“Ma’am, please…”

“Hi, ma’am. I’m C with the ambulance service. What’s going on today?”

“My baby need to be checked out.”

“The sleeping child right here in the car seat? We can certainly take care of that for-”

“No! Y’all need to take him to the hospital!

“Alright then, we can certainly do that for you-”


…and later on…

“Ma’am, please don’t feed your child in the back of the ambulance-”

“But he hongry!

“I understand that, but first, he is 2, and second, the hospital won’t want him to eat anything until the doctor sees him.”

“But he hongry! He gotta eat!”

“Yes, ma’am, but – what are you doing?”

“You won’t let him eat, I’m bout to give him some milk!”

“Ma’am, please don’t breastfeed your child in the back of my ambulance.”



Detective Doggy

An “83 year old female with back pain and can’t move.” Great. This sounds serous. At least the dispatcher didn’t say “new onset of immobility.”

That’s the catchphrase lately.

We arrive at the residence, a two-story attached townhouse in a nice area. The door is locked. The fire department meets us at the door, and refuses to allow me to kick in the door.

Something about a “hidden key.”

“But she could be dying in there!”

One day, they are going to let me kick in a door, I can just feel it.

So we find this lady, who, sure enough, is 83 years old. And, what do you know, she says her back hurts. And, if you can believe it, she says she can’t move. Dispatch is 3-for-3 on this one. She is laying in bed, with her dog standing next to her. I notice the dog has stairs to get up and down the bed.

I learn the dog is a Bichon Frise’. His name is Hercule. He looks like a fluffy soccer ball. The patient/lady/owner/doggymommy says she is a big fan of Agatha Christie. She thinks I won’t get the reference.

I do, but just don’t care.

“Ma’am, we are going to put our stretcher next to your bed, then we will lift you and move you.”

“Okay. Is someone going to take my dog?”

“We will put him in your bathroom while we move you over, then we can let him out once we get you in the ambulance.”

“No, he needs to go with me.”

“Ma’am, he can’t go with you.”

“But he has separation anxiety.”

I cannot believe that I am actually hearing this shit. My eyes roll so far in the back of my head, I can see my senior prom. Slimm is dumbfounded. The fire guys are scratching their heads.

“He has separation anxiety?”

“Yes. It’s very bad.” She looks at Mr. Poirot, and kind of whispers to us “He probably needs…medication.

“Ma’am, we can’t take the dog.”

“But you have to.”

“Is he a service dog?”

“A what?”

“A service dog. Is he trained to help you with some sort of disability?”

“No, he’s like my son.”

“He’s not coming to the hospital with us.”

“Then I’m not going either.”

Sigh. “But you said you can’t move.”

“I’ll call my daughter, and she will come take Hercule, and then I will call 911 again.”

Sigh. “Sign here.”


“Hey, C, it is time for your annual training and stuff. These are the days you have to come in for your TB test, mask fitting, and the safety course evaluation. It should take about two hours total”

“Hmm. I work this day, this day, and that day. Can I do it when I get off work?”

“What about this day here and these two days over here?”

“I’m off those days.”

“But can’t you come in?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay, we’ll come back to that in a minute, but I think you are going to have to come in on one of your off days. We assigned you some courses online that you need to complete, too. It should take about three hours.”

“But didn’t IT just disable the Internet on the Toughbooks?”

“Yeah, you’ll have to do it at home.”

“On my off time? How am I going to get paid for that? Do I need to fill out a time exception sheet or something for HR?”

“No, you have to complete it on your own time. We can’t pay you for it.”

“So you are going to require my attendance here on my off day, and require me to do three hours of work, but aren’t going to pay me for either? I’m going to give you 5 hours of my off day, and not get compensated?”


And I’m the only one who sees a problem here?

Rocket science

“I don’t really know what’s going on. They are all speaking some sort of foreign language, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s probably French.”

“Oh, you speak French?”


“Then how do you know they are speaking French?”

“Well, that guy over there is wearing a Koivu jersey, the lady standing next to him has a sweatshirt that says “Montreal” on it, the car has a Haitian flag license plate on the front, and they are black. Five bucks says they are Haitians, and Haitians speak either French or Creole.”

“Uhhhh… Well, we still can’t talk to her. Nobody here speaks French.”

“Excuse me, ma’am? Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”


“Ma’am, do you think you could sign my computer for me?”

“I guess so. What am I signing?”

“The disclaimer is right here on the screen. When you finish reading and accept it, you can hit ‘OK’ and it will take you to the signature screen. This allows us to release your information to the hospital and insurance companies.”

“Oh, so standard stuff?”

“Exactly. Standard stuff. These nurses are going to have you sign the same thing for them.”

“There seems to be a problem, though.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“This isn’t my name. My last name only has one ‘e’ in it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. I added the ‘e’ in there for the pronunciation.”

“But that isn’t how my name is spelled.”

“If I don’t spell it that way, then people will pronounce it wrong.”

“But my last name has an umlaut over the ‘u’.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but my keyboard can’t do umlauts.”

“But that isn’t my name. My name has an umlaut and only one ‘e’. I’m not signing this until you spell my name the right way.”