It started with an unexpected and disturbing phone call:
“Hello Mrs. Bigelow,” an authoritative voice greeted, “I am John Malinowski, a warden with the California Department of Fish and Game.”
“Oh my...”
“I’m calling you because your license plate number was one on a list supplied to us by the Border Patrol as being in the Campo area during the third week of April.”
“Uh oh,” I thought to myself.
“You see, we have received several complaints pertaining to a particular problem husband. Did you happen to perform a relocation at that time?”
“Oh no Mr. Malinowski, I was merely picnicking in the area.”
“We aren’t usually able to attribute these types of complaints to a single subject, but your husband, er, I mean the unknown perpetrator has distinguishing markings in the form of duct tape on the seat of his shorts.”
“That doesn’t sound like my husband.”
“He probably received some assistance from problem husband sympathizers. They have been known to help them along the migration corridor by doing things such as clipping toenails and treating blisters. One of them probably patched up his shorts.”
“What do you mean ‘them’ and ‘migration corridor?’”
“The migration is somewhat early this year. I suppose with the light winter, several husbands came out of hibernation early. The communities along the route are used to minor disturbances resulting from the migration, but your husband, er, I mean Patch Pants, as we refer to him, is becoming a problem.”
“How do you mean Mr. Malinowski?”
“We have several complaints... chasing ducks at the park in Warner Springs Palm Springs
“What’s so bad about that?”
“They need to make progress northwards before the summer heat. Patch Pants seems unable to navigate the interstate highway and railway that interrupts the migration corridor at Cajon.”
“Oh dear.”
“You see Mrs. Bigelow, many can make it past the highway, but only if they remember how to read.”
“Figures.”
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Bigelow, that unless you do, I mean unless something is done soon, I will need to catch him and return him to his owner... for his own safety you understand. The ones who retain language skills can sometimes be coaxed along, but I’m afraid all attempts to approach Patch Pants have been unsuccessful.”
 |
| Sarah rescuing Patch Pants. |
“Oh please don’t... I mean, I’m sure he’ll move along soon... very soon.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. Bigelow. I’ll wait a few days before I commence capturing operations.”
Well, I was really concerned that Mr. Malinowski would return Jay. I was counting on him not coming home until next fall when he would be ready for hibernation. I knew I had to act fast....
I drove to Cajon and, after some asking around, found the dumpster he had been frequenting. I left a Snickers bar there, only I had stuffed some Benadryl inside it. That night I saw Jay furtively make his way to the dumpster. Spying my bait, he consumed it immediately. By the time he spit out the wrapper, he was already losing consciousness. I quickly replaced his shorts to regain his anonymity. Then I weighed him... 173 lbs. but there was still plenty of fat on him (Mr. Malinowski had mentioned that problem husbands need to retain enough winter fat to last them until grasshopper season). I then quickly downloaded the pictures off of his collar cam and then dragged him behind the dumpster. Returning to my car, I lugged out a case of Snickers. I left a trail of candy bars along the signed pedestrian route through the maze of underpasses at Cajon Pass.
Well...that was the best I could do for now. I am still worried Jay will return early though. I’ll have to think of some way of prolonging his “migration.”
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