Bugs Bunny Wouldn't Survive Here

Dead critters in my back yard is not something I was expecting when we bought this house last fall.

I would describe where we live as a "sort-of rural" area. What I mean by that is, this county consists of a lot of small towns that are connected by country roads. I think of it as a big city where all the suburbs haven't quite grown together yet. Give it another 5 years.

In my 8 months here, I've seen more dead animals by the side of the road than I've seen in the last 30 years living in Colorado. Opossums, deer, raccoons, squirrels, ducks, chipmunks, cats, dogs, pretty much any animal you can think of, run over by cars and left for dead. They lay there for weeks. I don't think the county crews can keep up.

Last fall, I found a dead bird lying on the ground in my back yard. I'm not sure how it died, but I picked it up, using a plastic bag (fear of lice or whatever those creepie crawlies are that reside on dead bodies) and tossed it out. Okay, no big deal. Then, on Friday before the long Memorial Day weekend, I let my little 11 lb. Poochon (Bichon and Poodle mix) out for his morning constitution. Ten minutes later, when he still hadn't come back in, I looked out the kitchen window to see what he was up to. He was standing there, stock still, tentatively sniffing at something on the ground. I could see a small lump of grey and red in the grass. Uh-oh, I thought, another dead bird.

Except it wasn't. I couldn't quite figure out what it was at first. My eyes saw, my brain refused to cooperate. In a close little triangle, first we had grey and brown and white fur with a big red blotch on one end and two feet sticking up on the other. Next to that, a neat little pile of snakey-looking somethings that were light grey and wet, and a mere two inches away, was a tiny red thing I hadn't been able to see from the window. It consisted of 3 itty bitty triangles, each one a tiny bit larger than the last, laid in all-in-a row, as if a paper-thin string was holding them all together. Honestly, it looked like a Valentine ornament about to be hung in a window.

I must've stared for a good minute before the ol' brain finally kicked into gear. It was a bunny. Well, half of a bunny. The head, torso and front paws were missing. The poor little thing had been sheared or torn in half. I looked around wildly; what had done this? I saw no sign of a fight (fur, splattered blood, broken foliage), but if something could do that to a bunny, it could certainly do the same to my dog. I shooed the pooch inside, grabbed a handful of plastic bags and very shakily went out to collect the murder victim.

With the bag over my hand, I took hold of one of the paws. The bunny was still so pliable that I had a struggle trying to get the corpse into the bag. Rigor mortis hadn't set in yet, so the crime must've just happened. (Don't ask me if the bunny was still warm. UCK. I have no idea. I was operating on autopilot by then.) With a second bag, I attempted to pick up the grey, wet stuff. (intestines?) With the third bag, I tried scooping up the little red triangles. (heart?) I keep saying 'tried' because both of these things were wet and soft and .... well .... squishy.

:shudder: It's taken me days to work up the courage to write this.

I then put all the bags into a small box. What to do with the box? It's going to be hot all weekend -- and of course this has to be a THREE day weekend -- plus I'm getting visions of curious neighborhood cats or raccoons stopping by for a look. Between the expected heat and possibility of animals, I can't leave the box outside. So, into the garage fridge it goes.

It was a long weekend. Every time I had to go into the garage, I thought of the bunny. I was afraid to let the dog out. I still couldn't figure who the attacker might have been. My youngest son thought it was probably a raccoon. My husband thought the carcass was probably dropped by a hawk or maybe even a crow, perhaps while being chased by another bird of prey. Neither thought was comforting.

Before I go outside now, I warily scan the entire yard, afraid I'll see some other dead thing lying there. I worriedly watch the dog as he sniffs and runs. I also look skywards and think, "What if it was a bird ... and what if I'd been standing underneath when it fell?"

OMG.

A couple of days later, I got up to do something, happened to glance out the front window, and saw the neighbor's cat lying stretched out at the top of our driveway. It was belly up, like it'd been thrown there or had stopped to have itself a good, long, lazy stretch. It took half a second to realize the cat was under a truck. A quarter of a heartbeat later, the back tire ran over the cat (thump) and drove off. Didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't even blink. It just drove away. Assholes.

I squawked or screamed or something and was out the door in a flash, hubby right behind me. The cat (an orange tabby) struggled to stand upright, got on its feet and took off for the woods across the street in an uneven, sideways lurch. You could tell it was hurt. It took the neighbors, their kids, and us over an hour to coax the terrified cat -- his name was Billy -- out of the thick underbrush. They rushed him to the vet, but there was no hope. Billy the cat died later that night.

A day later, our little dog came in from outside, acting funny. He kept walking from room to room, head down, tail down, looking forlorn. He wouldn't sit down, wouldn't eat, wouldn't come to me, he just kept walking. "What's wrong, baby?" I picked him up to examine him, and it only took a moment to see the side of one paw was bloody; he'd torn one of his dew claws almost completely out. (Ugh. And OUCH.) Off to the vet we go. It is, of course, already infected and we have to, of course, perform surgery. The vet tells me his dew claws stick out too much, and we should remove both at the same time. I nod and agree, knowing what I'm saying, but still in a state of semi-shock. What is it with this county?

The dog came thru surgery fine. He's been on a "no jumping, running or stairs" regimine per doctor's orders for the past 10 days. He's also had to wear the Cone of Shame so he won't pull out the sutures. Yesterday was the first day he got to run free again and chase the chipmunks in the back yard. He's been in a sort of whirling-dervish mode, making up for lost playtime. It's hard to keep a 2 year old down.

This morning, we found 2 dead birds in the back yard. Baby birds. Yesterday they were fine, chirping away in their little birdhouses. This morning they're goners. We haven't a clue why.

