Having been mule deer hunting every year since I was twelve, I figured squirrel hunting might be some fun and an adventure, albeit with smaller game, squirrels instead of mule deer, Fiji woods instead of the awesome Espy Ranch, and .22s instead of 30-30s.
I was right, but for the wrong reasons. It was surely an adventure but ended up being a brush with death, not for the squirrel, but for me. Here’s the story.

At the Fiji Lake Club, Dave Gardner and I loaded our .22s and went into the woods, slowly walking in tandem, well apart, looking up in the trees for squirrels. We had not gone far when I felt something hit me above my left ankle, surely more than an insect bite.
I had stepped on a snake!

There he was, red and slithering, definitely a poisonous treacherous copperhead that unlike the rattlesnake, gives no warning before it strikes.

I shouted to Dave to come quickly, and then put a shell in the chamber and killed the snake.

Dave Gardner was probably more scared than I was. I had never been even a tenderfoot in Boy Scouts, but I knew how to make a tourniquet, which we did with a long sleeve and a stout stick. Then Dave took out his pocket knife, fortunately sharp, and with trembling hand cut an X where the copperhead had struck me, just above my right ankle bone. After that he sucked a lot of blood and spit it out, which was the accepted treatment for poisonous snake bites at the time.

I had no feeling in my lower right leg because of the tourniquet. Dave helped me hobble back to the car and we headed for Seton Hospital, Dave speeding while I held the stick to keep the tourniquet tight.

The doctor on duty at Seton Hospital was manifestly untrained. He wanted to be helpful, yet he came across not at all sure of himself, like trying to throw darts at a target in a dark room. He sent for a large dose of antivenin and mentioned after reading the directions that it might, just might cause an allergic reaction in some people, perhaps one in a hundred, if that person was allergic to horse serum. He gave me a shot of whatever the serum and kept me overnight, intending to send me “home” to Brackenridge Dormitory at the University. I was feeling fair.

But three nights later the horse serum that was the carrier for the antivenin hit me like a ton of bricks. I had drawn the black bean. I was that “one in a hundred” allergic to horse serum!

My lips, my eyelids, ear lobes, and other soft body parts were swollen. My back was covered with welts ─ hives, as some people call them. Joe ran downstairs to the pay phone to contact the doctor who told him to call an ambulance and get me to Seton Hospital.

What happened next one might call “gallows humor.” At the time it sure wasn’t funny to me. I felt as though I was about to die; and, I was.

In the late 1950s it was permissible for undertakers to operate both an ambulance business and a funeral parlor together, which today would be too big a conflict of interest. When Joe called Cook Funeral Home, he learned its ambulance was out on another call. The only person on duty at that hour was an embalmer with but one vehicle available, a long black funeral hearse used to transport corpses. Apparently the embalmer (we’ll call him Malcolm) decided it was expedient to come after me in the hearse, so as not to miss any business.

I responded to the rap on the door, “Who is it?”

“I’m Malcolm Passmore with the Cook Funeral Home, and I’ve come for David Smith,” he said in cascading funereal tones.

Adrenalin kicked in. I raised myself and said, “Look, mister, I’m pretty sick, but don’t you touch me. And if you think I’m gonna be one of your customers, you’re plumb crazy.”
Joe returned to our dorm room in time to help me down to the hearse. I insisted on sitting upright in the front seat and off we went to Seton Hospital, me angry, sullen and feeling horrible but intently watching the undertaker drive the hearse. We checked in at the hospital and were directed to an elevator, since it seemed that I could walk, but weakness overtook me and I ended up sitting on the floor. That’s when I asked myself and, most importantly, God, “Has my time come?”

By the grace of God, I gradually got better, and in two or three more days felt nearly well, for which I was profoundly grateful.

Around the Phi Gam house I got a new nickname, “Snake.” Fortunately it didn’t stick for long.

Then a few weeks later, during a fraternity retreat at Mo Ranch, some of the boys played a trick on me relative to my snakebite experience. They found a small harmless garter snake and put it on my chest one afternoon while I was napping. (I’m good at naps, a skill inherited from my grandfather, David Smith.)

The boys’ laughter woke me up. Startled, indeed terrified by the garter snake, I jumped up and drop kicked the steel cot next to mine, bruising my shin while the other boys roared with laughter. They sure got more than just a rise out of me. I had had one encounter with a snake and I didn’t want another one. As the old saying goes, “Bit once, cautious twice.” Who was it that said, “All’s well that ends well?” I guess it was Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Well, maybe a good joke once in a while, even at your own expense is okay.

But I’m sure glad that when I stepped on the copper-head that bit me, it was not the end that might have ended my earthly life those many years ago at The University of Texas, at Austin.

(For more by David Smith’s “Texas Spirit,” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)

His job took him to England every month or so and he loved these “business” trips. Through his business connections, Morton became acquainted with several people who ranked fairly high on Britain’s social ladder. One of these, Lord Smythe, began to invite him to his gentlemen’s club for evenings of dinner and spirited conversations with his circle of friends. Englishmen have long taken special pride in their club associations. Apparently Lord Smythe’s London club was one of the more socially prominent ones. It was during these rather frequent visits that Morton struck up a friendship with Lord Bottomley, one of the other club members.

