I grab a slimy piece of shrimp from the frozen package.
It’s exoskeleton is crunchy, as I hold the disgusting little critter motionless between my fingers.
Like shoe leather popping, the hook pokes through the tough piece of bait.
I set the bail and make sure the line is not tangled at the rod’s tip.
I step toward the undulating sea and gaze upon the vast expanse.
Beyond the first breaker; Sea Birds are dive bombing the reef.
Their flight is seemingly chaotic yet somehow orchestrated. Like a ballet of winged insanity they dip and dive and suddenly strike the surface of the water with their beaks. I watch the frenzy and think back to the night the war first started. I envision that green night scope video that looks like so many fire flies dodging triple A fire over the skies of Baghdad.
I squint into the reflective brilliance of the setting sun. The light is piercing as it richochets off the rippling surf. Through the bursts of sunlight, small fish jump, like tiny pieces of aluminum foil sparking inside a microwave oven.
Experience tells me that larger, more toothy predators scouring the reef are hungry and the little fish are trying to grow wings to escape their fate.
It is late afternoon and the sun is setting. The Gulf water is warm and inviting. The trade wind is just right and I half expect to see a pirate ship rise over the horizon.
I rear back and toss my line as if I’m a centerfielder throwing a runner out at the plate.
ZZZZZZZZZ
Goes the reel as the bait soars through the pristine blue sky.
Plop!
It lands in the water, just behind a wave.
I set the reel and give the line a few tugs.
I begin walking back to my beach chair half buried in the wet sand. I am relieved that my Corona is still upright. I hear it calling my name in a soft hispanic accent.
“Andres, mi casa es su casa”
I chuckle knowing that a beer would never say that.
Suddenly.
Tug.
Tug.
Bend.
The rod tip is all ready dancing. I forget about the beer and move back to the waves. I stop in ankle deep surf as tiny sand critters dance around my toes.
I’m using 8lb test so you wonder is it the tide pulling at the line? Is it a catfish nipping at the bait? Or is it…
ZZZZZZZ
The rod does a 180 and it is almost jerked out of my hands. Something is on the line and it’s ripping out line like a nautical missile.
I try and wind the reel, but for every revolution, the creature on the other end takes twice as much line.
The birds are in a frenzy, like a protest demonstration in the Middle East.
I swear I hear them chanting Death to America over the churning roar of the sea.
No time for feathered Al Quaida, as I regather my focus. I watch as a squadron of silver and blue fish dance under the current of water before me. Occassionally one of these streaking creatures, breaks the surf and begins dancing, almost skipping on the wave crest in another direction, trying to avoid being some larger fishes dinner.
I feel my biceps tire and my wrist grow numb as I fight the demon fish that tugs at my line with a weight lifters anger.
A crowd has gathered behind me now. Sun burned kids are staring at me in awe as the rod bends almost in half.
Old ladies with old lady hats and old lady swim suits that are more like ugly aquatic dresses, stand nearby and ask what I have.
“Not sure,” I mumble as I roam the beach like an expectant father in a waiting room. Ultimately I raise the rod and lower the rod and move in and out of the churning sea trying to create some leverage on this beast, but the beast has an adversion to sand and air, and it is reluctant to come to shore.
And so it goes. I wind the line in, the beast pulls the line out.
ZZZZZZ.
I pause periodically to watch Joggers slow and stare. They are wearing IPODS, their ears filled with so much sound, the ocean’s roar is mute. To the scrawny joggers with the scrawny jogging bikinis jogging by, my stretch of beach is a lame ass rock video where a pasty faced white dude fighs a fish while his Corona empties into the sea.
After 60 minutes of battling this monster, the moment of truth as a large winged shadow emerges in the wave.
“It’s a ray,” a veteran fisherman hollers to the crowd.
“It’s huge. They fight like hell. He’s hunkered down in the sand. He’s toying with ya.”
The bearded, dirty fisherman seems content, knowing that I will never land this creature on 8 pound test. He begins to walk away as if the answers of the universe now exist at the bottom of the potato chip bag he is pushing his dirty fisherman hand into.
Screw that fishing dude, I think to myself as I wind the rod for the one millionth time.
At least now I know what I’m fighting, but getting the winged bat creature to shore, well that is going to be much more arduous than I thought.
