How I became the Director of Wildlife
The adjacent chair at my men’s-only barbershop spun around and there, deep into a Maxim Men’s Magazine was the ever-effusive Maxwell Gander, Provincial Director of Wildlife, getting shorn hisownself. Such good luck! I began shaking on his hand as a swarthy barber pressed a razor to his neck; befriended or throat-slit, I couldn’t lose. Max was cleaning up for an overseas wildlife meeting. As I tried to break his hand bones, he spouted off a proposal; “Lee, since you pointy headed professors know how to run a wildlife department better than any government biologists, how about you take the Wildlife Director chair for the next four days?” “Deal!” I spouted, then countered “Your office? Your staff?” He said “Yas, yas, whole operation”. Oddly, as he left, I saw a little spring in his step, maybe a small heel-click.
My first official action the next morning was to half my workload by gang-pressing the Game Club secretary Stan Wetzel to be my Assistant director and Chauffeur. Stan Wentzel, AKA “Snap Weasel”, is a country lawyer of some repute; not all of it bad either. We met for breakfast at our policy platform namesake, the Hokus Pokus across from the government offices so we could re-write the Wildlife Act.
Four Irish coffees later, we settled on our first cost-cutting decision: eliminate the coffee from Irish coffee. Our second motion? Ignore all the fancy pantsy biologist know-it-alls. In rapid succession, we saved all endangered species by re-naming them, adjusted academic recommendations to a 19/32ths curl rule on trophy bighorns; opened a sasquatch season; re-named all grizzly bears as “sasquatch bears” and prohibited ORV use on any surfaces not covered by soil, gravel, snow, or manmade substrates.
Our animated debate on mandatory recipes for walleye shore lunches made us peckish, so, off to the government cafeteria! As outdoorsmen manuvering with solo cups in hand, we demonstrated “quartering” by zig-zagging our way across lawns and through hedges. Such staggering flushed nothing but a government groundskeeper who threatened us with his hoe if we didn’t get out of his tulips. At the office door, the neckless security guard seemed high-spirited so Snap accepted his wrestling invitation. When we finally spilled out of the elevator at the receptionists’ desk. She was very busing filing. . .her nails. . . and sneered “Yeah?” The guard was a purple and mute from Snap’s famous “Connibear 660” chokehold. We deemed her our underling so we assigned her the CPR duties on the guard. She also casually buzzed in our wildlife clerk.
Clearly the clerk did all the governmenting in this fluorescent rat maze. She gave us official name badges and swipe keys to humiliate the gasping security guard. With one good-natured boot to the guard’s ribs, Snap followed us into the Director’s office. We sunk into the plush swivel chairs; genuine government surplus, covered in hide of the nauga. We tapped our toes gleefully on virgin asbestos floor tiles. The orange paisley curtains gave Snap a brief 60’s flashback but with the whole room spinning it mattered little! He had to spin in his chair counter-clockwise just to achieve a steady view.
The clerk laid out the day’s schedule: The Deputy Minister briefing in a half hour was clearly a little prank she was playing, Ha ha ha. Ignore that. A 30-cm stack of letters needing replies; clerk-wizard had sorted the 180 threatening emails needing responses and she informed us “Face-to-face meetings were scheduled with the gang of large men pacing angrily about the lobby as soon as we finished eating our lunch” Thankfully, we had only drunk our lunch so those interviews could be delayed a few days. She added “Thus far there were only 25 phone messages to return on the answe . . 26. . . ing machi . . 27. . . ine. . .28.”
Snap Weasel and I gave the secret signal — pulling hair while elk bugling-indicating we needed to cuddle and reorient. Clerk gal missed the signal but somehow ended up between us. Max can deal with that harassment lawsuit later. The red-faced clerk said “Well, it was good for me too!” OK ix-nae on the harassment suit.
I inquired about nearby smoking areas. The blushing clerk said “The designated smoking area is 450 meters over across the river in an unheated cement bunker plastered with hideous photos of ulcerated cancer sores. The snowshoe trail is obvious but watch for thin ice on the river crossing.” Needing fortitude for such a trek, I discretely asked “Might the Director keep a bottle of spirits in his office?” to which the Uber-Clerk replied “No, the only chemicals present are the wildlife darting equipment locked in the closet behind you.” As she took her leave, Snap quickly bent a paper clip and picked the lock . . . he WAS a lawyer after all.
If “Hair-of-the-dog” was good, “Hair-of-the-grizzly” must be better, so I fortified Snap with a syringe dart full of something that sounded like Guillotine Di-extra Clorox; his lawyerly preference for handguns drew him to a Cap-Chur dart pistol brimming with some sort of antidote reversal stuff. Hmmm . . . double negative . . . reverse antidote = pro-dote so “HIT ME!”
Cigarettes forgotten, that pro-doting chemical cocktail had me doting on every little thing including poor Snap, now slumped to the floor and beginning a slow motion imitation of a python as he slithered toward the door to ingest the guard. Fearing he would escape, I buckled a spare moose transmitter collar around him then, ear-tagged him for good measure.
With twitchy mega-doting speed — I dictated crisp directions to the clerk; “Reply to all phone messages:
‘Please leave a comment. Our call center has been outsourced; For service in Urdu, Press 1; for Hindi, Press 2; for Gujarati, Press 3; for Bengali press 4. For quality assurance purposes, calls may be monitored by the Kremlin; Unfortunately, all our operators are busy at this time, anticipated wait time is 11 hours.’”
If that didn’t dissuade them, the Bollywood elevator music probably would. There, that should get us past the end of working hours and after that, who cares? .
All e-mails got this automatic reply message:
“Thank you for your message. Your Government wants to hear your passionate but poorly informed opinion. You have 30 days to submit a written statement in both official languages, signed and notarized. Please include your $15 processing fee in Canadian currency. Disagreement with the Director will result in reduced draw priorities or revocation of your fishing license.”
Undoubtedly, Max would want us to leave snail mail to him. Canada Post? Probably 3 weeks late already.
Clearly, I was getting the hang of this government work! Yet, I worried about Snap. His tongue had developed a snaky fork and I wondered if that was the drugs or something all lawyers possesed. While I could make good use his tendency to bite, I worried about venom toxicity.
The truculent mob in the lobby was starting to swing anchor chains and break up furniture so we employed GSDT (Government Sensitivity Discourse Training) to reduce conflict. GSDT involved quietly taking the fire escape out the back of the building. While running this well-worn path, some gal almost tripped over the slithering Snap; I think it was the Deputy Minister. Not far behind, I could see Clerky banking off the handrails and gaining on us as we burst into the alley. With a rude tail-rattling gesture at the gardener, Snap steered us back towards the Hokus Pokus to toast our bureaucratic excellence. There I officially concluded my Director’s stint on a high note, having accomplished a solid 4-days of effective government work in just 3 hours.
Finally, if I have neglected to offend anyone in this column (written for Government employee friends on April Fools), I apologize and you may take it up with Snap.
