The firearm instructors sped down the high-way toward the range. Then they saw it.
"There's a cow stuck underneath that fence," Corporal said.
"It's dead. Do you want to stop for a dead cow?" his partner, Detective asked.
"It's not dead. It's moooving," Corporal replied. He felt an adrenaline rush coming on.
Corporal made a series of hand motions, portraying horns, milking, and strangulation. Detective surrendered, and they returned to the scene of the emergency.
The car pulled to a halt, Detective killed the ignition, and both men got out and surveyed the scene.
Detective looked at Corporal, as if to ask, "What now?"
"I have my trusty Leatherman tool," Corporal said. "I'm going in." Then at severe risk to his own safety, he started climbing the fence into the pasture.
Corporal scaled the fence with the finesse of a seasoned SWAT operator. But as he teetered on the top strand of wire, the first casualty of the operation occurred. He slipped onto the razor sharp barbs, causing a gaping laceration to his cool, black tactical pants. Detective followed, with similar results.
They advanced toward the victim, a draft blowing across their posteriors. The beast's neck was a tangled mass of hair, skin, blood, and steel. It sprayed a venomous cloud of cow boogers on anyone who approached.
Detective gave his professional assessment. "We're gonna have to shoot it. It'll take at least 31 rounds of 9mm, and 22 rounds of .45 auto."
Corporal replied, "You just want to hang its head over your fireplace, with your farmyard goat and German Shepherd." Detective was floored by the cruelty of his fellow man.
A truck pulled up and Detective announced, "The cow police are here. Brand Inspector."
"What do they do?"
"They're like GTA dicks for cows."
Brand Inspector hopped easily over the fence. "I saw your emergency lights and wondered why you guys were checking out a dead cow," he said.
Corporal, giving up his wingman, sang, "It's not dead, but he wanted to shoot it."
Looking coolly at Corporal, Brand Inspector searched his memory for reports of state hospital escapees, stolen police cars, or stolen uniforms.
"Thank God you're here," Corporal said. "I'm not prepared for this sort of thing. I live in a condo. The only beef I have to see is at Burger King."
Soon a ranch hand arrived with an armful of instruments. Then as the amazed firearms instructors watched, he pulled out a torture device that would have made Hannibal Lecter tremble. The ranch hand passed the device to Brand Inspector, who passed it to Corporal.
"Put it in her nose," Brand Inspector commanded.
Corporal gazed at the cow's large nostrils and snot covered face. He fought off his revulsion and inserted the prongs of the grisly device into the cow's nostrils. He forced himself to clamp the handles down tight, and handed the rope through the fence. Then with some pushing and pulling, the cow was soon free from its deathly predicament.
The ranch hand then moved behind the cow. His upper body disappeared with a squishy, sucking sound.
"He's not doing what I think, is he?" Corporal asked, looking as if he had just seen his grandmother in the shower.
"She's pregnant," replied Brand Inspector. "He's checking the calf. It seems fine."
A few minutes later, both cow and calf were "Code 4." The firearms instructors were "10-8," but passed on "Code 7."
That night they slept soundly, knowing that they had gone beyond the call of duty to help one of God's hapless creatures.
Byron Lee is a detective with the Ontario (Calif.) PD.