Another 15 minutes go by. I am sweating and tired. I see my Corona has tipped over and is filled with sea water. I lick my salty lips knowing that a Corona would truly hit the spot.
I continue pacing laterally back and forth along the sand to dislodge the sea demon that has showed me just a tiny glimpse of his massive self before ripping off another 100 yards of mono fillament.
My muscles are aching and I want this creature caught, if nothing else, to satisfy the hunter gatherer that is burning within, but the longer I pull on the line and the more he rips the line out, the more likely it is that this batman of the ocean is going to spit the hook or break the line.
It’s almost 90 minutes now. The crowd has come and gone. Some faces are familiar. Others are new. 90 minutes is a long time to watch a man fight a fish.
The sun is setting into the sea. It’s a blistering orange. The edges of the sinking spere are hazy as the ball of fusion blurs into the orange clouds of the horizon.
Sweat and salt is dripping down my forehead, into my eyes, and into my ears. I feel a bead of something trickle into my ear canal and roll down my eustachian tubes. It itches and I want to scrunch the back of my tongue to try to scratch the inner itch, but it can’t be done.
I turn the spool three times, pulling the rod tip high and then winding on the way down. I’ve done this a thousand times now, and each time, I wind, like a ruthelss, interminable game of tug of war, the creature equals the distance of the fight.
Suddenly.
SNAP!
The line breaks.
The rod tip is quiet. A piece of barely visible fishing line dances in the gentle zephyr that floats along the shore.
The sun quietly dips into the horizon with a hush.
The wind momentarilly picks up, as if the sinking ball of fire has displaced some great atmoshperic treasure trove.
An old lady who has periodically watched my hour and ahlf battle walks beside me.
She is drinking from a red party cup. The ice in the container clinks against the plastic sides.
“Lost him huh?”
Her words are simple. She wears a smile on her face. She has an adult beverage. Life is still good.
“Yeah. Really wish I had been able to beach the bastard.”
She smiles and sips from her cup.
“Tomorrow,” She says.
I walk back to my mostly submerged beach chair and place the fishing pole in the holder still wedged into the sand. I shake my mostly numb hands and flex my swollen right bicep. I swallow a gulp of salty saliva pretending that it is a frosty Corona. Imagination is all I have, because my beer is now a warm disgusting tidal pool where crabs and sand denizens are stewing in a drunken bachannalia of Mexican livation.
I look around and the world is oblivious to the epic battle that I have waged and lost. The world moves on as it always does, doing what the world always does at sunset.
People are on decks admiring the last gasp of purple and orange painting the sky.
Children, freshly showered and wearing american flag t shirts are running bare foot through the sand, destroying whatever is left of the sand castles that had been constructed during the day.
The smell of charcoal lighting up on every deck is thick as it mixes with the smell of ocean air.
The orange haze of the sky has given way to a blueish purple hue. It is beautiful and calm. There is a trace of refreshing breeze that cools the moment.
I carry as much as my arms can hold; folding chair, empty beer bottle, bait box, fishing pole and head for the board walk.
My feet hit the tired old boards and my eyes scan for rusty, pertruding nails that seemingly pop up over night.
I throw my head into the outdoor shower and enjoy that moment as cleansing cool water wipes away the sweat and sand and skuzz of the day.
A little shampoo and some soap and I am rejuvenated, ready for an evening of star gazing and bar b que grills and adult beverages that lead to stories of years gone by and dreams yet to fufill.
This is one small moment of one great day.
Take time to admire these moments. They are a gift to be cherished.
Ron Ingay lights up a cigarette as he watches me and Al flutter around his tiny living room.
The small Rutherford County home reminds me of a fishing cabin. It is clean and cozy. There are pictures on the walls, next to mounted animal heads.
On the nearby Coffee table lays Ingay’s dented helmet. It is black, with a large scratch on the crown, just above the sticker that reads: God let me be the person my dog thinks I am.
“Probably kept me from dying,” the 49 year old motorcycle rider says between drags on a cigarette. » Continue Reading
Let me read this to you, I say to the young father.
The wind is blowing forcefully and the packaging is bending from the force of the gust.
Warning; This hose contains chemicals including lead. Known to the state of California to cause cancer, birth defects and other reproductive harm.”
