Joe was a Nudger

Horses are like people: they all have distinctive personalities and some

have peculiar habits. For example, Police mount, Stewart, a red bay gelding

with a white blaze and a roman nose, was a Stargazer, which meant that he

liked to travel around with his head thrown back looking skyward. King, a

golden chestnut with white main and tail, was a Fiddlefoot. He liked to

dance on the spot whenever you stopped him. Old Major, as well as being a

mooch, was obsessed with pawing the pavement.

You would have to hold him with both hands whenever somebody

passed by with a bag of groceries in their arms, especially if he smelt apples

or carrots. He would start nickering in a pleading tone and often people who

knew him would give him a treat. Whenever you stopped him at an

intersection he would become impatient while waiting for the light to change

and start pawing the pavement. If there were a bunch of kids on the sidewalk

waiting for the light I would shout, as I reined him in, “How old are you,

Major?” and he would start pawing. He was usually about twenty by the

time the light changed and we moved on.

Some the habits the horses acquired were amusing but others were

downright annoying. Take for example, Joe. He was a Nudger. Every time

you tried to groom him or put his bridle on, he would persistently bump you

with his nose. There was nothing he liked better than to pin you up against a

stall wall and lovingly nudge the hell out you. It didn’t matter who you were

or what you did to avoid it, he would have his nose up against you nuzzling

away. Even if you gave him a whack, he would just look startled and hurt for

a second or two and then be right back at it.

He wasn’t much to look at, just a plain old bay with a white star on his

forehead, but once you got him tacked up and were on his back, he was a

pleasure to ride because he was fearless. Nothing bothered him, not buses or

streetcars or trains or motorcycles; he was immune to the things that terrified

many of the other horses.

One rainy evening I was out on Joe patrolling south on Yonge St.,

Toronto’s main drag. I was wearing my big black raincoat that covered me

and draped over Joe’s rump keeping the better part of both of us dry.

We stopped for a while and I let the reins hang loosely over Joe’s

neck while I took in the scene: there were few people on the street and the

pavement was glazed and shining like black ice. I was looking up and

marvelling at how the red tail lights of the cars were reflected, caught and

then seemed to travel along the overhead trolley lines when I was shaken out

my reverie by someone shouting at me from a nearby doorway.

“Help! They robbed me! They robbed me!” He was pointing at two

men who were running down the opposite of the street about half a block

away.

I gathered up my reins, dug my spurs into Joe’s flanks and we were

off like a shot. In a matter of seconds we had overtaken the slower of the

two men and cornered him in a store doorway. I swung down out of the

saddle. He tried to dodge by me but I managed to shove him up against the

store’s big window while I fumbled through my rain cape to get at my

handcuffs. They snagged on the inside of the coat and I had to look down for

a second or two to free them. When I looked up again, the man I was

holding had pulled out a large butcher knife and was levelling at my chest.

Just then Joe, who had been standing patiently at my side, took a step

forward and nudged the man, pinning him against the window.

The man threw his arms in the air, dropping the knife and screaming,

“Okay! Okay! Okay!, Call him off, please.”

I cuffed the man’s arms around a lamppost, swung up on Joe and

chased the second man down the centre of Young St. He had a gun in his

hand and wheeled around once or twice pointing it at me. It was the first

time I drew my own gun but, thankfully, I didn’t have to use it because just

then he ducked into an alleyway where we couldn’t follow and he got away.

I caught up with and arrested him about a month later, but that’s

another story.

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Glenspey

Glenspey was not a pretty mare, she was a mousy bay color with a course head and legs and feet that showed too much of her draft heritage. The one feature that made her stand out from the rest of the police mounts was her abnormally short tail; the flesh and bone of the actual tail were still intact but the hairs were very sparse and short.

          The older members of the unit claimed that she once sported a very long thick luxurious train and that the cop in charge of her grooming, ignoring the regulation that police horses should have their tails trimmed off just below the hocks, took great pride in her lengthy locks and went out of his way to encourage their growth, Her tail, in fact, was so long that when she was relaxed it rested on the floor of her stall and that, unfortunately, proved to be her undoing.

