nearly punched out by a lawyer. There was spit and screaming and everything.

Back in the day when I rode a motorcycle for my daily bread I was also one of our accident reconstructionists. I was dispatched to and investigated complex accidents, including injury and fatals. On this occasion I was sent to an auto/bicycle crash where the bicyclist received significant but not life threatening injuries.

Here's the stage. There's a doc in the box located near our recreation trail. The parking lot is surrounded by a 6 foot wooden fence. The exit crosses a sidewalk that makes a bend so it runs parallel to the fence on the drivers right. The sidewalk run from the parking lot exit to the curve and fence was short (I can't recall the exact distance but it was short). A careful driver can see pedestrians with no problem. Anything faster? Not so much. The cross street is divided by a raised concrete median with a cutout. The recreation trail ends at the street, requiring that trail users cross a city owned wharf parking lot or use the cutout and the street to pick it up again.

The driver was leaving the clinic after a visit with the ships doctor masquerading as qualified medical professional (another sore spot for me. Don't ask). Witnesses state she came to a complete stop at the parking lot exit whereupon, not seeing any pedestrian traffic close enough to be a hazard, she moved forward and across the sidewalk to enter traffic.

Enter the bicyclist. He decided to leave the recreation trail path and travel down the sidewalk in order to cut off the extra 100 feet or so he'd have to travel to use the cutout and pick up the trail again. He promptly crashed into the side of the car and managed to injure himself and damage the car and his bicycle.

I got there and conducted my investigation, including a time/distance calculation that showed the bicyclist was traveling at considerably faster than a walking pace, fast enough that it would have been impossible for the driver to see him. I found the bicyclist at fault for riding on a sidewalk (against the law in California) and cited him. In the report I noted the blind spot created by the fence and curving sidewalk as well as the bicyclists speed and short sidewalk run as factors mitigating against the driver being able to see the cyclist as well as there being no reasonable expectation on the drivers part to be looking for a bicyclist riding down the sidewalk in the first place. Her responsibility was to check for immediate hazards and when none were present she was free to navigate freely.

Fast forward 3 years and the inevitable civil suit. I was deposed by the plaintiff's attorney and on the fateful day arrived at the appointed place at the appointed time. I should have known what was coming. When I got into the conference room where the deposition was to take place the defendant's attorney was sitting back in his chair with a shit eating grin on his face. Through the whole deposition he said exactly two words.

The plaintiff's attorney started out by getting my training, education and experience in the record. Then he went on the attack. You know those small dogs commonly referred to as ankle biters? The ones who bark furiously and growl and snap and generally threaten without biting until you get a hand just a little too close? Yeah, that was this lawyer to a T. We went back and forth for hours. He just couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that in an auto/bicycle accident the driver wasn't automatically at fault. I imagine the injuries suffered by the rider were enough that he was eyeing a fairly hefty fee for his services and as we continued he saw that settlement disappearing further and further into the distance. At one point he asked me if bicyclists were fair game. If a driver could just completely disregard cyclists and injure them out of hand. My answer sent him into spasms of apoplexy. In that moment I understood what a conniption fit looks like. I was actually concerned that he was going to have a stroke. I told him that as long as a bicyclist was in violation of the vehicle code, operating his conveyance in a place he shouldn't have, in a manner disregarding his own safety and the driver exercised due caution then what happened to the bicyclist was his own fault. He leaned across the table toward me, spittle flying from his lips, and screamed that it was now open season on bicyclists according to me and there would soon be blood in the streets, cats and dogs living together and generally the end of the western world as we know it. I really thought he was going to punch my lights out he was so angry. The defendants lawyer just sat there, a log, and watched the plaintiff's case going down in flames, a smile on his lips. I hated him for that but what you gonna do? Has to be the easiest case he ever took. The deposition wound down from there but that lawyer was obviously a defeated man. I was right and he was wrong and the fact that he couldn't rip me apart and make me recant my investigation and testimony deflated him like a pin popped balloon. You could actually see the dollar signs flying away from his eyes.

The defense attorney's response? The only two words he uttered through about 4 hours of questions, answers and bitter recriminations? "No questions".

I never heard the final outcome but I didn't receive a subpoena for trial so it's pretty certain that the case was settled. I hated that the bicyclist was injured but the bottom line here is the the rules of the road apply equally. If you ride on the road your health and safety is your responsibility. Knowing and obeying the statutes regulating cars and bicycles isn't just a good idea it's essential to remaining a breathing, uninjured person.

But yeah, winning an argument with a lawyer so thoroughly that he nearly smacked me in the snot locker was one of the highlights of my career. It was a good day.