One evening in late winter, Morton was enjoying Lord Smythe’s hospitality at his club when he realized that he’d not seen Lord Bottomley. He remarked to his host, “I haven’t seen Lord Bottomley this evening. I do hope he’s not ill.”

A somber look came over Lord Symthe’s face as he replied, “No, no, he’s not ill. You see, he’s no longer with us.”

Thinking the worst, Morton asked, “Did he die suddenly? I wish someone had notified me.”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” responded Lord Smythe as he looked down at the floor, “You see, he was drummed out of the club.”

“Drummed out of the club!”

“Yes. It was a terrible situation. The membership voted and Lord Bottomley had to come forward as the drum sounded its ominous cadence. He was stripped of his club tie, scarf, and watch fob and had to walk between a double row of the members out the rear door never to return. Bloody embarrassing, but ol’ Bottomley kept a stiff upper lip through it all. I’ll have to give him credit for that.”

“But why,” Morton blurted out, “what could he have done to deserve such treatment?”

As soon as the questions came out, Morton realized their impropriety. This was a private matter. But because of their relationship, Lord Smythe felt obligated to offer some explanation. “Well, you see, Lord Bottomley was having an affair.”

“An affair? Was that so bad for this day and time? Haven’t you had other members who’ve had affairs?”

“Well, yes, we have. But you see, old chap, there’s just a bit more to it than that. He was having an affair with Lady Ashley, the wife of one of our other club members.”

“And for having an affair with another club member’s wife, he was drummed out of the club?”

“Well…yes. That and some other things. Lord Bottomley got inebriated at our Christmas party.”

“So the drumming out was for having an affair with another club member’s wife and getting drunk at the Christmas party?”

“Yes. But there was just a little more to it than that. Not only did Lord Bottomley get inebriated he also went outside and urinated in the snow.”

“And that was it? The affair with Lady Ashley, getting drunk, and urinating in the snow?”
“Well, yes. But you see, old chap, there was just a bit more to it that. As he urinated, he wrote his name in the snow.”

“Now, am I to understand that Lord Bottomley was drummed out of the club for having an affair with another member’s wife, getting drunk at the Christmas party, and writing his name in the snow as he urinated.”

“Well, yes. But you see there was something else as well. Lord Bottomley’s name was written in Lady Ashley’s hand writing.”

(For more by Luke Boyd and “Coon Dogs and Outhouses v1,” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)

Because of the large concentration of citizens in a city’s central business district, bicycle patrol squads have the opportunity to interact with a wide range of people, personalities, and problems. Their visibility and lack of a barrier, the squad car, makes them approachable and uniquely noticeable. Outside of police duties, the job is largely public relations oriented. As a recovering tree-hugger and social butterfly, an assignment riding a bicycle in downtown Dallas was my dream job, allowing me to spend duty hours outside while connecting with people from varying walks of life: business owners and the homeless share the streets of Dallas during the day. Experiencing the myriad sights and sounds, problems and concerns of the central business district (CBD) made that assignment my most rewarding to date.

I worked that duty for approximately seven years. During that time, I provided services that citizens typically expect of their police force: responding to 911 calls, providing directions, and answering crime related questions. Burglaries, robberies, and assaults were not uncommon in the CBD, and there were some fun times riding code three through urban areas. Dallas’ downtown population grew by twenty-two thousand or more on weekdays, and the availability of other peoples’ property was too good for some people to pass up. Although many of the calls I responded to were property-crime related, the most common call in downtown Dallas was a Signal 8, intoxicated person.

The homeless population in Dallas, with little else to focus on, tends to drink to fill their time. Dallas is split into wet and dry areas. Downtown Dallas is wet. As such, the homeless, with nowhere else to go, congregate around liquor stores. They panhandle for money, and when the cost of a forty ounce beer is reached, they immediately spend it on the elixir they hope will cure their ills. Whether the drinking itself is the problem or people drinking is an answer to their own problem is not always clear. However, what is clear is that when these individuals pass out among the business class in downtown, police officers are called to resolve the problem.

One of the intoxicated individuals I consistently dealt with downtown was a man named Donald Dunbar. Sober or drunk, he was a pleasant person who was always willing to share a smile and a story. Mr. Dunbar had been struck by a bus several years prior, leaving him partially paralyzed. His inability to walk limited his chances at stable and rewarding work. Without the ability to support himself, Mr. Dunbar began using alcohol to alleviate the woes he suffered daily. Jobless, he eked out a living on Social Security funds. Of course, his idea of living was to drink, and the best place to do that, apparently, was downtown Dallas.