Dear Bugs Bunny: You are one of my favorite cartoon characters (it's a tie between you 'n Snoopy, actually). Although I know you are not real, I still fear for your safety. Yes yes, I realize I'm being irrational, but, please humor me. I don't know if you've ever visited the northwest Chicago suburbs, but nevertheless, I don't want you to even think about coming anywhere near here. Do not, I repeat, do NOT take that left at Albuquerque.

Bugs? Bugs ... ? Are you listening .... ?

Water Pitcher People

I think we can all agree what customer service is supposed to be. Or, at least, what it used to be. But, let's ask the question, does it still mean what it did 20 years ago? Hardly. As a veteran with two decades in the field, I can tell you that the idea behind Customer Service has gotten lost. In this madcap 21st Century corporate world, where suits and skirts drink tall pitchers of water from the comfort of padded chairs around gleaming cherrywood tables, making decisions about jobs they've never held, the goal has become the silent exclamation of excel spreadsheets everywhere: The Bottom Line is Top Priority.

It reminds me of the movie Big, with Tom Hanks. As a 12 year old kid named Josh, trapped in an adult's body, he listens to grownups who think they know exactly what a kid wants in a toy. He's honestly puzzled. "What's a marketing report?" Their water pitcher reasoning makes no sense to him, so he raises his hand and tentatively says, "I don't get it."

I'm with Josh. I don't get it either.

Customer Service used to be handled at the local level, even in big companies. Managers came up from the ranks, having done a variety of jobs in the company, including yours. Armed with front line experience, they knew how it was to answer those phones and write those letters. It was like having an ally and a manager all rolled into one -- a nice balance.

But now the tides have turned. Corporate America's gotten the notion that people in remote conference rooms know what's best for us. The ironic part is that I have friends with those fancy business degrees, and don't get me wrong, they're good people. But all they've got is theoretical training and A Nice Piece of Paper. They have no actual experience. How could they possibly know what my job entails? And even more important than that, most of these folks tell me they could not and would not want my job. They'd rather whip up agendas, conjure magnificent spreedsheets and peruse marketing reports in between sips from their water glass. Okay, great. Somebody's got to do it and better them than me. But now, these clueless people, who've never done my job, who'd never aspire to it, are in charge of telling me how best to do my job. How strange is that? Why does Corporate America think this is such a sensible idea? It's like me opening a car repair shop and telling my mechanics with 20 years' experience, how to rebuild an engine. I may be a great manager type, but I know shit about what's under the hood. How successful do you think my little auto shop will be? Think about it. Would you bring your car to me?

I used to love being in customer service. The satisfaction of having helped people all day long is a wonderful feeling. But, oh Lord, how things have changed. For one thing, most customer service jobs are now in noisy, headache inducing call centers. Secondly, I can't help you like I want. I can only give you the pat answers you don't want to hear. And, I have to do it in record time to get you off the phone; 'cause it's all "hurry hurry! other callers are waiting!" Everything's about numbers; our average call time (ACT), number of calls answered (NOC), callers in the queue (CIQ), how much we help you (QIC). Acronyms R Us.

I feel like a soccer player frantically trying to kick your call into the net so I can yell Score! and move on to the next victim. Er, caller.

Customer service used to be considered the lifeblood of your business, your most important asset. It made or broke your business, because it gave you loyal customers, happy customers, word of mouth advertising. Now it's just considered a financial drain. Did you also know CS reps are considered to be one of the top ten most stressful jobs in the country? Yep. We come in at #4, #7 or #8, depending on who's doing the listing.

On the flip side of the coin we have the customers. Now, most of you are fine, and there are even a few we'd happily reach through the phone and hug, but you know the old adage: one bad apple in every bunch. Dealing with the public has always been an art form, but it's really become a test of patience lately, because of the instant-gratification / you-do-the-thinking-for-me mentality that's so rampant in America today.
You will never truly appreciate how stupid modern humans are until you've worked in a call center for a week. Really. We get asked the weirdest questions. We get asked out on dates, propositioned, threatened, screamed at and often treated like we're the psychic hotline. If you know anybody who works in a call center, and you're looking for a night of comedy without the high admission prices, invite 'em over for a drink. Even better, invite two or three.

Problem is, the combination of all these factors burn people out in a big hurry. The average length of employment in CS call centers is 6-12 months. Is it any wonder you get crap service and a different answer each time you call? By the time they know how to do their job and answer your questions, they're on their way out the door.

Call centers are also not very inspiring work environments. Picture a really large room, maybe an entire floor of an office building, filled with grey cubicles as far as the eye can see, manned by workers hunched over keyboards, tense and stressing over the seconds ticking away while you talk, who don't have time to breathe, stretch or chat with each other for 15 seconds between calls (and if they try, believe me, they get into trouble), who put you on mute so they can hurry and slurp a drink or eat the rest of their cold lunch. The noise level in the center ranges anywhere from a low drone to a rock concert din, depending on what day and time it is. Mondays are nuts. Lunch hour is crazy, and 5 o'clock quittin' time is downright fruity.

When I first went to work for a call center back in '01, I didn't know what one was. All I knew is the job required me to be a directory assistance operator. Great. I can do that. Training was a little sketchy (for some reason, that's the norm in the industry). Everybody else in training had previous call center experience, I was the only outsider to the biz. Our trainer was tired of training by the time he got to our class. So, he had us read from the manual for 5 days. We also told jokes, and took lots of breaks. By the end, only one person out of the fifteen trainees actually showed up for work the first day. Yep, that would be me. But with such iffy training, I was clueless. And terrified. I had NO idea what I was doing.

With lots of hand holding from really really great supervisors, I finally got on the phone, hands shaking, heart in my throat and BS'd my way thru the day. By the end of two weeks, I was an old pro.

Next up: humor. Meaning, a close-up of my first day. And some actual calls.