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Nov. 6th, 2003 09:54 pm
The sun came out today! What a boost that was. It had been sixteen days since the last time. (When it was also about forty degrees warmer than it was today, but that's how things are around here in the fall. You never know what you're going to get. Sometimes I envy those of you who have climate rather than weather.)
Of course I managed to get all depressoid anyway, because I took the opportunity of the nice day to go over to-- perhaps I shouldn't say-- and inspect the local animal shelter. Not something I normally do, inspecting animal shelters, but this one happens to be equipped with a crematorium.
Sane people would call it a crematorium, anyway. To them it's part of a ceremony, associated with the departure of a loved one, human or otherwise. To me it's a pathological waste incinerator, with the emphasis on pathological. You do not want what's in to get out. Trust me on this one.
I hate inspecting crematoriums. Really. The folk who run them have a Mission, and there's nothing worse than trying to "distract" a person with a mision from "side issues," such as not killing the neighbors. I suppose if I were being cynical I might say that the operator of a crematorium definitely wouldn't be worried about that-- it's good for business. But even my cynicism hasn't crawled that high yet.
Last time I dealt with one, I was driving along minding my own business when I spotted a belch of 100% opacity, black, from the stack of a local human crematorium. I stopped, told the owner that this was not good. 100% opacity? That means the smoke was opaque. Like a solid object. Like a chunk of coal in the sky, except it billowed.
"What kind of heartless animal are you? We're providing a service here! That's somebody's grandmother in there!"
To which.. yeah, all right. But with the brilliant urban planning we get in rural Michigan, the crematorium, like all the industry here, is southwest of town. Which means, in our prevailing winds, that Granny's smoke, and quite possibly whatever germ killed her, was drifting directly across the center of town.
I explained that this is not good. Give the owner credit, he fixed it. Took manual control of the unit and didn't run it again until the replacement part for the automatic controls came-- or so he told me in his letter. In any case I haven't seen any smoke from there since.
But now the Humane Society, and I'm all busted up driving over there.
As much as I like humans, their lives don't seem as tragic to me as the lives of the animals we love. We, at least sometimes, know what's going on. We, at least sometimes, know why we need to get this injection, or stay out of the garden. And at least part of the time our problems are of our own creation. You can't say that for a pet, really.
And I really didn't want to visit Death Row for loving animals whose only crime was being unwanted.
I needn't have worried about that. They have a no-kill rule over at this animal shelter-- and the place was thoroughly populated with the shelter's own pets, who have the run of the place. Two big dogs and at least half a dozen cats. When the receptionist sits at the front desk she sits forward on her chair to avoid disturbing the cat asleep across it behind her.
And the incinerator was working properly, as far as I could tell. Still, the smell of burned hair and whatnot in the incinerator shed was enough to nearly make me puke. I think I hid it. It reminded me too of a car accident I was asked to help clean up after-- certain burning odors really bother me, since that time. Seeing the pets, in their blue bags, who had been sent over from the vets' offices where they'd been put under, seeing the names of the pets in the register-- Rudy, beloved pet, now 45 pounds of Class IV pathological waste, ashes to be returned to thus-and-so-- well, that kind of got to me. I had a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It was pretty rough, I'm ashamed to say so.
Not only that, now I have to write these people up for insufficient monitoring instruments on their incinerator. I have to write these NICE people up, who are operating as a charity and don't have that much money. But this is a pathological incinerator, damn it! It has to operate properly. Peoples' lives may depend on it.
So I wobbled out of there and went home. I did pick up a ball for Penny on the way home, and hugged her when I got there. It confused her. Oh well.
Just another day in the life of a state employee, folks. Trying to protect peoples' health and do the right thing. You know us. Those faceless ones you hate, who in a recent poll 64% of Michigan residents said should have more layoffs and more pay cuts than we've already had, because we're worthless, and lazy, and we're paid too much.
It's not easy for me to sit around and listen to that. Especially when I know that any day I could quit this job, and have another one that paid twice as much within a week. All I'd have to do is give up enforcing the laws and go to work for a consulting firm, helping industry to evade the laws.
