I might get in trouble for posting some of these pics. OH WELL.
I get a lot of questions about Mike’s job. His schedule. His duties. Things like that. When I tell people, their reaction is usually either awe, curiosity, or pity. Sometimes a combination of the three. They say, “wow, you must worry constantly.”
I worry. A lot.
When we first started dating, he worked “the road.” His shifts were ridiculous and it was virtually impossible to date him. When I’d drive up on the weekends, he’d be sleeping for the majority of our visit, and I’d be left alone during the day to occupy myself in a strange city and strange house. Plus I never got to play with his sirens and I found that to be incredibly stupid. What’s the point of dating a cop if you can’t push the buttons? He still won’t let me play with the sirens.
Eventually he made the transition to Special Ops and started working with the Bloodhounds. Not only was it a promotion for him, it provided me with certain perks.
After we got married, he was able to bring home Ginger. Our yard and home were turned into her personal Bloodhound Retirement Community. It was special because Ginger was the first dog Mike tracked with, and Mike was the last human Ginger knew.
After Ginger came another milestone. Cooper the bomb dog.
So not only did he track criminals & lost children/elderly people, he answered SWAT and Bomb calls.
So what is it like? Every day when he leaves for work, it’s like a 12 hour mini-deployment. What will the day hold? Will this be the day things go wrong? I am sometimes woken up at 2 AM by the most annoying ring tone known to man, and while I roll over and plug my ears, Mike gets up, gets dressed, and puts bad guys in jail. Sometimes things happen that he tells me about. It makes me sad to know he sees the worst in people on a daily basis. He’s seen things that would scar me for life.
It would be easy for him to quit. To find something less heart-hardening and more rainbows/butterflies/cupcakes frosted with dreams and sequins. A job that didn’t require seemingly endless periods of being “on call.” A job that paid him adequately for the work he does. A job that didn’t require him to cancel plans on a dime or squeal out of the driveway at 4 in the morning to chase a belligerent, worthless, waste of humanity through the woods.
Yes. That’s the worst part about the job. Knowing the sacrifices he and his co-workers make for our home. And 99% percent of the population would rather laugh at their missteps than applaud them for their successes.