Did you ever have a puffed up cat stuck to your back?
A few days ago I went out for my morning jog/walk/stagger/crawl (done in that order) with two of my dogs. As I rounded the last corner near our rural home, the dogs decided to take a detour to my neighbor's house and chase some of the many kittens that live and breed in his barn. They found one that was apparently unaware that the sight of all of his cat-buddies heading to the barn like rifle shots, leaving cat-shaped clouds of dust where they used to be standing, was a signal that all was not well. It just stood there. Defiant or dumb, I just don't know...but the cat could fight. Even though this one was doing a respectable job of defending itself, it did have the look on its face of a professional wrestler wanting to reach out and "tag" his partner so he can get the heck out of the ring. I scooped up the cat and held it against my chest as I swatted at the dogs. The kitten showed its appreciation of my valiant rescue by latching onto my T-shirt as if its life depended on it...which was probably an accurate assessment of the situation.
It came to my immediate attention that the needle sharp claws of a frightened kitten are much longer than the thickness of a T-shirt. Quite a bit longer, actually. The kitten frantically navigated its way to my shoulder, around the back of my neck, and finally onto my back directly between my shoulder blades, during which time I was trying to pull it from my body while simultaneously keeping the dogs at bay. I don't know how many steps the cat took to get there, but it felt like about 1,000. I'm sure it was only a few hundred, though. The animal was now firmly attached to my T-shirt...and me...like a strip of industrial strength Velcro.
The dogs were leaping about and trying to get to the cat, which only encouraged the critter to dig in and hold on even tighter. I couldn't reach the cat to extract it from the middle of my back, and it didn't seem to have any intentions of voluntarily leaving its newly found sanctuary while the dogs were watching it like a plate of hors d'oeurves, so I simply had to walk the remaining hundred yards to our gate with a puffed up cat stuck to the middle of my back while my dogs bounced around me like gymnasts on a trampoline. I coaxed the dogs inside the fence, then walked back to my neighbor's house (the cat still clinging tightly with it's claws so deep they felt like they were wrapped around my spinal column) until it relaxed, moved to a spot where I could grab it, and I was able to pry the darn thing off of me.
I'm just glad no one drove by to see that spectacle.
I Fell Into A Storm Sewer Today
I fell into the storm drain today. The whole affair started this morning when I drove to the Post Office and parked at the very end of the parking lot with the curb on the left side of the car. Right there was also a large storm sewer grate that is designed to draw away the run-off water from the parking lot. The surface of the concrete slants down at a considerable angle from about 18 inches out, forming a large funnel-like feature that is supposed to divert water through the large metal grate and into the storm sewer system. The driver's door of my car was adjacent to all of this.
Last night we had some freezing mist and rain which had coated much of our fair town. By the time I went to the Post Office the ice had melted. Well, almost all of it. There was one patch of ice which had escaped the warming rays of the sun by hiding in the shadow of the curb adjacent to the previously mentioned storm drain. About the only way to see this patch of ice was to get down on its level and have a close "face-to-face" with it. Little did I know that within a few seconds I was going to be granted the opportunity to do just that. I stepped out of my car and onto the slanted concrete which was - as I soon found out - slicker than a couple of eels having sex in a bucket of snot. My left leg shot out from under me and the toe of my shoe went between the bars of the grate. Not wanting to be left out of the acrobatics, my other foot followed suit a split second later. In a rapid series of movements that no doubt looked like a Flamenco dancer who had recently consumed a six pack of Red Bull, the rest of my body headed for the storm sewer as I clawed wildly at the air in search of something to grasp.
My frantic attempts to defy gravity were in vain, and I ended up in a pile of arms and legs wedged between my car and the storm sewer grate. Sure enough, once my face was within about 12 inches of the offending patch of ice it was plain to see. It was a bit late, though.
A quick inventory found that all my parts were accounted for and nothing seemed to be in any state of great disrepair, so I decided to get up before anyone saw me lying in the gutter. This endeavor proved to be easier said than done. Not only was the toe of my shoe still anchored in the grate and preventing me from adjusting my position, there was very little for me to grab onto. Several times I got to my knees, but I was still off balance and down I went. Luckily the car door was still open and I could reach the seatbelt strap. I grabbed it and wrapped it around my hand once and was able to finally get up.
