Chapter 3
“I didn’t name them.”
-Aaron
A black and white spotted streak barrels past me into the open bay of the Flamingo Cove Fire Department - Engine One. Another streak is hot on its heels. They round the corner of the rigs parked in the bay. Seconds later, I hear a crashing sound and the shouting of my Assistant Chief.
“Char! Broil!”
I chuckle and stroll around the corner where two pygmy goats dressed in Dalmatian pajamas are bleating at Brigit Starkey, who is sitting on the floor, brushing off her legs.
“Tiny freaking menaces! Knocked me on my ass!”
“Maaaaaa!”
“I think they’re trying to tell you ‘it wasn’t me,’” I laugh.
“Chief! This is ridiculous!” Brigit gets to her feet, straightens her blonde ponytail, then shouts toward the inside of the station. “Treadway, Cochran! Get in here!”
Snickers reach us. Brigit drops the gear she was picking up and marches over to the nearby hallway, where she finds Holt Cochran and Slade Treadway. Somehow my five-foot-nothing right-hand person manages to grab the ears of the 6’3” Slade and the giant known as Captain Cochran.
“Get out here, you two troublemakers,” Brigit drags them into the bay, her eyes flashing with blue fire. “You brought these…menacesinto the firehouse… you pick up after them.”
Cochran and Slade can’t stop laughing long enough to answer her.
I’m no help. It’s pretty damn funny.
We answered a fire call two months ago at a hoarder’s home. The man had a ranch-style house on the outskirts of Flamingo Cove. By the time we got there, his 50 years of newspapers, and love of cheap Scotch, meant the house was a lost cause. The man managed to crawl outside, dragging his animals with him.
Four cats, five dogs, ten ferrets, a llama, and two pygmy goats.
Animal rescue operations around the state took in all of the animals, except the goats. They were emaciated, and vets didn’t think they’d survive.
One goat was all black with a white patch over his eye. My top-notch firefighting team melted into a puddle of goo and immediately named him Char. The other pygmy goat troublemaker has stripes of brown over his white coat. My gooey team called him Broil, gave me puppy-dog eyes, and begged for permission to bring them back to the firehouse as mascots.
My brand-new Assistant Chief went ballistic and cited all sorts of problems with having animals at the station including, health and safety inspections, proper care, and most importantly, she wasn’t cleaning up their shit.
The team sworeon their mothersthey would clean up after the goats, and they’d even put the little fellas in pajamas that made them look like proper firefighting dogs.
Watching my team turn into a pile of mush over pygmy goats made me incapable of saying no. Plus, I’d been sayingnofor too many years, and I was sick to death of it.
I was tired of playing bad cop. Or, in this case, bad fire chief.
So, I said yes to Char and Broil becoming official mascots of the Flamingo Cove Fire Department.
I’m regretting that decision today, though.
I step closer to the trio. “Cochran, Treadway. Looks like y’all have a mess to clean up. Brigit and I are here for roll call and inspection.”
Everyone stands straighter. “Yes, Chief.”
“Maybe you can get the probationary firefighters in here to help?” I raise an eyebrow.
Cochran nods. The 6’7” Fire Captain has red hair, green eyes, and a perpetual smile on his face. It earned him the nickname Jolly Green Giant. But he’s also a force to be reckoned with when shit turns serious.
“Probies! Get in here on the double!” Cochran yells for the recruits.
They file into the bay, lining up at attention, no questions asked.