          One morning as she lay cuddled down in her bed of straw with her tail tucked under her, a group of boisterous cops from the station next-door burst through the stable door and startled her. When she leapt to her feet her tail remained pinned under her hind foot and to quote Robbie Burns “ She left behind her ain grey tail.” Her tail wasn’t grey but she sure as hell ripped it off and left most of it lying on the floor. It never completely grew back again and its absence did nothing to enhance her beauty

          As odd as her appearance was it was not that alone that made her such a memorable mount, she also had a peculiar habit that I was to learn about during my stay at 56 Division.

          I had ridden my young horses quite hard during the first of the week and thought they could use a rest so I offered to exercise one of the older, regular ones. “ You pick someone who needs some exercise” I suggested to the senior man Sy Hawley. He looked at the other two men present and after some knowing glances back and forth an unspoken consensus seemed to be reached and Sy said, “ Take old Glenspey she hasn’t been out for a few days.”  “ And yeah,” he continued “ Why don’t you take her down to Riverdale Park so you can give her a bit of a run?”  “Sounds good to me.” I said as I gathered up my grooming kit and headed for the mare’s stall.

           As I brushed away at the old horse I noticed that the men I had just left were now in a huddle talking softly to each other, occasionally throwing quick glances in my direction. I didn’t make too much out of it, they all had finished half a shift on the street and were about to spend the rest of the day in the stable filling out reports. I figured they were comparing notes.

          I got the old horse saddled up and took her out to the yard and as I swung up onto her back I noticed that all three men had come to the doorway to see me off, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristically civil of them. “ See you around three o’clock!” one of them shouted as I ambled out of the parking lot. He must have been mistaken because my shift wasn’t over until four thirty and it was already one thirty.

          I could see why Glenspey spent so much time standing in the stable she was totally devoid of energy and ambition and I had to constantly bang away at her sides to get her to trudge along at a walk. It took about an hour to cover the short distance to the park but it seemed like forever. Every time I would get her on the verge of a trot she would spy a traffic light about to change and stop on her own and it would take a heroic effort to get her moving again. “ So that’s what those buggers were up to,’ I thought to myself, “ They were having a little joke on the hot shot horse trainer.” I guess I did look quite comical plodding along the busy street on a tailless nag but if that was the worst they had to dish out I could take it,what the hell the pay was just the same and I didn’t have any deadlines to meet so I decided to relax and get a good look at the scenery as it, ever so slowly, passed by.

          We finally reached Riverdale Park and sidled downhill towards the old zoo. I hadn’t been there in years, not since I was a kid in Cabbage Town.  We used to go down frequently to watch the monkeys doing ’it’ or check out the huge Norwegian sewer rats running around the rabbit warren with baby bunnies in their jaws. The place was an outmoded; run down dump. Thank goodness they later built a new facility and moved the animals to better homes.

However, on the day in question the old zoo still existed and Glenspey and I were slowly making our way to center where a sizeable crowd was gathered around the compounds that held the larger animals.

I reined the old horse in and dug out my memo book and started making some entries. I had only sat there for a very short time when I began to feel something strange happening beneath me, the old horse had begun to shiver and was moving her weight restlessly from one foot to another.

She threw her head up in the air and her ears began to rotate, scanning around like hairy radar antennas and listening expectantly. She snorted loudly through her nose once or twice and was answered by a thunderous trumpeting behind us and some distance away. We both swung our heads back at the same time and were startled by the site of a huge elephant hurtling himself toward us. He had a murderous look on his face as, bugling frantically, he charged, stiff legged, toward us with his enormous trunk coiled above his head ready to slap down anything or anybody that got in his way.

 I only had a split second to speculate on the strength of the fence around his enclosure because Glenspey suddenly went into a wild panic and bolted forward. I had to hang on for dear life. I had my hands full but not with the reins because they were still drooped over her withers where I had placed them when we stopped.  I had a death grip on the pommel of the saddle with one hand and my memo book clutched in the other.

As the old girl took off on automatic pilot she steadily picked up speed as the crowd parted and the peanut venders and balloon salesmen dove for cover scattering bags of nuts and launching a gay profusion of brightly colored helium balloons.

          Somehow I managed to tuck my memo book in my belt and lean forward and catch hold of the reins as we had exited the zoo grounds and hit the soft grass of the park but she motored on undeterred snorting, farting and launching divots from her oversized hooves.

I hauled back as hard as I could and shouted whoa several times but my effort seemed to go unnoticed. She was in fact increasing her speed all the time and by the time we left the park and hit Broadview Ave. she was going full tilt.  Now, I had the reins in both hands and was pulling so hard that her chin was touching her chest but still she thundered on sparks flying when her shoes hit the pavement and foam blowing out of her nostrils.” Whoa horse! Whoa horse whoa, ah- c’mon horse whoa!” I shouted to no avail.