I look up from the container warning and smirk momentarily at the man. I feel like we should be wearing contamination suits as we stand beside the tomato patch that is his back yard. I finish reading.
“Do not drink water from this hose. Wash hands after use.”
I laugh out loud throwing the hose packaging into the back of the man’s pick up truck.
Jesse Geasley returns my smile of disbelief. The Rutherford County man is shocked that these words are coming from a garden hose instead of something much more nefarious.
“It’s like you need a toxic biological suit to grow tomatoes out here man.”
“Yeah, it’s insane,” Geasley says. “You wouldn’t want this in your back yard would you?”
This is the one I bought. They get smaller on the more expensive one.
Like most of us, Geasley bought a hose. He purchased his at Wal-Mart, but it could have come from any retailer.
He was shocked when he saw the warning label that is neatly hidden on the back of the package. He holds it up so I can see it.
The name of the hose is prominently displayed on the front. There are children running though a fun filled stream of water.
It discloses how strong the hose is and how long the hose is and the warrant that comes with the hose, but nowhere in prominent display does it say, using this product might cause your child’s IQ to suffer.
“I thought it was insane that some thing you use every day has lead in it,” Geasley says. “it shouldn’t be there. It’s messed up there is lead in any product, but its insane that lead can come into contact with anything that can come into contact with your children.”
Easley’s toddler, Ethan, runs into his daddy’s arms, as if on cue. The little boy has big blue eyes and a cute as hell little face. He reminds me of the little boy in Close Encounters of a Third Kind.
“And it’s not even on the front where you can see it, Easley says snatching up his close encounters look a like son. “Unless you look at the back, you don’t see the warning at all. It was covered by the hose. wrapped up so well. Unless you were looking for it, you’d never know.”
I laugh as I lean toward little Ethan. He is shy and is uncomfortable by two noisy news guys with a camera stuck in his face.
“Hey Ethan, wanna wear a space suit while you play with the hose? That sounds safe huh?”
The adults laugh at the absurdity of a hose causing brain damage. Ethan pushes his face into his dad’s chest wondering what lunacy this Messed Up blithering idiot is spewing and why his daddy is laughing along with him.
I rub the little boy’s head as we move to the tomato patch.
As Geasley hooks up his hose, I think back to the numerous people I told about this story. You know what was shocking, not one of them had ever heard that a garden hose could be dangerous to your health. Not my news managers, not Bob Mueller or Neil Orne, not Brian Todd at the Metro Public Health Department, Not John Howser at Vanderbilt Medical Center, not my trusty camera man Al Devine, who by himself has an unbelievable encyclopedic knowledge of life. The more people who had never heard that a hose has a warning label because of lead content, the more I started to realize that this was a serious That is Messed Up with some powerful consumer oriented issues.
Honestly, can a hose with lead content kill you? Probably not. Could it injure or impair a child?, I suppose it could if you drank from the hose morning, noon and night. The question I have is, shouldn’t consumers be armed with knowledge, the knowledge that they are buying a product that is safe for the uses they have planned. I think its unfair to hide a warning: this hose might cause birth defects and cancer, on the back of some hose packaging that you need a microscope to see in the first place.
Wouldn’t every mom and dad pick a hose with less lead content knowing that their children might spray themselves or their friends in the back yard. Would any parent choose a hose with a danger warning that the hose might cause their child’s IQ to drop simply because they decided to drink from the hose. I mean, come on, it’s summer time and kids are suppose to drink from the hose.
Geasley turns on his hose and begins watering his tomato patch.
“Who would ever thought anything like a garden hose could affect your health.” The wind picks up and the water sprays across my lens causing droplets to glisten in the sunshine.
“You water your plants with it. And your kids play in it every day. Who would think they would put a poison like that in something so simple.”
Poison, I think to myself. That’s a powerful word, but then again, it’s not like Q tips come with a warning: stick this in your ear and you might get a brain tumor.
I interview Mrs. Geasely. She is also incensed that she has to check the carcinogen warning for a simple garden hose purchased at Wal-Mart.
“can’t believe in America, we can go to store and buy a hose that has something toxic in it. Ad let our kids play with it.”
On the way back to Nashville, we stop at Harley Davidson. I am interviewing motorcycle riders about another issue, but the man from Williamson County sitting on the back of the Harley is so engaging, I decide to throw the hose issue by him.
