Bureaucracy and The Racoon

 

    In 1920 my grandmother had an apartment on State Street in Brookline Mass in the early days of her marriage. One day she looked out her window to the street below and noticed a dead racoon on the sidewalk just outside the door to her Brownstone. What it was doing in such a busy city and how it came to this unfortunate end was anybody's guess. She felt pity for the poor creature and if she only had a back garden, she would have given it a decent burial herself. Since she did not, she decided that the all-important city of Brookline and its fine members at City Hall could help her in this situation.

    Thus begins this tale of the blind trust of the innocent.

    First, she called the Police Department to see if they knew who to actually contact in such cases. The person on the other end of the line identified himself as Claude and was rather put out that someone would bother Brookline's finest with such a paltry concern. He suggested to call the fire Department.

    "They have ladders." Exclaimed Claude.

    "But the animal is not stuck in a tree but rather it is on the sidewalk." My grandmother corrected in her Welsh brogue.

    "Well, they have shovels." And Claude hung up.

    Ever hopeful my grandmother ventured forward and dialed up the local fire station.

    The man on the other end of this dead-end conversation was equally put out that such an august body as Brookline's Fire Department should take the time to remove a dead animal.

    " You need to call the Dog Officer." But he was unable or unwilling to locate the phone number.

    She did locate the number for the Dog Officer and by this time my grandmother was showing an edge to her voice, so he decided to handle her with kid gloves.

    "Lady, we only handle domestic pets. We don't pick up wild animals. You will have to call the Game Warden in Boston."

    Boston! She thought. No way was she going to try the labyrinth of state offices just to remove a dead animal. No, instead she tried the sanitation department. Surely a dead animal was not exactly sanitary. 

    With a lofty tone the Civil Servant informed my grandmother they only pick up rubbish not dead animals and she was referred to the Highway Department.

    By now the word was getting around to the various offices that some crazy English lady was calling about removing an animal from her porch. The man at the Highway Department was not much help either but he did win the prize for best dodge of the week.

    "We only clean the streets lady, not the sidewalks."

    By now my grandmother wasn't having any more of this nonsense and she went downstairs and prodded the dead raccoon into the street with a broom. She went back inside and called the Highway Department again.

    "Are you trying to be funny lady?" Growled the man.

    "No! I'm just trying to get rid of a dead animal on the sidewalk!"

    In any event a truck was finally dispatched to State Street and the sympathetic driver assured my grandmother he would take care of the animal himself. Within minutes the racoon debacle was over, but it had taken the better part of a day and several phone calls with little to no avail.

    A few days later my grandmother was walking home when she noticed a commotion on the street corner. She joined the crowd of curiosity seekers to discover that the ice man's horse had detached himself from the ice cart and had fallen dead right onto...

The sidewalk.