Vermont in the springtime. The weather warms. The flowers bloom. The birds sing. Of course, this story has nothing to do with any of that.

I was sitting at my stool at the Crazy Horse, blowing off a little steam by working on my tenth Budweiser. I was just coming from a meeting with the sheriff, or as I also call him, Dad. I wasn’t really happy with him (as is often the case ) because he informed me that for the spring, I would be working with a Jr. Deputy. It’s a program designed to take a youth who has visited us in the past, some many times, and work with them. Sort of like a big brother. We try to take them under our wings and show them that being on the right side of the law is the way to go, or at least that’s the theory.

The Jr. Deputies handle light duties, traffic details, answering the phones, and sometimes we even take them with us on routine follow-up calls. Sometimes we even have them watch the prisoners in the holding cells and that kind of stuff.

My Problem? I really just don’t like playing babysitter, as you are still responsible for their actions.

A couple of days later, I met with my Jr. Deputy. His name was Kevin McGrath. He was a 19-year-old, tall and lanky guy. He had an artistic talent. Unfortunately, he used public properties as his backdrop.

Kevin was a nice enough guy to hang around with (even though I knew from the second I met him that he had no desire whatsoever to make a career out of law enforcement). We even hung around after work and played a lot of hoops. (OK, he kicked my ass at hoops, but I carried the gun!)

I could tell he was more than a little bored with the trivial duties that I was assigning him. So for a change of pace, a couple of days a week, I would let him tag along as I patrolled High Street. It was the most active street in our coverage, as it led to the highways. His only duty was to watch, but it was better than answering phones. (I assumed.)

One sunny day, (about halfway into Kevin’s three-month program, ) we rolled up to an empty, banged-up station wagon. I wasn’t sure if it was banged up before it hit the telephone pole, or not, but it certainly was now.

After calling for a hook, I quickly found the driver stumbling down the road, about a mile away. She was obviously intoxicated and, luckily for her, apparently uninjured. After a trip to the hospital, (she just had some bumps and bruises, ) I took her back to the station, and she was booked for DUI.

She was so drunk that I’m sure she will never remember the strip search. Although I’m sure Kevin will never forget it, as it was the first one I let him observe, and you never forget your first. She was a little on the heavy side, (alcohol will do that to ya, ) so I told Kevin we would have to do a little better next time, with a wink. Still, the look on his face was priceless when I told the young woman to take off her bra and panties. Funny, when she did, she asked me for her pajamas, while also calling me mom.

After she was buck naked, (I skipped the cavity search -- didn’t want her peeing on me, ) we got her into a large T-shirt that says, “Property of Vermont State Police,” on the front. It was a little harder than normal, because in her drunken state, she favored to just stay naked at that point. We finally walked her to the holding cell. Just in time, as it turned out, because she began puking in the lone toilet, as soon as we got her in there. Her two roommates, REALLY happy to see her.

When I got back upstairs, I remember that she called me mom, and I figured I’d better call hers, even though she was 20 years old. I got the number from her wallet, and was all too soon taking to a raucous woman. I calmly told her where her daughter was and hung up. As it had been my experience that it was futile to converse with a stunned parent on the phone.

About a half hour later, I heard a commotion at the front desk. It didn’t take me long to figure out that “MOM” was here. She stormed past the deputy working the front desk and headed right for me. As I assumed, he told her that I was the arresting officer.

“How dare you arrest my daughter?” She sneered. “She’s never drank in her life!”

(By just her opening statement, I knew I was in for a headache with this one.)

“My daughter had an accident, and you throw her in a cage, like an animal. She should be at the hospital!” she hissed, her squeaky voice rattling my bones.

“I’m a lawyer. She has rights, and I demand to see her this instant!” she barked, as she slammed her fist into my desk, while also tossing me her business card.

(I just sat back in my chair, as she huffed and puffed away.)

“Well, don’t just sit there; take me to her this instant!” she shrieked.

“Are you done?” I finally offered. The older lady folded her arms over her chest and offered her steely gaze to me.

“Your daughter has been involved in an accident ... yes ... but we had her checked out at the hospital, before we booked her. The doctor said she was fine, just a little drunk,” I said, before handing her a copy of the doctor’s report.

“Now, are you here as her mother, or are you here as her attorney?” I could see her pondering my question, as she had to know I asked it for a reason.

“I am both,” she finally mumbled.

“Well, if you’re her attorney, I would tell you to come back in the morning, for her arraignment. If you’re here as her mom, I will let you see her tonight,” I said, not satisfied with her answer. She quickly folded her arms again and stared me down.

“I would like to see my daughter,” she said, in the calmest voice she had displayed so far.