Six

True Life Tales Of Terror

I had an update for the Pirate Ship of Child Joy all ready to go. It's taking shape nicely looking all pirateshipy and everything. Really. I swear. It's just that I somehow managed to idiotically break Lu's camera so I don't have any actual evidentiary photographs. So instead I have an allegedly humorous story.

Lisa has a very funny post up about a humorous encounter of the mouse persuasion. It brought to mind a Six/Trooper/Mouse interaction from a few years ago.

It's important to keep in mind that Trooper was a trained and experienced hunting dog. That is he could go out in the field, find small animals (usually of the feathered kind but not always), flush them out, chase them and then pick them up and bring them to Daddy after he'd fired several dozen shot shells at them. Ok, It.

So we're at home, just Trooper and me. I heard that scritching sound we're all familiar with. Mouse sounds. In the kitchen. I carefully explored the area, all the while trying to convince my hunting dog to "hunt 'em up". He was a bit confused. I mean this is the kitchen for Ghu's sake not the field. Hunt what up? Where? How!?

At some point (really, the whole stressful incident is a bit fuzzy) the mouse presented himself. Suddenly. I'm quite certain that I was very manly and macho about the unexpected intrusion. Quite certain. He ran around the kitchen for a bit then took up a hide/ambush position under the rolling counter. I coaxed Trooper out from under the desk (he must have heard something that convinced him it was the end of the world. I have no idea what that might have been. None at all. Sniff.) and set him up to watch for our adversary whilst I girded my loins and weaponed up. What to use to dispatch an 8 ounce furry terror? My eyes light upon my 8 inch K-Bar lying on the countertop. Hey, I'm a guy.

Now properly equipped to face the interloper I decided to force the issue. If he thought I'd just blithely enter his kill zone and stick a hand of other soft appendage into his cleverly laid trap Mister Mouse had another think coming. Carefully, keeping my situational awareness at UltraThreatLevelFireEngineRed, I moved the counter aside. Can you feel the tension?

Apparently I did.

Mister Mouse must have sensed that the situation had gone into the dumper and that more direct action was called for. He darted out from the under the counter and charged me! I did the Dance Of Avoidance while shouting at Trooper to "Get Him. Sic Him Boy. Kill That Damn Mouse"! Trooper, who'd never heard such commands in his life, joined me in the dance and added his voice to the cacophony by barking out his enthusiasm for what was obviously a new game. We careened around the room, barking and shouting and eeking until I remembered. Hey I have a large knife in my hand, I should stab the mouse with it. Genius! Whereupon I started wildly stabbing at the mouse scurrying around the kitchen floor while screaming like a prepubescent child of the female variety. Trooper's barking picked up in tempo and vigor as he transitioned from dancing joy to dodging concern over the flashing death in my right hand. I say flashing death but really it was more like flashing incompetence. I managed to hit everything but Trooper. And the mouse.

I may have missed that mouse but I'm positive I scared him out of a few years of life. Certainly Trooper was well and truly impressed. I did however manage to put a few knife shaped divots in the linoleum floor. The mouse, taking advantage of the diversion provided by my blind, panic stricken orgy of buffoonery, scurried to the garage door and disappeared under it and into the relative safety of my powertool filled work room. It was either a fear fueled feat of legerdemain or perhaps just a case of a small rodent doing what it did best. I thought I heard a snicker of derision as he vanished but by that time my pulse was racing and my breathing sounded like the dying convulsions of a mortally wounded water buffalo so it may have just been my imagination.

As I calmed and returned to some semblance of rationality it struck me that this was probably not my finest hour. Perhaps this was best kept just between Trooper and myself. Of course there was small matter of the multiple knife gouges in the floor and the general state of disarray of the kitchen. There was no way to explain that away short of fighting off an unexpected attack by Gnome Ninjas (are attacks by Gnome Ninjas ever expected?). At least nothing Lu was going to buy at any rate. She's so suspicious. I put the knife gently away, patted Trooper on the head, vowed to buy mouse actual traps and consigned myself to my fate.

I like to think that the mouse later told that story to his mouse friends over a beer at the local mouse drinking establishment. I like to think that he related the horror and danger. How he barely escaped from the knife wielding Hurricane of Terror with his life. How he was so close to death he could hear the Harps playing in Mouse Heaven. How lucky he was that he avoided near certain dismemberment at the hands of an obviously trained killer.

But somehow I don't think that's the way he told it.

Lisa complains that there wasn't a man around to empty the trap after she (somehow) intelligently managed to trap her mouse without destroying her house while simultaneously endangering the life of every living thing therein except said mouse.  I say she's probably lucky I wasn't around.

Stupid mouse.

Six