          There was one brief respite when the old girl saw a red light at an intersection and screeched to a halt. Even then she danced on the spot, reared fidgeted and was generally uncooperative until the light turned to green and she once again took the bit in her mouth and we were off like a shot.

We flew on in the same fashion through several more intersections, thank God the lights were green and the pedestrians had the good sense to get out of the way.

I thought we were going to hit the pavement as she skidded around the final turn and headed towards the stable but somehow she managed to keep her footing and stayed in a full canter until she made a sliding stop directly in front of the stable door.

          The three guys I had left earlier where now hanging over the lower half of the Dutch door and one of them was consulting his watch. “ Two forty five,” he said,  “ I believe that’s a bit of a record.” Then they all started laughing hysterically, they hadn’t bothered to tell me that Glenspey and the elephant did not get along and that whenever the elephant started trumpeting she would become so agitated that she would make a beeline for the safety of the stable and nothing in God’s world would stop her.

I wasn’t the first to be humbled by the tailless horse and I made sure I wasn’t the last. Before I left the division a new man arrived and he was constantly sounding off about what a great horseman he was. When we all had had enough of his bravado we decided a trip to the zoo was in order. On this occasion Glenspey arrived at the stable door twenty minutes before her rider, she had parted company with him before she left the park and he had had to commandeer a trolley to get back to the stable. He arrived pale, battered and infinitely more humble.

The King and I

In the 1960’s we didn’t have street people in Toronto- we had good

old fashion bums, hobos and vagrants. The mental institutions like 999

Queen St. W. had yet to fling open their doors and herd droves of

temporarily medicated inmates into the streets. There were only a few real

loonies wandering around and for the most part, they were harmless and

added a little colour and interest to the downtown area.

There was one fellow who we called Lazarus: he looked like Rasputin

with the added touch of hugely distended nostrils that he kept stuffed with

great wads of newspaper. Summer and winter he used to cruise the streets,

clad in a dirty old overcoat and a pair of gym shorts, stopping at every fire

hydrant, kneeling and sneezing at it three times.

Once when I ask him why he constantly performed his ritual, he said

simply, “Purification.” I didn’t delve into the matter any further. One didn’t

hang around Lazarus too long. He always was enveloped in a cloud of pong

sufficient to gag a maggot.

Most of the vagrants I met were simply down and out alcoholics who

bummed money for booze during the day and slept their binges off during

their nights at the Sally Ann or one of the other shelters.

The only time that the police paid much attention to them was when

the city was going to host a special event or something like a royal visit.

Then we would be told that the city fathers would like the unsavoury

characters out of sight for a while.

It wouldn’t take long until the drunk tanks were full to bursting with

inebriants. Most of those arrested were feeling no pain and would hardly

know where they were until the booze wore off. There was very little

animosity between the police and the bums: the bums knew the cops were

just doing their job and the cops, many of whom were closet alcoholics

themselves, realized that ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’

When the vagrants were arrested they most often had large bottles of

cheap booze in their possession and these would have to be confiscated. It

was common practice for lots of caring cops to let the bums swallow most of

the remaining booze before putting them in the cells. “Just leave me about

half an inch in the bottom for evidence,” they would say and the bum was

more than happy to oblige.

As amicable as the bum/cop relationship could be, you still had to be

careful when dealing with guys you weren’t familiar with. Sometimes some

pretty tough dangerous guys used Skid Row as a convenient hiding place.

One afternoon I was on mounted patrol in centrally located Allen

Gardens, a favourite hangout for bums and transients. Usually it was just a

question of riding through and making your presence known: the regular

batch of boozers was usually well behaved and adept at keeping their bottles

of sight.

I was riding King, a big half Belgian gelding. He was a handsome

horse. He had a shiny chestnut coloured body with light mane and tail. He

was a bit nervous and flighty but I liked riding him.

As we entered the park it was immediately apparent that something

unusual was going on. A crowd had gathered in the centre court near the

water fountain and as we rode closer, I could see over their heads to where a

large bearded man was assaulting one of the old regulars and stealing his

wine bottle. King pushed his way through the crowd and when the big

scraggy man saw us approaching he threw the wine bottle in our direction.

