The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop

by Steve Osborne

  I had one of those retractable leashes that stretches out about ten feet, but after a few minutes of running ahead and lagging behind, sniffing everything we passed, he fell into rhythm right alongside me. He was matching me step for step and I hardly knew he was there. The leash hung comfortably in my hand as he stayed right at my side.

  He had gotten the hang of things and that night, as usual, was the perfect walking partner. He knew how to pause when we reached an intersection and wait for me to go first. If I saw him get tired I could always pick him up—but he never did.

  I would get mixed reviews from the people we passed on the street. Some thought he was cute and some thought he was ugly. But it seemed almost everyone gave us a comment or at least a look. Luckily it was always the women who thought he was cute. He was better than a baby in the park for starting a conversation.

  As for the ones, mostly guys, who said he was ugly, after they passed I would whisper to Griffin not to pay any attention to that asshole. Sometimes when we would pass an aggressive dog who would bark and growl, I would scoop Griff up, holding him in the crook of my arm like a running back holding a football, trying to protect him. I would rather get bit than let anything happen to him.

  The guys we passed with the pit bulls probably questioned my sexuality when I scooped the little guy up in my arms. I didn’t care, Griffin and I were secure in our manhood. They could go fuck themselves.

  Everything was great that night, and we were enjoying our walk together like we always did. The little guy was right next to me, matching me stride for stride. When we approached a busy intersection he stopped and waited for me to let him know it was okay to cross. He was a quick learner and I was proud of him.

  We were almost at the garage when all of a sudden, it happened. Behind us there was a very loud BANG. It sounded like a truck backfiring. It startled the hell out of me, but it really scared Griffin. Both of us must have jumped two feet in the air.

  I still don’t know how it happened, but in the split second when we both jumped, Griff somehow yanked the leash out of my hand. He was small, but he was quick, and he took off like a shot. As he sped off toward the busy street dragging the leash behind him, it retracted and smacked him in the side. This only scared him even more.

  I panicked! Instantly my heart was in my throat. The only chance I had to catch him was to go for the leash dragging behind him. I dove for it—but missed. It was obvious he didn’t know where he was running to or even why. He just got scared and felt the need to run.

  It was dark and the intersection was busy. Cars were speeding in all directions. I could see the drivers staring straight ahead, listening to the radio or thinking about who knows what. Nobody was looking for a panicked little puppy running right toward them.

  I could hear myself yelling “NO, NO, NO!” as I watched the distance between us grow larger. He could have run in any direction, but he didn’t, he ran straight toward the oncoming cars. If he had run in another direction, I know I could have caught him, but for some reason, he ran right toward four lanes of speeding traffic.

  I was hoping someone would see him, but it was dark and he was so small. I ran after him, yelling and waving my arms. The brisk breeze smacked me in the face as the cars whizzed past me. The blinding high beams being flashed at me should have been a warning to get out of the street before I got myself killed, but I didn’t care. I was like an absolute lunatic running through the middle of rush-hour traffic. The drivers couldn’t see him, but I was hoping they could see me.

  I know this sounds crazy, but at that moment I just didn’t care if I got hit by a car. I didn’t care if a truck plowed over me! I had to save that little dog. I was never so determined in my entire life to save something as I was at that moment.

  People were beeping their horns and flashing their lights, thinking I was some nut running into traffic. I was in the middle of a very busy intersection along Route 9W. It was the main thoroughfare for cars, trucks, and buses in our town, and I wouldn’t be the first person to get run over and killed there.

  It didn’t take long, only a few seconds before a car was bearing down on him only a few feet away. I know I wasn’t thinking straight, but for the briefest moment I envisioned myself putting my shoulder down and blocking the speeding car like a football player making a tackle. I believed I could stop that car in its tracks.

  Even with the flashing high beams half blinding me, I could still see Griff getting sucked under the wheels—and popping out the side. He was so small I know the driver never saw him and probably never felt anything, but luckily he saw me. With the horn blaring and tires screeching, the car swerved and narrowly missed me. He just kept going, anxious to get away from the lunatic who tried to attack his car.

  I ran up to Griff, who was now lying in the road, and fell to my knees. He was motionless, unable to move. His tiny body was crushed and broken, but he was still breathing. Other speeding cars were swerving around me, beeping their horns and flashing their lights. The drivers were yelling at me to get out of the road and threatening to call the police. I didn’t care. I hovered over Griff, trying to protect him from any more harm, and refused to move.

  He was still alive, but it was clear he was hurt bad. My hands were shaking and I was starting to cry. I was babbling something like “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  I tried to sound confident and reassuring, like I am with all my shooting and stabbing victims I deal with out in the street, and said, “You’re going to be all right.” But this was different. Out in the street it’s all business with me, I’m the cop and they are the crime victim. This time it was my little buddy lying there dying. I was suddenly sick to my stomach with grief.

  As a New York City cop I’ve seen more horror, misery, and blood than anyone other than a soldier at war could ever imagine. And I never let it get to me. I handled it like a professional. I could stand stone-faced watching mothers cry over their dead children and just focus on doing my job. Cops learn to build a wall between their feelings and the outside world. But now I was in the middle of traffic kneeling over a dying little puppy and going to pieces.