“Lots of hoses have lead,” I tell him. “There are different degrees of lead content. And when the water comes out, sometimes it carries that lead with it.”
The man in the Harley has his arms folded across his chest. He is amused, as I continue my half rant, half question.
“Haven’t we always heard; no lead in paint? no lead in gas? well it’s summer time baby. I’m drinking from the hose. what do you think about that?”
The man unfolds his arms. A large smile crosses his unshaved face.
“That might be what’s wrong with me!”, he says laughing out loud.
“You were that baby that drank from the hose, huh?”
He laughs again. “That’s me.”
I go to the Metro Public Health Department and quiz Brian Todd on the issue. Like so many of us, Todd had not heard of garden hose danger either, but he had done some homework and was well prepared to answer my questions on the topic.
“When I came to you initially and said, can you believe there are warning labels inside hoses, you were surprised weren’t you?”
“I was,” Todd says. ” You look at hoses. There are no warnings on the label. I guess it’s in the packaging. We want the consumers to be aware of this issue.”
“according to JAMMA and other medical reports: Little kids and some of the wrong hoses could be a bad combination?”
Todd nods. “Especially those with high levels of lead. Children under six are still growing. Their central nervous system is still growing. It Can impact them more than a full grown person.”
“Have you taken any reports, I ask.
“not that I know of,” he continues, “but we want consumers to be aware. We are not aware of any lead poisoning because of this. people with young children should be aware. Know the symptoms of lead poisoning.”
Todd tells me the symptoms:
symptoms: include: stomach ache. Body ache. Head ache. More severe symptoms of lead poisoning can include brain damage.
I amp up the rhetoric as I so often do. “Come on dude, it’s summer time. I got the Baby pool out. My kids are drinking from the hose and Now I have to worry about brain damage?”
Todd is a fun loving guy, but he decides to stay all business for the interview.
” Well the likelihood of that happening is probably very low. but we want people to know. Look at your hose. when they buy the hoses when they contain lead. Make sure kids not drinking from them. when you look at the warning. On the hose packaging. Small type. It’s something that more consideration should be given. And put on the hose itself.”
I am happy with this episode of that is messed up. I don’t know if the issue is a life or death scenario, but I feel that consumers should be aware of the options they have, especially when their families health is at stake.
Michael pulls his hat down firmly on his skull, what’s left of his afro brimming out the sides.
“Let’s roll,” the grizzled vet says.
We begin our trek toward the front security entrance of Legislative Plaza. We follow the gentle slope toward the large metallic doors that frame the building.
I turn toward the camera. Michael focuses on me.
“You rolling?”
Michael rolls his eyes as if to say come on dude, I’ve been working with you off and off for close to a dozen’s years, of course I’m rolling fool.
“ok here’s what we’re doing, we’re going into legislative plaza, we’re going thru the traditional way, it is probably not that difficult to get through. We’ll go thru a metal detector, there are probably guards, they are going to search us, this is probably the way it should be done.”
I look up to guage our proximity to the large marble edifice before us.
I have enough room for one more preamble.
“My question is, once i’m inside, how hard will it be to prop open a door, or let someone else in who has not been security cleared at all. We’re going to find out.” » Continue Reading
It all starts when Metro Motrocycle Cop Marvin Keith spots a handicap placard that doesn’t match the car it is hanging in.
The car is parked outside a building where metro employees work.
Keith writes a ticket and the woman driving the car confronts him.
“We had a lady using a placard for free parking. It had been altered, and when we checked, the placard didn’t match the car. After I put a parking ticket on it, she came out of the biz she works in and confronted me about the parking ticket and that is when I found out she is using supposedly her mother’s handicap placard to park for free.
so I issued her an arrest citation. For illegal use of a handicapped placard plus the fact the placard was altered on one side. so I seized the placard.
she was rude and belligerent toward me, she was Upset she couldn’t use the placard she claims cause she thought her mother is handicapped and she carried her mother around, but her mother wasn’t with her at the time, and She works in this building. one of the Metro office buildings here at 222 3rd avenue.
I took her placard. She told me well I have heel spurs i’ll go to the doctor and get my own placard tomorrow. I didn’t think much about it. till the Next day. I found the car almost in the same spot with a temporary handicapped placard. Issued to her that morning at 8:30 the reason was different: it was not heel spurs, it was lower back problems. I called the office and asked the reason for the placard and they told me that some doctor supposedly issued for between her getting off work the day I issued her the citation and 8:30 the next morning.”