It missed, smashing instead against the concrete base of the water fountain.

He turned to run away but the crowd slowed him down and seconds later

King was breathing on the back of his neck.

I thought he was about to give up but instead he spun around, grabbed

King’s bridle and started punching the horse repeatedly on his muzzle. I

tried to back the horse away but the man hung on to the bridle and continued

hitting him. King, in terror, reared and stood on his hind legs lifting the man,

who was still holding on to bridle, high off the ground. When King’s front

feet returned to the ground one of his heavy hooves was planted firmly in the

middle of his assailant’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

I dismounted and lifted the horse’s hoof off the man but he wasn’t

moving and worst of all he wasn’t breathing. “Oh my God!” I thought. “I

can’t just let him die.” Actually I could have but there were too many

witnesses around and it would require a lot of explaining.

So reluctantly, I let my St. John’s Ambulance training kick in. I gave

King’s reins to the closest pair of hands that I could see, knelt beside the

man and positioning his head prepared to give him mouth to mouth.

It took all my courage and resolve to place my mouth over that grizzly

toothless hole but somehow holding back the gags, I managed to do it. I

blew into him once but my breath just seemed to come back at me.

Obviously there was some kind of blockage. I took a deep breath and went

down on him again determined to give it every thing I had. This time I felt

something move but before I realized what was happening a torrent of sour

lumpy vomit projected into my mouth. I staggered to my feet spitting and

gagging and throwing up myself. That’s when Sergeant Weir made his

appearance. He had been watching the whole incident and had already

radioed for an ambulance and some backup. He held King while I went to

the nearby fountain and repeatedly rinsed my mouth-there wasn’t enough

water in the world! After the Sergeant confided in me that he would have let

the man die, he sent me home early that day so that I could stop at the drug

store and stock up on mouthwash and disinfectant. It was a long time before

I ever really felt clean again. Even as I write this story forty-five years later

I feel compelled to go and gargle and brush my teeth.

The King and I

Another Game of Zeaton Ball

One morning in 1967 I found myself in the company of eleven other

Mounted Policemen making our way through the backstreets of downtown

Toronto on our way to the American Embassy on University Avenue. We

were mounted on the quietest, most experienced horses that the force had to

offer. I had been assigned Buccaneer, the best of them all. Before we set

out that morning we were informed that we were going on a crowd control

mission at an anti-war demonstration in front of the Embassy. “We have to

be prepared for anything,“ the Sergeant said, reminding us of some the

problems our American counterparts were having at similar demonstrations

in New York and other major centres. We had seen the training films and

read the reports of police horses being attacked by radical demonstrators.

Some of them had used straight razors taped to the ends of hockey sticks to

slash the horses and their riders and there were instances where thousands of

ball bearings were hurled onto the pavement causing the horses to lose their

footing and crash to the ground. The injuries to animals and the men were

horrendous.

The thought of something similar happening here haunted me as we

rode along but I comforted myself with the thought that this was Canada;

people didn’t behave that way. At least I hoped they didn’t.

When we arrived at a little side street close to the Embassy we

dismounted and checked our equipment. We had a minimal amount of tack

on the horses, no fancy breastplates or lanyards, nothing for troublemakers

to get hold of should things get out of hand. We had just tightened the

horses’ girths and shortened their curb chains when the order came to mount

up.

Something was developing. Hordes of chanting, placard carrying

protesters were pouring down University Ave. filling the sidewalk and

spilling over onto the street in front of the Embassy. We rode up closer to

the scene and sat two abreast watching. The fifty or so policemen on foot

seemed to have things under control and were not meeting with much

resistance as they gently ushered people out of the roadway.

Buccaneer and I were situated closest to curb and he stood quietly as

protesters brushed by us on their way to join the protest. Over the chanting

and the shouts, I heard someone close by call my name. I looked down and

pressed in close to me, almost touching my riding boot was an old classmate

of mine, Richard Ilomacky. “Hey,” I said, “What’s happening, what are you

doing here?” Silly question since he was carrying a sign with some pretty

strong anti-war sentiments. It was too noisy for conversation so I gave him

the old ‘catch you later’ sign and he walked on, disappearing into the crowd.

I knew him fairly well. We both had attended a tough inner city high

school, Central Tech., and had taken P.T. classes together.