As many of you know, I've been carefully crafting and cultivating my "tough biker" image for many years. Falling into a storm sewer in public view pretty much wiped all *that* out.
Smart-phones, Clint Eastwood, and my dog.
Last week I became involved in a conversation about fancy cell phones, or “smart phones” as they are called. I do not have a fancy cell phone. Nor do I have a smart phone. In fact, my phone is quite dumb. It rings at the most inopportune times. If I had a phone that was smarter perhaps it wouldn’t ring when I’m busy, like when I’m sitting on the…well…you know.
Anyway, one of my friends has a fancy smart phone. It is a Blackberry. Another friend of mine couldn’t afford a Blackberry, so he bought a Dingleberry. What a piece of crap THAT was! Actually, dingleberries aren’t phones at all. A dingleberry is defined by Webster as: “A particle of fecal matter attached to the anal hair.” They are often found on a dog’s butt…generally a dog with long hair. You would think that a dog, which has the agility to easily access most any part of its body, would use what it considers to be personal hygiene to remove a dingleberry, but I suppose that even dogs have limits to what they will touch with their mouth.
One day a few years ago, one of my Beagles was scooting around on her bottom and acting very skittish. This was out of character for her, as she was normally a very easy going and calm animal. She did have serious eyes, though. Her eyes were the dog version of Clint Eastwood’s eyes when he would glare at someone with his mean looking squint. Clint Eastwood’s squint is legendary. His most famous squint is the one he used in the movie “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” when he gave his mean squint to the other cowboys during a stand-off. During the stand-off scene there was “the music.” The classic theme song for the movie. “Oooweeoooweeooooo. Wah WAH waaaaah.”
Then he shot them all. It was a wonderful squint, indeed.
But we are not talking about Clint Eastwood’s squint here. We are talking about dingleberries. My Beagle did not have long hair, so the possibility of her having a dingleberry was remote. Still, something was bothering her. I approached her as she was gyrating on the lawn and noted something protruding from her butt, and it did not appear to be the normal substance associated with that part of her anatomy. I got a paper towel and then fought her to the ground. Using the paper towel, I grabbed the mystery material.
About that same time, she squirmed from my grip with a move that would have been the envy of an Olympic wrestler and ran about 10 feet and stopped. Simultaneously the object in question was pulled from her anatomy. In my hand I now held a soiled and rather worse for wear dishcloth. I've known dogs to consume some pretty odd things...but a dishcloth? Anyway, it was a terribly embarrassing moment for my dog.
As I examined the dishcloth at arm’s length, a sudden foreboding feeling came over me. Someone…some thing…was watching me. I slowly turned around and there she was. My Beagle. She was standing in the yard – squinting at me like Clint Eastwood.
“Oooweeoooweeooooo. Wah WAH waaaaah.”
My dog loves horseshit.
Otherwise she’s a wonderful dog…nearly perfect in every way. A pure yellow lab, Sadie fetches a tennis ball with enthusiasm, obeys basic commands like “sit, stay, and come.” She doesn’t bark at night, avoids digging in my yard, doesn’t chew much now that she’s 2 years old, and is eternally cheerful. But she has a “thing” for horseshit.
About a quarter mile down the road from our home in the country we have some neighbors who raise a half dozen horses. When we let the dog out of our gated property for a run she blasts out of the gate like a Patriot missile targeting an enemy rocket, and homes in on the horse pen. In seconds she skids to a stop amid a cloud of dust and gravel and crawls under the fencing in order to browse the buffet that the horses were so kind to stock with exotic varieties. Ya got yer green balls of horseshit – with pieces of undigested straw sticking out of them. Then ya got yer brown mushy piles of horseshit that look like a Frenchman’s beret, when in actuality they are no more than well-used oats. There might be more options from which to choose, but I tend to keep my distance from Sadie’s culinary preferences.
It doesn’t take her long to select her favorites for the day, and is soon chowing down like Rosie O’Donnell at a Hostess Twinkie eating contest. Sadie eventually gets her fill, but even being completely satiated doesn’t stop her from continuing her excursion in to equine excrement. If she can’t eat any more, she apparently feels obligated to roll around in it. Occasionally she’ll stop to check to see if she has missed a spot, then dives back in. She is…if nothing else…finicky about developing an even layer of horseshit. I guess there is something to be said for a dog that strives for completeness and has an eye for detail.