But I'm still an idealist. And idealist is another word for idiot.
Of course I managed to get all depressoid anyway, because I took the opportunity of the nice day to go over to-- perhaps I shouldn't say-- and inspect the local animal shelter. Not something I normally do, inspecting animal shelters, but this one happens to be equipped with a crematorium.
Sane people would call it a crematorium, anyway. To them it's part of a ceremony, associated with the departure of a loved one, human or otherwise. To me it's a pathological waste incinerator, with the emphasis on pathological. You do not want what's in to get out. Trust me on this one.
I hate inspecting crematoriums. Really. The folk who run them have a Mission, and there's nothing worse than trying to "distract" a person with a mision from "side issues," such as not killing the neighbors. I suppose if I were being cynical I might say that the operator of a crematorium definitely wouldn't be worried about that-- it's good for business. But even my cynicism hasn't crawled that high yet.
Last time I dealt with one, I was driving along minding my own business when I spotted a belch of 100% opacity, black, from the stack of a local human crematorium. I stopped, told the owner that this was not good. 100% opacity? That means the smoke was opaque. Like a solid object. Like a chunk of coal in the sky, except it billowed.
"What kind of heartless animal are you? We're providing a service here! That's somebody's grandmother in there!"
To which.. yeah, all right. But with the brilliant urban planning we get in rural Michigan, the crematorium, like all the industry here, is southwest of town. Which means, in our prevailing winds, that Granny's smoke, and quite possibly whatever germ killed her, was drifting directly across the center of town.
I explained that this is not good. Give the owner credit, he fixed it. Took manual control of the unit and didn't run it again until the replacement part for the automatic controls came-- or so he told me in his letter. In any case I haven't seen any smoke from there since.
But now the Humane Society, and I'm all busted up driving over there.
As much as I like humans, their lives don't seem as tragic to me as the lives of the animals we love. We, at least sometimes, know what's going on. We, at least sometimes, know why we need to get this injection, or stay out of the garden. And at least part of the time our problems are of our own creation. You can't say that for a pet, really.
And I really didn't want to visit Death Row for loving animals whose only crime was being unwanted.
I needn't have worried about that. They have a no-kill rule over at this animal shelter-- and the place was thoroughly populated with the shelter's own pets, who have the run of the place. Two big dogs and at least half a dozen cats. When the receptionist sits at the front desk she sits forward on her chair to avoid disturbing the cat asleep across it behind her.
And the incinerator was working properly, as far as I could tell. Still, the smell of burned hair and whatnot in the incinerator shed was enough to nearly make me puke. I think I hid it. It reminded me too of a car accident I was asked to help clean up after-- certain burning odors really bother me, since that time. Seeing the pets, in their blue bags, who had been sent over from the vets' offices where they'd been put under, seeing the names of the pets in the register-- Rudy, beloved pet, now 45 pounds of Class IV pathological waste, ashes to be returned to thus-and-so-- well, that kind of got to me. I had a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It was pretty rough, I'm ashamed to say so.
Not only that, now I have to write these people up for insufficient monitoring instruments on their incinerator. I have to write these NICE people up, who are operating as a charity and don't have that much money. But this is a pathological incinerator, damn it! It has to operate properly. Peoples' lives may depend on it.
So I wobbled out of there and went home. I did pick up a ball for Penny on the way home, and hugged her when I got there. It confused her. Oh well.
Just another day in the life of a state employee, folks. Trying to protect peoples' health and do the right thing. You know us. Those faceless ones you hate, who in a recent poll 64% of Michigan residents said should have more layoffs and more pay cuts than we've already had, because we're worthless, and lazy, and we're paid too much.
It's not easy for me to sit around and listen to that. Especially when I know that any day I could quit this job, and have another one that paid twice as much within a week. All I'd have to do is give up enforcing the laws and go to work for a consulting firm, helping industry to evade the laws.
But I'm still an idealist. And idealist is another word for idiot.
