Running radar on the side of the highway, the officer is making a last­minute decision:

where to make reservations for his anniversary dinner with his wife tonight. In the process of

decision­making, he clocks a car at ninety­two miles per hour. He pulls off of the shoulder,

switches his blue lights and sirens on, pursuing it immediately. He catches up to the vehicle, and it

pulls gradually over into the emergency lane. The officer opens his door, steps out of his car,

keeping his eye on what’s in front of him, and approaches the driver’s side window.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” A lady, blonde with brown roots and

unnaturally high­set cheekbones tilts her head out of the driver’s side window, a perplexed look on

her face.

“Pilot’s license, please.” The officer pauses for effect, but gets no reaction. “Do you know

why I’ve stopped you today, ma’am?” The officer peers into the gleaming new Lexus, a neutral

expression glazed over his face.

Reaching to the passenger side of the vehicle, she opens her glove box, and fumbles around

for her license and registration, “I wasn’t speedin’, was I? I may have been pushin’ fifty­five at

the most, cutie pie.”

“The speed limit is forty­five, ma’am.”

Chewing her gum with intent, she locates her registration and hands it to the officer. She

doesn’t forget to bat her eyelashes amorously at him, and digs around for her license in the

designer purse that’s sitting unzipped in her lap. “Sweetness, I think that a warning would do me

just fine. A handsome man like yourself surely would be nice enough to let me off without

trouble.”

“‘Officer’ will suffice.” The officer takes the license and registration from her freshly

manicured hands, and silently reads to himself the name, Shelley Addison. “That’s only part of the

issue today, Mrs. Addison.”

Shelley parades her bare ring finger out of the window, “It’s Ms. Addison, Officer, but you

can call me Shelley.”

He readjusts his hat with the tips of his fingers. “Tell me, Ms. Addison, are you a stunt

driver or are you running a mobile Mary Kay beauty parlor?”

The lady’s face shifts from flirtation to quandary. “What do ya mean by that, honey? Is

that your way of complimentin’ a woman? ‘Cause I will tell you right now, you’re going to need

some work. I can help with that, sweet cheeks.” She rolls the window the rest of the way down

with the click of the button, rests against the empty frame on her elbow, and leans towards him

ardently. A smile whose teeth are overly exaggerating their pearly shade, made its debut in that

moment. A hint of lipstick is cemented to her canine on the left side, surrounded by a bleached sea

of poor bridgework.

“I’m issuing you a citation for careless and reckless driving. Be sure to make your

appearance in court on the date that is posted here on this pink slip. By the way, you might want to

reconsider the blue eye shadow. That went out in the ‘70s.” He rips the slip from his book and

gives her the ticket through the window, indirectly forcing her to break her gaze that is supported

by her elbow. “I’d recommend the smoky eye look. I hear that’s in. You have a nice day and do

me a favor, put the makeup on before you leave the house.”

Before she has the chance to reply, the officer walks back to his patrol car. He shakes his

head, opens the driver’s side door, situates himself beside his laptop, and listens for his next call on

the radio.

A dispatcher crackles over the radio, “Car 423.”

“Go ahead”

“Unknown problem at 3021 River Mill Drive.”

“10­4. In route.”

The officer arrives at his location within minutes. For safety, he parks a few houses down

so that he can assess the scene before making contact with the subjects. He notices a two­storied

brick house, whose yard is well­cared for. The neighborhood is active with children riding bikes,

teenagers playing basketball, and dogs chasing neighborhood cats. Scanning the area, he walks

cautiously towards the house, being mindful of any possible threats. Not finding any at the

moment, he approaches the door and steps to the side, reaching over to knock.

He announces, “Police Department.”

There is no answer, so he puts his ear to the door. Listening for arguments, he hears silence

inside of the house. He backs away from the door and looks to the edges of the porch, catching a

glimpse of the plants that are hanging from their hooks and the happy­go­lucky gnomes that

surround them. He’s ready to kick in the door when he hears a male voice filled with distraught,

shouting at ear­shattering decibels.

“Help! Please, someone help her!”

The officer calls in on his radio, “Back up at 3021 River Mill Drive.”

He makes his way from the front of the house, to the side carefully, gun leading his way

towards the frenzied cries. The yelling becomes louder as he approaches the backyard.

“Oh, God! Please don’t jump, Katy!”