OK. She’s an outdoor dog. We don’t bathe her. That’s what rain is for. It has been raining all day today, so I assumed that Sadie would be relatively free from the filth that she so carefully accumulated yesterday. I went into my shop to work on my Harley, and Sadie followed me in.
Did I mention that Sadie is a loving dog that always feels the need to be rubbing up against me or poking her nose in my crotch? I was sitting on my work stool putting the air cleaner back on my bike, and Sadie tried to practically crawl into my lap. The aroma of a wet dog combined with day old horseshit was overwhelming. Sadie mistook my frantic attempts at pushing her away as a signal to play and doubled her efforts. Eventually I was able to coax her outside and then stagger back into my shop, gasping for oxygen.
I'm not going to say the stench was terrible, but later that evening some people dressed in space suits came to my door. They said they were with the Department of Homeland Security and wanted to talk to me about my dog. Actually, the stench was so bad that Sadam Hussein would have considered it too cruel to be used as a chemical weapon. Chuck Norris would have trouble operating in an environment that smelled like that.
Like the old joke goes:
“My dog has no nose!”
"How does it smell?”
(I didn't write the following story. I stole it many years ago. I don't remember the source. Sorry...)
Why Cops Hate You
(If You Have To Ask, Get Out Of The Way)
Have you ever been stopped by a traffic cop and, while he was writing a ticket or giving you a warning, you got the feeling he would just love to yank you out of the car, right through the window, and smash your face into the front fender? Have you ever had a noisy little spat with someone, and a cop cruising by calls, “Everything all right over there?” Did you maybe sense that he really hoped everything was not all right, that he wanted one of you to answer, “No, officer, this idiot’s bothering me?” That all he was looking for was an excuse to launch himself from the cruiser and play a drum solo on your skull with his nightstick?
Did you ever call the cops to report a crime maybe someone stole something from your car or broke into your home and the cops act as if it were your fault? That they were sorry the crook didn’t rip you off for more? That instead of looking for the culprit, they’d rather give you a shot in the chops for bothering them with this BS in the first place? If you’ve picked up on this attitude from your local sworn protectors, it’s not just paranoia. They actually don’t like you. In fact, cops don’t just dislike you - they hate your guts! Incidentally, for a number of very good reasons.
First of all, civilians are so unbelievably stupid. They leave things lying around, just begging thieves to steal them. They park cars in high crime areas and leave laptop computers, cameras, wallets, purses, coats, luggage, grocery bags and briefcases in plain view on the seat. Oh, sure, maybe they’ll remember to close all the windows and lock the doors, but do you know how easy it is to bust a car window? How fast can it be done? A ten year old can do it in less than six seconds! And a poor cop has another Larceny from Auto on his hands. Another crime to write a report on, waste another half hour on. Another crime to make him look bad.
Meanwhile the nincompoop who left the family heirlooms on the backseat in the first place is raising hell about “where were the cops” when the car was being looted. He’s planning to write irate letters to the mayor and the police commissioner complaining about what a lousy police force you have here; “they can’t even keep my car from getting ripped off! What were they drinking coffee somewhere?” And the cops are saying to themselves. “Lemme tell ya, numb-nuts, we were seven blocks away, taking another stupid report from another brain-dead civilian about his lousy car being broken into because he left his crap on the back seat, too!
These civilians can’t figure out that maybe they shouldn’t leave stuff lying around un-attended where anybody can just pick it up and boogie. Maybe they should put the stuff in the trunk, where no one but Superman is gonna see it. Maybe they should do that before they get to wherever they’re going just in case some riffraff is hanging around watching them while the car is being secured.
Another thing that drives cops wild is the “surely this doesn’t apply to me” syndrome, which never fails to reveal itself at scenes of sniper or barricade incidents. There’s always some idiot walking down the street (or jogging or driving) who thinks the police cars blocking off the area, the ropes marked Police Line: Do Not Cross, the cops crouched behind cars pointing pistols, AR-15s, shotguns and bazookas at some building has nothing whatsoever to do with him so he weasels around the barricades or slithers under the restraining ropes and blithely continues on his way, right into the field of fire.