Our gym teacher was a tough ex policeman who had been selected by

the Board of Education more for his brawn than his brains. He thought that

most conventional sports were too tame so he invented his own game and

named it after himself.

The rules for Zeaton Ball were very simple: the class, after dividing

itself into two teams, faced each other from opposite ends of the gym. Mr.

Zeaton would then roll a basketball into centre court and at the sound of his

whistle, the teams would charge at each other. The object of the game was

to get the ball, by any means possible, down to your opponent’s end of the

gym and score a basket. No dribbling, penalty shots or off sides were

required and the more tripping, kicking, and punching that went on the better

he liked it. Quite often he would simply drift off and leave the class to its

own devices. His one and only rule was that when the game was over, it was

over and heaven help anyone who continued to fight or even appeared to be

holding a grudge afterwards. Ilomacky and I had locked horns in these

contests many times before the Principal caught wind of what was going on

and stopped them.

I was standing in my stirrups trying to see where my old friend had

gone when the whole gathering seemed to turn as one from facing the

Embassy and focus their attention on several buses with American license

plates that were pulling up on the opposite side of the street.

The American Legion was making an unexpected visit. Hundreds of

Legionnaires poured out of the buses and took up a position opposite the

anti-war group. There was a great deal of shouting and placard rattling back

and forth but things for a time looked like they might remain calm, cool and

Canadian. Then somebody threw something and shortly the air above the

street was full of missiles: hundreds of rocks, fruit and pop cans landing and

being returned. Then the two factions began to converge and we knew that

all hell was about to break out.

The newspapers the next day claimed that somebody had yelled

charge. I didn’t hear it but charge we did, attempting to put our horses

between the two groups. As we forced our way up the centre line of

University Ave., I encountered Ilomacky again. He had just smashed his

placard over the head of a Legionnaire and as I approached him, he thrust

the sharp broken end of the stick at me hitting me in the chest. I reached out

to grab him, almost losing my seat in the saddle but he slipped from my

grasp and got away. I wanted to chase him but I knew that the Sergeant had

other plans for me. By this time we had formed a solid line of nose to tail

horses between the worst combatants of the two groups. The Sergeant

shouted the command for a Side Passage and moving perfectly sideways,

crossing their legs as they went, the horses swept the angry crowd from

roadway and back to their own sides of the street.

Pockets of hand to hand fighting were still breaking out on both sides

of the street but about one hundred foot patrol policemen were now on the

scene and the paddy wagons had begun to arrive. Maloney’s wagon was

parked close to me and I was watching him as he loaded some of the more

violent protesters that had been arrested.

That’s when I saw a struggling Ilomacky being hustled by three

constables over to the back of the wagon. They passed him off to Maloney

who held him easily with one of his big hands. He was about to fling him

into the vehicle when I caught his eye. Not sure of why I was doing it, I

shook my head and indicated that I wanted him to let him go. With a ‘who

cares?’ look on his face, Maloney spun my friend around and planted a size

fourteen boot in his arse that sent him reeling into the crowd. Before he

totally disappeared Ilomacky looked back at me with a quizzical look on his

face. It was as if he was saying, ‘whose side are you on?’ To tell the truth I

wasn’t sure myself. If he could have heard me I would have said, “Just think

of it as another game of Zeaton Ball.”

Sparkplug

It’s misleading to suggest that all policemen were either big kind

sensitive hulks like Maloney or young bumbling aspirants like myself. Every

profession has its share of good and bad guys and the police force is no

different.

I met many colourful rogues who bucked the system but were still

tolerable to work with, but there were others who were simply mean no good

bastards. One such man in the later category was Sparkplug Jones. I don’t

know how he got the name; he was already a fixture on the Mounted Unit

when I started.

Will Rogers is quoted as saying, “I never met a man I didn’t like!” He

had not met Sparkplug.

I think he had been forced to join the Mounted Unit when he lost his

license after being convicted for drunken driving. That’s what I heard and

the story seemed consistent with my observations of his current behaviour.

There was more than one occasion when I was enlisted to help hoist him into

the loft to sleep one off when he was too drunk to drive home. Once, playing

the Good Samaritan, I bundled him into the back seat of my car and drove

him to his home only to have his distraught wife refuse to take him in. On

our return to the stable he sobered up just enough to curse me for getting him

into trouble with his wife.

I found his drinking and disgraceful behaviour deplorable but it was

the way he treated the horses that really bothered me. As the old saying

goes, “There’s something about the outside of a horse that tells you about

the inside of a man.”