  Over the years since then I’ve looked back and realized some things just happen. I don’t know how or why he yanked that leash out of my hand—it just happened. I know it wasn’t my fault, but at that moment I felt responsible. He wasn’t just a funny-looking puppy anymore—he was my little boy.

  As gently as I could, I scooped him up in my arms and got back on the sidewalk. I had to get him to a hospital, but I didn’t know where it was. He didn’t need just a vet, he needed an emergency room. I was frantic. I had no car, and in my town cabs don’t just ride around looking for fares. I needed help.

  Some woman who realized what had happened stopped and asked if she could help. I told her I needed to get my dog to a hospital in a hurry. She didn’t know me but opened her passenger door and said, “Get in.”

  I jumped into her car, expecting her to speed off to the nearest animal hospital, but she just sat there looking at me and finally said, “Where’s the hospital?” She didn’t know either. I have never felt as helpless as I did at that moment. I felt bad for the woman. Tears were rolling down her face, she felt helpless too. I did not know where the hospital was, and my little pal was dying in my arms.

  I don’t know if someone called the cops on me or the patrol car just happened to be passing by, but I saw a police car stop in the middle of the intersection. The cop was turning his head, looking around in all directions. Thank God he was here. There is an unwritten rule in police work that cops always help other cops. It doesn’t matter what the problem is, where you’re at, or where you’re from, you can always count on another cop to take care of you.

  I jumped out of the woman’s car and ran toward the police car. I cradled Griffin in one arm and reached for my shield with the other. I didn’t know if he was responding to a call about a lunatic running into traffic, so the last thing I needed was for him to think that the lunatic was now attacki
ng him.

  As I got closer to the patrol car I started yelling, “I’m on the job!” He seemed a little alarmed, but as I got closer he saw the shiny gold shield dangling in my hand and the unconscious puppy cradled in the crook of my arm. As quickly as I could, I shoved my shield into the open driver’s window and explained to him that I was a cop and my dog got hit by a car. I told him I needed to get Griff to a hospital as soon as possible. He took one look at the shield, the tiny puppy in my arms, and the frantic look on my face, and said, “Get in.”

  I jumped into the back and slammed the door shut while he made a U-turn and flipped on the red light and siren. When he hit the gas I was pushed back into the seat. Good, I thought, we’re going to the hospital and we’re moving fast. I held on to Griffin.

  The cop was sharp. Without missing a beat, he was on the radio notifying the dispatcher what he had and telling her to call the animal hospital and have them standing by. Hearing that made me feel better. I wasn’t standing helpless in the middle of traffic anymore. Things were happening.

  The blaring siren and swirling red lights made me feel a little better because I was in my element. Being in the back of the police car helped a little bit—but not enough. I felt myself completely going to pieces. I looked down at Griff and saw blood and bubbles frothing out of his nose and mouth. I could hear a faint gurgling sound as he struggled and fought for every breath. This was bad, his lungs were punctured and were filling with blood. I had seen this in people and I knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

  I was a mess. Tears were running down my face, and I was babbling, “Hold on, buddy. You gotta hold on. Don’t give up, we’re almost there. Come on, you gotta stay with me. Don’t give up.”

  I must have sounded like some schoolgirl who got dumped on her prom night. This is not how a hard-core New York City cop should behave in a crisis. This was definitely not me. I’ve been through a lot worse shit than this.

  For a brief moment I felt a little self-conscious, weeping and carrying on the way I was in front of another cop. So I started to tell him that this was my wife’s dog, and I was upset because I knew she was going to be very upset. I knew it didn’t make any sense when I said it, but I was trying to man up. I was trying to come up with an excuse for why I was losing it.

  But when I looked up, I saw this cop—who didn’t even know me—wiping his eyes. He didn’t look back, or say anything. He just kept staring straight ahead, driving as fast as he could. He kept his one hand on the steering wheel while he wiped his eyes with the other. I guess he didn’t want me to see that he was getting weepy also. I’m sure he had seen his share of blood and guts and misery in his career—but this little puppy was getting to the both of us.

  I looked back down at Griff to see how he was doing and at that moment—it happened. I heard a small puff of air exhale from his nose and mouth while his chest fell. I waited for it to rise again. I waited for what seemed like a long time, then I gently shook his tiny broken body, trying to coax him into taking another breath. Nothing. The little guy was a fighter, and I wanted him to fight for another breath just like he had been doing for the last few minutes—but he didn’t. The fight was over. His injuries were too severe, and I watched him take his last breath.

  Without warning the cop jerked the wheel to the left, jammed on the brakes, and suddenly we were in the parking lot of the animal hospital. The front door was propped open, and the doctor was standing there waving his arms, motioning for us to hurry inside. I jumped out of the car and with Griff cradled in my arms, I ran past the vet and into the building. The vet was running behind me yelling directions and pointing to a room in the back that was waiting for us.

  There was a stainless-steel table in the middle of the room with a big surgical light shining on it from above. As gently as I could, I placed Griff on the table and backed away so the doctor could get to work. But he took one look at Griff, then turned to me and said as compassionately as he could, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.” He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I knew he was dead. I saw him take his last breath and die in my arms only a minute or two before. I was just hoping for some kind of miracle.