The result is that some cop risks his butt to go after the cretin and drag him, usually under protest, back to safety. All of these cops, including the one who risking his butt, devoutly hope that the sniper will get off one miraculous shot and drill the idiot right between the horns, which would have two immediate effects. The quiche-for-brains civilian would be dispatched to his just reward and every cop on the scene would instantaneously be licensed to kill the scumbag doing the sniping. Whereupon the cops would destroy the whole freakin’ building, sniper and all, in about 30 seconds, which is what they wanted to do in the first place, except the brass wouldn’t let them because the bad guy had not killed anybody yet.
An allied phenomenon is the “my isn’t this amusing behavior” exhibited, usually by Yuppies or other members of high society, at some emergency scenes. For example, a group of trendy types will be strolling down the street when a squad car with its lights flashing and siren on screeches up to a building. They’ll watch the cops yank out their guns and run up to the door, flatten themselves against a wall, and peep into the place cautiously. Now, if you think about it, something serious could be happening here. Cops usually don’t pull their weapons to get a cup of coffee. Any five-year-old ghetto kid can tell you these cops are ready to cap somebody. But do our society friends perceive this? Do they stay out of the cops’ way? Of course not! They think it’s vastly amusing. And, of course, since they’re not involved in the funny little game the cops are playing, they think nothing can happen to them!
While the ghetto kid is hiding behind a car waiting for the shooting to start, Muffy, Chip and Biffy are continuing their stroll, right up to the officers, tittering among themselves about how silly the cops look, all scrunched up against the wall, trying to look in through the door without stopping bullets with their foreheads. What the cops are hoping at that point is for a homicidal holdup man to come busting out the door with a sawed off shotgun. They’re hoping he has it loaded with elephant shot, and that he immediately identifies our socialites as serious threats to his personal well-being. They’re hoping he has just enough ammunition to blast the innards out of the gigglers, but not enough to return fire when the cops open up on him.
Of course if that actually happens, the poor cops will be in a world of trouble for not protecting the innocent bystanders. The brass wouldn’t even want to hear that the numbskulls probably didn’t have enough sense to come in out of acid rain. Somebody ought to tell all the quiche eaters out there to stand back when they encounter someone with a gun in his hand, whether he happens to be wearing a badge or a ski mask.
Civilians also aggravate cops in a number of other ways. One of their favorite games is “Officer, can you tell me…?” A cop knows he’s been selected to play this game whenever someone approaches and utters those magic words. Now, it’s okay if they continue with how to get to so and so street? Or where such and such a place is located? After all, cops are supposed to be familiar with the area he works. But it eats the lining of their stomachs when some bozo asks, “Where can I catch the number fifty-four bus?” Or, “where can I find an ATM?” Cops look forward to their last day before retirement, when they can safely give these douche bags the answer they’ve been choking back for 20 years: “No, maggot, I can’t tell you where the fifty-four bus runs! What does this look like an MTA uniform? Go ask a bus driver!” And, “No dog breath, I don’t know where you can find an ATM, except wherever your own two eyes see one! Take your head out of your butt and look for one.”
And cops just love to find a guy parking his car in a crosswalk next to a fire hydrant at a bus stop posted with a sign saying, “Don’t Even Think About Stopping, Standing, or Parking Here. Cars Towed Away, Forfeited to the Government, and Sold at Public Auction” And the jerk asks, “Officer, may I park here a minute?” The cop comes back with, “Why, of course ya can park here! As long as ya like! Leave it there all day! Ya don’t see anything that says ya can’t do ya? You’re welcome. See ya later.” The cop then drives around the corner and calls for a tow truck to remove the vehicle. Later, in traffic court, the idiot will be whining to the judge “But Your Honor, I asked the officer if I could park there, and he said I could! No, I don’t know which officer, but I did ask! Honest! No, wait, Judge, I can’t afford five hundred dollars! This isn’t fair! I’m not creating a disturbance! I’ve got rights! Get your hands off me! Where are you taking me? What do you mean, ten days for contempt of court? What did I do? Wait, wait,.....” If you should happen to see a cop humming contentedly and smiling to himself for no apparent reason, he may have won this game.