I call the woman who is arrested. She tells me that she didn’t knowingly abuse the system. She tells me that her mother is very sick and she drives her mother around frequently, though she admits, her mother was not with her at the time.
The woman will eventually surrender herself and plead guilty. she will get a 50 dollar fine and ordered to pay court costs.
The woman got her temporary tag in Davidson County, Where more than 70,000 have been issued. John Arriola runs this office and he tells me that he knows the system is being abused.
“the Purpose of those is to Help people in a temporary disability situation where physician feels they need assistance and need to be parked closer to an exit and entrance Based on state law, we require a six month review, so on a temporary disability. Physician fills out the form. We take the form and issue the temporary placard, and If the person needs another six months, the physician has to fill out another form to approve that second disability placard.
I ask about the abuse and what can be done.
“are you concerned there could be an abuse of the system?”
“Oh sure, there is always that potential. people always look for a way to extend those placards and use them again and again and again. We follow state law. But it means the police have to enforce it. means more time and effort. Checking these numbers to make sure they match the vehicle and the person. It is messed up. And It causes a lot of problems. you Try and do things for people with a disability. but you have people who will always abuse the system. you have to watch it and make sure the info we have is correct.”
I also talk to Floyd Stewart Jr. who has been in a wheel chair for the last 23 years with what he calls a broken neck.
“I have a cervical level spinal cord injury. I have a broken neck. I have been in a chair for 23 years now.
I really feel violated in a lot of ways. I have seen people who are not disabled use those placards. First. It’s against the law. and It’s rude to deprive people who have limited mobility of access to public places private facilities unlawfully. That is the bottom line.
“what’s your message to people,” i ask.
“My message to people is: put yourself in my shoes. I can’t traverse a sidewalk or a curb. Put yourself in another’s shoes. And do the right thing. It’s simple be honest. Have integrity. it’s not like I can access sidewalks and driveways like everyone. I have limitations. This chair limits me. That is one thing I have learned. You can’t teach integrity. People have to reach down deep in side and know to do the right thing.”
When I return, News 2 will have a new News Director; Matt Zelkind. Actually Matt is my old newsdirector who first brought me to Middle Tennessee in 1996; so we have a long history together.
He knows of That’s Messed Up, but has not seen one live. He doesn’t know how popular it has become in a short amount of time.
Hopefully he’ll like the “Franchise” as much as many of you folks do and we’ll just keep on keeping on.
Keep writing in this space. Rant and email ideas, and call the hotline at 369-7221. I’ll check it all when I return.
Joe Frazier has been at the Farmer’s Market for 51 years. He sells a wide array of flowers.
“They are taking two stalls from me for no reason,” the 70 year old man says.
Randy Boone says his family has been at the Farmer’s market for 44 years.
“I’ve been down here all winter long and lost money. Now its time to make money and they are taking my stalls. I’m angry,” the bearded man says with a scowel that seems unfitting for a happy place where watermellons are being sold.
Margie Maxwell sells flowers and has been on the Market for 30 plus years.
“I think it is unfair,” she tells me a bit bewildered by it all. “I’ve Been here in and out. And to come and take away our livielhood take away our stalls, is unfair. It hinders my space, it hinders my Displayability. It’s not right.”
Starting June 1st, these 3 long time vendors will lose a combined 5 stalls. A stall is a 10 foot by 30 foot section of space they rent where they display and sell their produce. Mr. Boone tells me that he pays 2200 dollars a month, every month, through good times and bad.
To these people, losing space means losing income. They believe that their combined 100 plus years in the Farmer’s Market should give them priority.
They claim the Market management is indiscriminately taking their stalls to give to a farmer who has not been on the market before.
Jeff Themm is Director of the Farmer’s Market. He tells me;
“Farmers Market has been a here a long time, and we have done some market research recently. We have found that Customers want more farmers down here. They’ve been clear about that and what We are trying to do is provide more space for more local farmers. We have a lot of resellers down there, who buy and sell from farmers and produce houses, but we do have farmers who do want to come down here and we are trying to open some space for some farmers.”
I ask about empty space in the second barn. Themm’s eyes widen.