  I stood there staring at Griff lying on that cold steel table. The glaring surgical light shining down from above made everything around me seem dark and distant. I never felt so alone as I did at that moment. The cop turned and walked out of the room. Men don’t like to cry in front of other men.

  In another feeble attempt to regain my manhood, I babbled to the doctor the same lie I told the cop, that this was my wife’s dog, and I was really upset for her. The doctor politely nodded his head—he knew I was full of shit. Then he took his cue from the cop, excused himself, and left the room so I could be alone, and say my good-byes.

  I really can’t explain it, I didn’t get this emotional when my father died. A few years back I watched a three-year-old girl die in the emergency room. She had drowned in the bathtub while taking a bath. We got her to the emergency room within minutes, but it was too late. I remember standing there as they pronounced her dead. I willed myself not to feel anything. Before I let one ounce of emotion well up inside me, I crammed my mind with all the notifications and reports that had to be done. I left no room for any other thoughts. My demeanor was all business. I had a job to do. So why was this so different?

  When the vet left us alone, I leaned on the table on one elbow, hovering over my little buddy. I was petting him and apologizing for letting this happen. I felt responsible. Deep down I knew it wasn’t my fault, but I still felt terrible. My heart was broken.

  My legs got wobbly and I actually felt weak. I was drained. There was a chair against the wall, so I sat, trying to get my head screwed back on straight. I was trying to figure out how I was going to tell my wife. How the fuck was I going to explain this?

  After a little while the vet came back in, and when he felt the time was right asked me what I wanted to do with the remains. I still wasn’t in any mood to make a decision, so I told the doctor I would be back in the morning to make the “arrangements.” I’m glad he didn’t ask me for money. I might have strangled him.

  When I walked outside, the cop and I both had our game faces back on. Cops don’t cry—remember that. I think it was an episode we would both rather put behind us. I shook his hand and thanked him, adding I knew I could always count on another cop for help.

  When I looked around, I didn’t know where the hell I was. This was some dingy little animal hospital tucked in the middle of nowhere. It was dark, and the hospital was surrounded by trees. I looked at the road in front of me and didn’t know whether to go left or right. The cop, realizing I didn’t know where I was, pointed to the patrol car and said, “Get in.”

  This time I sat in the front seat; the back is for perps and victims, and I was neither. In the front I felt more in control. I felt like I was a cop again.

  On the ride back I gave him the same spiel I gave him before—about how Griffin was really my wife’s, and that I was really upset for her and not just for that little dog. He knew I was full of shit but nodded his head and went along with it. I appreciated that as much as I appreciated the ride.

  When we pulled into my driveway I shook his hand, thanking him profusely. I handed him my business card and told him if he ever needed anything down in Manhattan, don’t hesitate to ask. That’s the way it works.

  My wife wasn’t home yet, so the house was empty. It felt especially empty now without Griffin. I paced between the kitchen and the living room, wondering how I was going to break the news to Griffin’s overprotective mother. The sight of his water and food bowls on the floor was getting to me, so I walked upstairs to try and think this through.

  I paced up and down the hall, walking aimlessly in and out of each bedroom. Like Griffin, I didn’t know where I was going, I just felt the need to move. I kept looking at the clock, not wanting my wife to come home just yet. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her, but I didn’t want
to be alone anymore either. I really needed to be with her. It sounds mushy, but I needed a hug.

  I stood in the bedroom staring aimlessly out the window. The image of that car bearing down on Griffin kept playing over and over in my head. The flashing high beams and honking horns wouldn’t go away. As I thought about what happened, I suddenly became angry. I was angry at the world—but especially at myself. Rage welled up inside of me! I was furious about what happened to that innocent little dog.

  I don’t know if I wanted to punish myself or just hit something, but I hauled off and head-butted the closet door. It was like a move right out of WWE wrestling. But this wasn’t fake, and the door was made out of some pretty hard wood. I hit it so hard I knocked myself senseless. I was literally seeing stars!

  After a few seconds, when I finally got my eyes to focus again, I could see a perfectly round hole in the center of the door, the exact shape of my now throbbing forehead.

  I know it was an incredibly dumb thing to do, but it worked. The shot to the head suddenly snapped me back into reality. I could almost hear the little voice in my head saying, “Get a hold of yourself, dude. This is getting ridiculous.”

  I walked over to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. There was blood trickling down my forehead. It was running in between my eyes, and a huge red lump was starting to form. I leaned in closer, staring at the bloody bulbous mound, and muttered to myself, “You idiot.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed holding some tissues on my head, trying to stop the bleeding, when suddenly I heard the front door open. At first I got nervous when my wife yelled out, “I’m home.” But then I was actually glad and relieved, I didn’t want to be alone anymore. Who knew what I would do next?

  She must have gotten suspicious when I didn’t answer. Also, there was no little barking Griffin to meet her. I could hear her feet shuffling on the wooden steps as she came upstairs looking for us. She called out our names a few more times. I didn’t answer, and obviously Griffin didn’t either.