The officer leans his head around the corner of the house, revealing a skinny, dark­haired

man whose arms are extended towards the tree that he’s looking up into.

“Police Department,” he states authoritatively.

The man whips around to look at the officer, startled. “It’s about time! What took you so

long? Help me!”

The officer looks up at the tree. “With what exactly?”

“Help me get Katy out of the tree!” He waves his arms around in a flailing style, signaling

for the officer to perform something magical.

“Who?” The officer is confused.

He’s almost jumping up and down like a schoolgirl. “Purry. Katy Purry. My cat. Stop

wasting time!”

“You’re telling me that your big emergency is that your cat is stuck in that tree?” The

officer holsters his weapon and sighs. “Trust me, she’ll come down on her own when she gets

hungry.”

The man fidgets in his skinny jeans. “How do you know? She can’t get down!”

“How do I know?” The officer points to the surrounding trees. “Have you ever seen a cat

skeleton in a tree?” He blinks a few times in the man’s direction, expression unchanging from

neutrality. “Just wait it out.”

“So, you’re not going to help me?” He readjusts his black, square­shaped glasses to sit

appropriately on his nose.

“We don’t rescue cats out of trees.”

“What about the fire department?” The man looks up towards the tree every few seconds

nervously.

“What about them?” The officer checks his watch.

The man’s voice becomes more desperate. “Call them!”

He squints at the citizen. “Is your cat on fire?”

“No, but­...”

“Then they don’t do that either.”

Sirens are blaring a couple of blocks down. The officer pulls out his radio, “10­22,

disregard.” The sirens disappear.

A second officer walks around the corner, “I was close, so I thought that I would check in

with you Sgt. Schneider. What’s going on?”

The man with the glasses chimes in, “I’ll tell you what’s going on. You guys are supposed

to protect and serve, right? Well, I need some service; I have an emergency. This guy isn’t doing

anything.” He points to Sgt. Schneider, accusingly. He looks back to the second officer, “And

what were you doing all this time? Eating donuts?”

The second officer arches one eyebrow and replies, “And how do you suggest that we

protect and serve you today, sir?”

The man crosses his arms in front of his chest, “Climb up there and get her!”

Sgt. Schneider gives Officer Gabbard a sarcastic tone, “Yeah Gabbard, climb up there and

get her.”

Gabbard maintains a straight face and looks to the man in the plaid shirt, crossing his arms

too, mimicking his body language. “Not unless there’s a donut up there.”

The man with the glasses grunts, “Well surely you have something to get Katy Purry out of

that tree.”

Sgt. Schneider points to his own attire, and in a deadpan voice he says, “Look at me. Am I

carrying anything that you would like me to get your cat out of that tree with? On the right side of

my belt, I have a forty­five caliber handgun, and on the left side of my belt, I have a Taser.”

The man grasps both sides of his face with his hands, “Are you freaking serious right

Sgt. Schneider, a blank expression plastered on his face informs the citizen, “I hate to point

out the obvious, but the tools that I carry include a pistol, a Taser, and a baton. I could shoot,

electrocute, or beat your cat out of that tree. Pick your poison.”

“Don’t forget the shotgun in the car, Sarge.” Officer Gabbard throws a thumb in the

direction towards the front of the house.

“So, there’s nothing that you officers can do?”

“Now you’re finally getting it.” Sgt. Schneider nods his head affirmatively.

Leaving the man to scratch his head in solitude, the officers are walking back to their cars

when they hear a hawk screeching overhead. Officer Gabbard looks up into the sky and points,

“Check it out, Sarge.”

From the backyard they hear Mr. Skinny jeans screaming, “Oh, no!”

Sgt. Schneider looks up and sees a decently sized hawk carrying a copper colored cat in its

clutches. Sgt. Schneider looks to Gabbard, "Problem Solved.”

The two part ways, and Sgt. Schneider hops in his patrol car for the last time this shift.

After a forty­five minute drive home, he hopes that his wife has made him dinner tonight. He

parks his car in the driveway, and notices that she is standing on the front porch waiting for him.

As he walks towards her with the intent to shower her with kisses, he notices that her foot is

tapping ferociously on the sidewalk. He slows his steps as he nears his wife, knowing the amount

of crazy that she’s capable of. Stopping in front of her, he reaches both arms out cautiously for a

hug, but she stops him with a flat palm to his chest.

“What seems to be the problem, honey?” He knows this question all too well.