When the NPD was on the corner of 8th and 8th South, we had a neighbor who loved to visit. His name was Sam. He was an English Bulldog, the one's that are pictured in Marine Corps ads. Sam would drop by and spend hours at the PD, bumming snacks, getting scratched, and just socializing.
His favorite game was tug-of-war. We'd get an old pair of uniform trousers out, toss him one leg and a cop would take the other. We never won. English Bulldogs have huge heads, muscular shoulders, and short legs. Once that jaw clamps on something and those legs start churning, forget it.
Except for two small social problems, he was the perfect companion. He was a constant drooler, sometimes requiring a bib. And, he had a gas problem. To be fair, it was probably from all the junk we fed him. But, when he erupted, it would wilt the leaves on a philodendron.
Sometimes Sam would volunteer for patrol duty. His head was a perfect fit for a uniform hat. And you could put a ladies police shirt on him. An unlit cigar butt in his mouth, and he was ready to make the streets of Naples safe.
We'd lean him up in the passenger's seat, just like a human, put on his lap belt, and he'd ride for hours, never moving, except to stare out the side window. Seemed to love it. And he never spit out the cigar butt. It was a sight, prompting many a double take. I've seen some damn ugly cops, but that guy wins the blue ribbon.
The only trouble we ever had with Sam, was partolling McDonald's Quarters, the Black ghetto. As soon as you made the turn into that filthy hell-hole, Sam would go nuts, growling, barking, struggling with the seat belt, trying to get out of the car. It was the only time he wasn't just Good Ol' Sam.
We don't think Sam was a bigot. We like to think he was a visionary, before his time, protesting the abhorrent living conditions in the Quarters.
Miss you, buddy.
His favorite game was tug-of-war. We'd get an old pair of uniform trousers out, toss him one leg and a cop would take the other. We never won. English Bulldogs have huge heads, muscular shoulders, and short legs. Once that jaw clamps on something and those legs start churning, forget it.
Except for two small social problems, he was the perfect companion. He was a constant drooler, sometimes requiring a bib. And, he had a gas problem. To be fair, it was probably from all the junk we fed him. But, when he erupted, it would wilt the leaves on a philodendron.
Sometimes Sam would volunteer for patrol duty. His head was a perfect fit for a uniform hat. And you could put a ladies police shirt on him. An unlit cigar butt in his mouth, and he was ready to make the streets of Naples safe.
We'd lean him up in the passenger's seat, just like a human, put on his lap belt, and he'd ride for hours, never moving, except to stare out the side window. Seemed to love it. And he never spit out the cigar butt. It was a sight, prompting many a double take. I've seen some damn ugly cops, but that guy wins the blue ribbon.
The only trouble we ever had with Sam, was partolling McDonald's Quarters, the Black ghetto. As soon as you made the turn into that filthy hell-hole, Sam would go nuts, growling, barking, struggling with the seat belt, trying to get out of the car. It was the only time he wasn't just Good Ol' Sam.
We don't think Sam was a bigot. We like to think he was a visionary, before his time, protesting the abhorrent living conditions in the Quarters.
Miss you, buddy.
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