Sparkplug was assigned Lancer, one of the kindest, most easygoing

creatures you could ask for. A child could ride the animal but Sparkplug

kept the poor beast in a constant state of stress and anxiety. He would ride

through the streets holding the reins too tightly and digging his oversized

spurs into the horse’s flanks. Lancer would have to dance on the spot to

accommodate Sparkplug’s conflicting commands. He liked the image of

himself on a prancing steed. After what should have been a quiet ride, the

horse would most often be returned to the stable dripping sweat and bleeding

around the mouth. If no one else was at the stable the horse would be put in

his stall still wet and neglected.

The horses had to have the hair on their manes and legs clipped

periodically and the job was the responsibility of the officer they were

assigned to. Lancer would stand quietly when officers other than Sparkplug

used the electric shears on him but he insisted on using a painful device

called a twitch clamped to his muzzle and sometimes his ears. Once when I

saw this happening I offered to clip the horse for him but he declined my

offer telling me to fuck off and mind my own business. Being the junior man

I complied with his request.

If everybody working at the station had been like him, working there

would have been unbearable. Thankfully they were not. I was finding out

that my initial impression of what the men working on the Unit had been

wrong and for the most part they were good hardworking guys and if

anything, slightly more sensitive than your average cop.

There was one man in particular whose personality stood out in stark

contrast to the mean spirited attitude of Sparkplug. His name was Frank

Lepper.

By the time I started with the Unit he had already done his fair share

of time on the street, over 35 years, and had opted to become Quartermaster,

a role that would keep him in the stable mending tack, attending to sick or

injured horses and making sure that the Unit was well supplied with all the

special, some times hard to find, equipment that we needed.

He seemed very old to me when I first met him but he couldn’t have

been too much more than fifty-five. Maybe it was the way he looked when I

first met him that had me pegging him as totally ancient.

He was sitting in one of the old captain’s chairs in the tack room with

a yellow felt numnah spread over his lap, using a sewing awl, stitching away

at a leather patch. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and he

looked for all the world like the illustrations of Giappetto in the Pinocchio

books.

When he stood, rising to his full height to take my hand, he defied this

impression of frailness. His grip was not that of an old man. His hair was

grey white and his face had a few well-earned wrinkles but he appeared slim

and in good shape and had the bearing of a much younger man.

He was a crusty but likeable old bugger, a bit opinionated but his

opinions generally had a great deal of merit.

He was like an old mother hen with the new men and wouldn’t brook

any nonsense from them. When one of them would get too big for their

britches and start bragging about how well they could ride, Frank would

crack back at them, “You couldn’t ride a street car, --- with the doors

closed!”

He had a routine: every lunch hour he would finish up his dinner by

eating an orange. You could always tell exactly how many horses were in

the stable at the time by the number of pieces of orange peel that ended up in

his thermos cup. When he was through eating he would go to each of the

horses in their stalls and they would get their share of the peel from the flat

of his hand.

I really like him and looked upon him as a mentor. He was a wealth of

knowledge about the Mounted Unit and also his days on the R.C.M.P.

Sometimes when Sparkplug was up to one of his nasty tricks with the

horses, I would see Frank marching out of the stable shaking his head and

rolling his eyes but he would never take the man to task as he would have

had it been anyone else.

At first I couldn’t figure out why Frank, or for that matter, the Police

Force, would put up with a character like Sparkplug but as time went on it

became clear to me.

The man was a narcissistic sycophant of the first order. While it was

understood that the mounted policemen were to function, in most respects,

like other members of the force, making arrests, traffic control etc., there

was meant to be a strong emphasis on public relations. Everyone loved to

see the horses on the streets. While the rest of our Unit were doing their best

to maintain a good rapport with locals, Sparkplug was terrorizing the

neighbourhood by issuing literally hundreds of parking tickets every day.

The stats looked good on the division’s monthly reports and apparently were

the reason that those in charge overlooked his multitude of sins.

I couldn’t stand the man and quite often, at the end of a shift, when he

walked through the lunchroom with his bony fingers clutched around a

huge stack of yellow tickets, I would take him to task. I would say things

like, “I hope you’re proud of yourself!” or “How many people did you piss

off today?”