Wildly unrealistic civilian expectations also contribute to a cop’s distaste for the general citizenry. An officer can be running his ass off all day or night handling call after call and writing volumes of police reports, but everybody thinks their problem is the only thing he has to work on. The policeman may have a few worries, too. Ever think of that? The sergeant is on him because he’s been late for roll call a few days; he’s been battling like a badger with his wife, who’s just about to leave him because he never takes her anywhere and doesn’t spend enough time at home and the kids need braces and the station wagon needs a major engine overhaul and where are we gonna get the money to pay for all that and we haven’t had a real vacation for years and all you do is hang around with other cops and you’ve been drinking too much lately and I could’ve married that wonderful guy I was going with when I met you and lived happily ever after and why don’t you get a regular job with regular days off and no night shifts and decent pay and a chance for advancement and no one throwing bottles or taking wild potshots at you? Meanwhile, that sweet young thing he met on a call last month keeps calling him at home. Internal Affairs is investigating him on screwing up a disorderly last week; the captain is pissed at him for tagging a councilman’s car; a burglar’s tearing up the businesses on his post; and he’s already handled two robberies, three family fights, a stolen car, and half a dozen juvenile complaints today.
Now here he is, on another juvenile call, trying to explain to some bimbo, who’s the president of her neighborhood improvement association, that the security of Western Civilization is not really threatened all that much by the kids who hang on the corner by her house. “Yes, officer, I know they’re not there now. They always leave when you come by. But after you’re gone, they come right back, don’t you see, and continue their disturbance. It’s intolerable! I’m so upset, I can barely sleep at night.”
By now, the cop’s eyes have glazed over. “What we need here, officer,” she continues vehemently, “is greater attention to this matter by the police. You and some other officers should hide and stake out that corner so those renegades wouldn’t see you. Then you could catch them in the act!” He replies, “Yes, ma’am, we’d love to stake out that corner a few hours every night, since we don’t have anything else to do, but I’ve got a better idea,” he’d like to say. “Here’s a box of fragmentation grenades the Department obtained from the Army just for situations like this. The next time you see those little ne’er-do-wells out there, just lob a couple of these into the crowd and get down!”
Or he’s got an artsy-crafty type who’s moved into a tough, rundown neighborhood and decides it’s gotta be cleaned up. Ya know, Urban Pioneers. The cops see a lot of them now. Most of them are intelligent(?), talented, hard-working, well paid folks with masochistic chromosomes interspersed among their other wise normal genes. They have nice jobs, live in nice homes, and they somehow decided that it would be a marvelous idea to move into a slum and get yoked, roped, looted, and pillaged on a regular basis. What else do you expect? Peace and harmony? It’s like tossing a juicy little pig into a piranha tank.
Moving day: Here come the pioneers, dropping all their groovy gear from their SUV, setting it on the sidewalk so everyone can get a good look at the food processor, the microwave, the stereo system, the flat screen TV, the DVD player, etc. At the same time, the local burglars are appraising the goods unofficially and calculating how much they can get for the TV down at the corner bar, how much the stereo will bring at Joe’s garage, who might want the DVD player at the barber shop, and maybe mama can use the microwave herself. When the pioneers get ripped off, the cops figure they asked for it, and they got it. You want to poke your arm through the bars of a tiger cage? Screw you! Don’t be amazed when he eats it for lunch! The cops regard it as naive for trendies to move into crime zones and conduct their lives the same way they did up on Society Hill. In fact, they can’t fathom why anyone who didn’t have to would move there at all, regardless of how they want to live or how prepared they might be to adapt their behavior. That’s probably because the cops are intimately acquainted with all those petty but disturbing crimes and nasty little incidents that never make the newspapers but profoundly affect the quality of life in a particular area.
Something else that causes premature aging among cops is the “I don’t know who to call, so I’ll call the police” ploy. Why, the cops ask themselves, do they get so many calls for things like water leaks, sick cases, bats in houses, and things that have nothing whatsoever to do with law enforcement or the maintenance of public order? They figure it’s because civilians are getting more and more accustomed to having the government solve problems for them, and the local P.D. is the only governmental agency that even answer the phone at 3:00 AM, let alone send anybody. So, when the call comes over the radio to go to such-and-such address for a water leak, the assigned officer rolls his eyes, acknowledges, responds, surveys the problem, and tells the complainant, “Yep, that’s a water leak all right! No doubt about it. Ya probably ought to call a plumber! And it might not be a bad idea to turn off your main valve for a while.” Or, “Yep, your Aunt Minnie’s sick all right! Ya probably ought to get ‘er to a doctor tomorrow if she doesn’t get any better by then.” Or, “Yep, that’s a bat all right! Mebbe ya ought to open the windows so it can fly outside again!” In the meantime, while our hero is wasting his time on this BS call, maybe someone is having a real problem out there, like getting raped, robbed or killed.