Each month, when Mr. Dunbar’s Social Security stipend arrived, I knew I would find him drinking, drunk, or passed out in the area around the municipal court at Harwood and Main Streets. There is an approximately three-foot high marble ledge around the building on that corner. Directly cattycorner to that ledge is a small store whose profits are made primarily from the sale of alcohol. It is a convenient corner for Donald, who struggles on crutches to the liquor store to get his bottle and then returns to the marble, tree-sheltered ledge to tie one on. Save for the accumulated empty bottles, the ledge is a pleasant place to pass the day people-watching. On one Signal 8 call, I met Mr. Dunbar on this corner and left him with no doubt about the lengths to which Dallas police officers were willing to go in support of the city’s inhabitants.

On this particular day, I discovered Mr. Dunbar unconscious on his favorite corner. While awaiting the paddy wagon for transport to a detoxification facility, I began frisking him to ensure he was not carrying any contraband or weapons. For much of the search, he remained unconscious, lying on his back on the sidewalk. He was dead weight as I rolled him left and right in an effort to empty his pants and jacket pockets. During a search of his right front pants pocket, I found a pill bottle containing his anti-seizure medication. It was a typical prescription bottle—amber in color, about three inches in length and one inch in diameter.

Having become familiar with Donald, and thus his medical history, I was not distressed to find medication on his person, and I continued my search. After extracting that bottle, I moved on to his left pocket. Because David’s jeans were so dirty and tight, I was able to ascertain he had property in this pocket as well. In typical anti-Terry Frisk fashion I manipulated the property in an effort to establish its identity and to maneuver it to the top of his pocket for easier removal. Donald was under arrest for public intoxication and, according to policy, I was searching and removing his belongings so that the book-in process at our detox facility could be streamlined.

In his left pocket, I felt what I believed to be another pill bottle. The size and shape of the object was similar to the first bottle, and I figured Donald had traveled downtown with his full medicine cabinet in tow. I started working on moving the bottle toward the top of his jeans. The task proved more difficult than I anticipated, and I became frustrated at my inability to remove a simple piece of property. Manipulating the bottle through his clothing, I was able to get my hand below the bottle and push it toward the top of his pocket. My goal was to force the property to expose itself at the lip of his pocket so I could remove it without placing my entire hand inside.

As I said, his jeans were old, dirty and tight, causing me to work on that damn pill bottle for a good four minutes. Up and down, up and down, trying to get the cursed thing out of his pocket and into my property envelope before the paddy wagon arrived to carry him away. Drunk, homeless people do not smell particularly pleasant in the heat of a Texas summer, particularly after they have urinated on themselves. Becoming increasingly frustrated at my lack of success in removing the bottle, I cursed at Donald under my breath. “Damn it, Donald! Come on! We have to stop meeting like this. I am hot and need you to come on!”
The entire time I was muttering at Donald to come on, I was working on that damn pocket with the pill bottle . . . up and down, up and down. I tried to remove the bottle without success. Again cursing under my breath, I looked at Donald’s face. To my surprise, he had awakened from his unconscious state and was staring at me with a huge, lopsided smile. His eyes occasionally rolled in his head, but he refocused on me and smiled even wider. I smiled back, oblivious to what had caused his sudden bout of consciousness and pleasure.

I fleetingly wondered what it felt like to be homeless, with few options, and having constant contact with the police. I did not know if I could keep a positive attitude under the same circumstances, but I was glad that Donald had found a spot that allowed him to be happy in such troublesome conditions. Continuing to work on that pocket, I looked at his face again and found him still smiling. Being a good officer, and using deductive reasoning, I soon discovered the reason for this radical change in his demeanor. I was shocked!

Having had no luck moving the pill bottle from his pants I eventually forced my hand into his jeans to remove it. To my surprise there was nothing in the pocket. What quickly became evident was that Mr. Dunbar was in a turgid state! To my dismay, the pill bottle was actually a piece of David’s anatomy, and my repeated attempts to remove it from his pants caused it to grow.

I yelped, I think, and immediately yanked my hand from his pocket as I recalled using the word come several times in my mini-tirade. Glancing around, I searched the area for witnesses and cameras. With hands balled in fists at my side and my face flushing, I fully realized what I had just done. In full police uniform, in the middle of a busy downtown street, I had just given a hand job to a passed out homeless person—I freaked! Donald continued to smile.

I still wait for the images of that day, captured on a hidden camera of some nearby business, to show up somewhere, perhaps at my retirement party or during a news story exposing the exploits of the force. Maybe even in an envelope sent to my grandmother. I lived in fear for a year after that arrest. My anxiety over being discovered has waned over time, even though the images of Donald’s blissful face have not. I doubt Mr. Dunbar remembers that day, but I have no doubt he speaks highly of female bicycle patrol officers and the extreme lengths they are willing to fulfill the city’s mission statement. That statement asserts that the police department will “Increase citizen satisfaction” and “Provide assistance at every opportunity.” In his mind, I am sure Donald believes there is no limit to what the city of Dallas will do to foster community-police relations.

(For more stories by John Wills and “Women Warriors: Stories From the Thin Blue Line,” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)