I think my remarks had caused him to dislike me because one

afternoon I was leaning back in a chair writing in my memo book and,

seeing him approaching with yet another huge pile of tickets, I delivered

another sarcastic salvo in his direction then resumed writing. When I looked

up to see if my remarks had had any effect on him, all I saw was a bundle of

knuckles flying in my direction. Before I knew what was happening, I was

on my back with Sparkplug hammering away at my head and shoulders.

I should mention that Sparkplug’s life of debauchery had left him

bereft of any muscle or conditioning that he once might have had so it didn’t

take too much effort on my part to turn the tables on him and return a little

bit of what he had been dishing out.

Our little disagreement was a signal for the rest of the cops present to

leave the room and wait in the stable until we settled our differences. That’s

why, after we had rolled around the floor and exchanged punches for some

considerable time, I was surprised to hear someone behind me cheering me

on and shouting, “Give it to the bastard!”

Holding onto Sparkplug’s skinny wrists, I glanced over my shoulder

and saw that my vocal fan was not one of the other policemen. In fact he was

an irate citizen who had come to the station to complain about being

repeatedly ticketed and harassed by Sparkplug. His presence had a sobering

effect on both my opponent and myself so we unravelled long enough to

direct him to the Complaints Department.

As the door closed behind him, I grabbed Sparkplug’s shirtfront and

pulling him toward me, shouted, “You’re under arrest for assault!” He

shoved me backwards and through clenched teeth growled, “Guess again,

you little prick, you’re under arrest!” This debate might have gone on for

some time but it ended when the cold contents of three buckets of cold water

came flying in our direction followed by the rest of the crew. They separated

us and explained how complicated it would be for us to arrest each other.

The water had cooled me down and I realized how ridiculous we both had

been acting, so I backed off and decided to let the matter drop.

Traditionally, what happens in the stable stays in the stable so I went

home for the weekend looking forward to letting bygones be bygones and

resuming a normal routine. I hadn’t considered the rodent like tendencies of

Sparkplug. He contacted the Inspector at his home and shovelled his slanted

version of what had happened into his willing ear. On Monday morning my

horse remained tied up and instead I was riding the carpet in front of the

Inspector’s desk defending myself. Fortunately I had recently received a

commendation for a bit of clever police work and bearing that in mind, he let

the matter drop.

I hurried back to the stable. I was as mad as hell. As I burst through

the door I bumped into old Frank. “Where’s Sparkplug?” I shouted. “I

suppose he’s up in the loft with the rest of the rats.” I tried to push by him

but he grabbed the doorjamb and his arm blocked my way. “Let it go, son,

you can’t win; I’ve seen lots of guys like Sparkplug over the years and

eventually they get their come comeuppance.” He was right, he always was,

so I let the matter drop and decided to watch and wait.

Several years later and after I had left the Force, a policemen from

Mounted Headquarters came to my door with the news that Sparkplug had

been struck by a vehicle and killed when he had staggered out of his car on

the busy 401. I ask when it had happened and the cop said he wasn’t sure

but that it must have a short time ago. He said he had been telephoned and

asked to tell me about the accident by an old mounted cop who was now

stationed at the Courts Bureau. “You might know him,” he said. “His name

is Frank Lepper.”

Frank Lepper

Ron Does It Again

Sometime later my friend and now fellow constable, Ron Bond and I were in the
company of some other cops and I mentioned my meeting with Inspector Johnson. 
One of the guys immediately piped up with” Are you out of your mind? I hope
your not really considering joining the Mounted Unit. How could you even consider
joining those stinking buggers?  They all constantly smell of horseshit--- the rest
of us won’t sit anywhere near them in court. When they get on streetcars people get
off. Get with it man this is 1964. Were about to try a lunar landing and you’d be
spending all your time riding one of those foul smelling beasts around.” The guy
was pretty convincing and I found myself agreeing with him. Ron, strangely,
didn’t have anything to say on the matter so I assumed he felt the same way and
immediately dismissed any thoughts I might of had of transferring. Anyway I had
other fish to fry. 
Because I was always sketching and drawing cartoons and they often
got copied and passed around I had an offer to become apprenticed to Det.
Sgt. Magurie who did all the composite drawings for the department.
I had been given lots of time to think the offer over and after six
weeks of pondering, I had just about made up my mind to add an artist’s
beret to my uniform. That’s when I received an order to report to Mounted
Headquarters once again.
I showed up out of uniform and looking weekend shabby in a T-shirt
and jeans. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. In fact I was hoping for the
opposite effect.
I was shown into the Inspector’s office by the desk sergeant and Big
Ed immediately got to his feet and grabbed my hand. “Welcome aboard,
Leeson, I’m glad you decided to join up.” I was flabbergasted and almost
floored so I shot back at him in language I knew he would understand,
“Whoa! Steady! Easy! I haven’t said that I was joining up.” “What do you
mean?” the Inspector said, “Your buddy said you were ready to start right
away.” “Buddy, what buddy?” I said. “Constable Ronald Bond” he replied.
“He’s been training with the riding school for the last three weeks. There’s
only one week left to go and we had one man flunk out. He said you didn’t
really need any training and could jump right in and replace him. Is there a
problem?” I was speechless but I knew when I was licked, “What the hell,”
I thought and then turned to the Inspector and said, “Where are my spurs?”