Street cops would like to work the phones just once and catch a few of these idiotic complaints: “A bat in your house? No need to send an officer when I can tell ya what to do right here over the phone, pal! Close all your doors and windows right away. Pour gasoline all over your furniture. That’s it. Now set it on fire and get everybody outside! Yeah, you’ll get the little booger for sure! That’s okay, call us anytime.”
Probably the most serious beef cops have with civilians relates to those situations in which the use of deadly force becomes necessary to deal with some desperado who might have just robbed a bank, iced somebody, beat up his kids, or wounded some cop, and now he’s caught but won’t give up. He’s not going to be taken alive, he’s going to take some cops with him, and “you better say your prayers, you pig bastards!” Naturally, if the chump’s armed with any kind of weapon, the cops are going to shoot the dickens out of him so bad they’ll be able to open up his body later as a lead mine. If he’s not armed, they’ll beat him into raw meat and hope he spends the next few weeks in traction. They view it as a learning experience for the jerk. You screw somebody up, you find out how it feels like to get screwed up. Don’t like it? Don’t do it again! It’s called Street Justice, and civilians approve of it as much as cops do even if they don’t admit it.
Remember how the audience cheered when Charles Bronson wiped out the bad guys in Death Wish? How they scream with joy every time Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry makes his day by blowing up some rotten scumball with his .44 magnum? What they applaud is the administration of street justice. The old eye for an eye concept, one of mankind’s most primal instincts. All of us have it, especially cops.
It severely offends and deeply hurts cops when they administer a dose of good old fashioned street justice only to have some bleeding heart do-gooder happen upon the scene at the last minute, when the hairbag is at last getting his just desserts, and start hollering about police brutality. Cops regard this as very serious business indeed. Brutality can get them fired. Get fired from one police department and it’s tough to get a job as a cop anywhere else ever again. Brutality exposes the cop to civil liability as well. It also puts his superior officers, the police department as an agency, and maybe even the local government itself in jeopardy. You’ve seen those segments on 60 Minutes, right? Some cops screw up, gets sued along with everybody else in the department who had anything to do with him, and the city or county ends up paying the plaintiff umpty-ump million dollars, raising taxes and hocking its fire engines in the process. What do you think happens to the cop who screwed up in the first place? He’s done for.
On many occasions when the cops are accused of excessive force, the apparent brutality is a misconception by some observer who isn’t acquainted with the realities of police work. For example, do you know how hard it is to handcuff someone who really doesn’t want to be handcuffed? Without hurting them? It’s almost impossible for one cop to accomplish by himself unless he beats the hell out of a prisoner first which would also be viewed a brutality! It frequently takes three or four cops to handcuff one SOB who’s determined to battle them. In situations like that, it’s not unusual for the cops to hear someone in the crowd of onlookers comment on how they’re ganging up on the poor bastard and beating him unnecessarily. This makes them feel like telling the complainer, “Hey, you think you can handcuff this scumbag by yourself without killing him first? C’mere! You’re deputized! Now go ahead and do it!”
The problem is that, in addition to being unfamiliar with how difficult it is in the real world to physically control someone without beating his ass, last minute observers usually don’t have the opportunity to see for themselves, like they do in the movies and on TV, what a monster the suspect might be. If they did, they’d probably holler at the cops to beat his ass some more. They might actually want to help!
The best thing for civilians to do if they think they see the cops rough up somebody too much is to keep their mouths shut at the scene, and to make inquiries of the police brass later on. There might be ample justification for the degree of force used that just was apparent at the time of arrest. If not, the brass will be very interested in the complaint. If one of their cops went over the deep end, they’ll want to know about it. Most of this comes down to common sense, a characteristic the cops feel most civilians lack. One of the elements of common sense is thinking before opening one’s yap or taking other action. Just a brief moment of thought will often prevent the utterance of something stupid or the commission of some idiotic act that will, among other things, generate nothing but contempt from the average street cop. THINK and it might mean getting a warning instead of a traffic ticket. Or getting sent on your way rather than be arrested. Or continuing on to your original destination instead of to the hospital. It might mean getting real assistance instead of the run-around. The very least it’ll get you is a measure of respect cops seldom show civilians. Act like you’ve got a little sense, and even if the cops don’t love you, they at least won’t hate you.