Ron and Me, 1967

Ron

Officer Down!

Maloney and I were teamed up in a scout car patrolling out of 52 
Division when our radio lit up and we received an urgent call. “Officer
down! Officer down!” the anxious sounding dispatcher repeated. “Any unit
in the vicinity of Bloor and Bathurst please report.” Maloney picked up the
microphone, pressed the speak button and drawled “Scout 523, we’re near
scene.” The dispatcher immediately replied, “523, proceed as fast as you
can to the corner of Shaw and Barton. A woman is reporting that a mounted
policeman has fallen off his horse and is lying unconscious on her front
lawn. She thinks he has had a heart attack.” I pushed the siren button and hit
the accelerator and in matter of minutes we arrived at the scene.
I saw the horse first. He was busy grazing on the lawn and flowerbeds
in front of the house and there, almost under him, lay a very still policeman.
I threw my car door open and as I was about to leap out, I noticed that
Maloney once again had the microphone in his hand. “Dispatcher, this is
Scout 523. We’re at the scene. Cancel all other units. We’ll handle this,” he
said. He seemed unusually calm about what seemed to be a very serious
situation. I hurried over to the house where a woman who was obviously
very upset, stood on her doorstep nervously twisting her apron. “He’s dead,
I know he’s dead,” she kept repeating.
I started towards the downed cop but I felt Maloney’s big hand on my
shoulder as he pushed by me and knelt beside the prostrate figure. The man
on the ground was an older looking policeman in dirty breeches and scruffy
riding boots. His hair was long and matted and it had been a while since his
face had seen a razor. Maloney felt for the man’s pulse and leaned in closer
to smell his breath. “Phew!” he whispered “He’s dead all right, dead drunk.”
Then he turned toward the woman on the porch and announced in a loud
voice, “You were quite right, Madame, this constable has had a heart attack
but he is still alive. In cases like this,” he continued, “Time is of the essence,
so we better take him to the hospital in our patrol car. If we wait for an
ambulance it might be too late.”
With that he unceremoniously scooped the old guy up and while I
held the door open, threw him into the back seat of our scout car. “The
stables ain't far away,” he said. “I’ll take him there. Do you think you can
lead that nag that far without getting trampled?” “I’ll try,” I said as I made
my way over to the big gelding and watched with pleasure the look of
astonishment on Maloney’s face as he watched me grab the reins, vault into
the saddle and take off down the street ahead of him.
I took a short cut through a park, Christie Pits, and, putting the horse
into a canter, I beat Maloney to the stables on London St. I had just put the
horse into a vacant stall when he came through the door with the very limp
cop cradled in his arms. “Climb up that loft ladder and I’ll pass him up to
you,” he said. So I made my way up, dragged the drunk through the loft hole
then made him comfortable on pile of loose hay and left him to sleep it off.
As I descended the ladder I heard Maloney on the phone arranging for
somebody to come and take him home.
“So you’re quite the cowboy,” Maloney joked as we drove away.
“Why don’t you join the Mounted Unit?” “That guy up in the loft is the
reason I’m not interested,” I replied. “I’ve heard that half the guys in the
Unit are losers like him. Besides, I’m having a lot of fun doing what I’m
doing.” I explained to Maloney that I had been messing around with horses
for as long as I could remember. I told him how I had spent my summers
breaking and training horses and ponies for the summer camps and about the
little riding school I ran while attending high school. “I have two horses of
my own at my parents’ farm in Meaford and I’m up there every time I get a
day off,” I said. “Hell, I get all the riding I need as it is.”