“That is a problem. The front shed on 8th avenue side is where all the business is. No one wants to be in the back where you get little traffic. Everyone wants to be where the customers are so they can do some business.”
Finally, I spoke by phone with the farmer who is getting those five stalls; his name is Troy Richards who tells me he has 250 acres in Davidson county where he grows turnip greens, and colards, and spinach, and green onions and lettuce and well just about everything.”
“Davidson County is where the Farmer’s Market is,” he says with a snap in his voice. “Ain’t none of them farmers. I pay 25,000 dollars in land taxes and I have as much right as anyone to be there. They only hurt the farmers,” he says.
I ask how, when Mr. Boone tells me he sells for 5 Tennessee Farmers who don’t have time to come and sell their products at the market.
“They don’t want me down there they have to boy it for what i can sell it for,” he says succinctly pointing out that the vendors like Mr. Boone are essentially middle men between the farmers and the consumers.
“And anytime you go to the market, it should be home grown and frsh and cheaper than the stores,” he adds, now on a roll. “and it’s not. Well I can sell my stuff cheaper and i have a lot of it.”
Below is the history of the market straight from their web site: What it won’t tell you is that the Market is changing, dramatically for some, and those changes are coming June first:
HISTORY
Since it’s inception on the town square in the early 1800’s, the Farmers’ Market has been a vital part of Nashville life. Although the market has had several homes, one thing has remained constant; a love of shopping for the best produce, food and bargains in an exciting community setting.
In the early 1800’s Nashville constructed a new City Hall and Market House on the west side of the downtown public square. It was not uncommon to see an overflowing of market vendors lining up on the square four to five rows deep with their wagons to sell fresh products.
During the 1930’s, the City Hall, Market House and Courthouse Buildings were demolished to make way for the new Davidson County Courthouse. A new Market House was constructed on the north side of the square.
In the mid-1950’s the City moved the Farmers’ Market to a new location just north of Downtown on Jefferson Street.
In 1995 the Farmers’ Market was renovated as part of the Bicentennial State Park Mall development. The Market now stretches from Harrison to Jackson Streets on Eighth Avenue and covers 16 acres of urban land.
Today the market is still home to a daily Farmers’ Market with local farmers and produce re-sellers; an interior Market House with eateries and specialty food shops; and a weekend Flea Market with independent entrepreneurs selling new and used items.
Frank Parrish scrunched his nose as he ponders my question.
I look at the 67 year old’s long white beard that gently ruffles in the breeze.
This Ernest Hemmingway look a like rubs his chin as his blue eyes gaze at me beneath a layer of white shag carpet that doubles for eye brows.
“I do feel like I’m being victimized twice,” he tells me.
To Parrish, Graffiti is an execrable crime that saturates the quality of his life with negativity. Graffiti is more than just the symbolic evil that clings to every flat surface, it’s a physical strain on citizens who have to continually reach into their own wallets to clean up the mess.
“It’s messed up,” The West Nashville home owner tells me. “I didn’t do this in the first place. It’s the job of the police to give us enough service to make sure it doesn’t happen. But if they patrol enough they can be more aware of what is going on, and they can position themselves in the neighborhood to help alleviate the situation. And secondly, codes needs to understand it is not me doing it. It’s not my responsibility. I have a solid concrete wall back there on my garage. No windows. And no cameras. They need to understand. Once tagged. They could come back and retag me again. After I fix it. That is ridiculous. It’s not me doing it. It’s not my responsibility. And then to fine me 50 dollars a day on top of it…” » Continue Reading
Covered in a canopy of green leaves, Jeff Peak clung to the trunk of the massive tree. I watched the 30 year old test his footing on a nearby branch repeatedly.
With the sun glistening through the gently blowing leaves, like an irradiated kaleidoscope, Peak checked his rope and harness, tugging on them sharply.
Like a cat inhaling supersonic cat nip, Peak suddenly springs to a branch 3 feet above him. He wraps his legs around the trunk like a spider monkey making love to a banana tree.
Though he’s 50 feet in the air, I can hear Peak grunt, his muscles straining to pull his frame onto the branch.
Peak successfully navigates this wooden jungle gym, pulling his saw from its sheath. He exhales forcefully and begins pruning one of the higher branches.
Earlier, I have placed a wireless microphone on the 12 year tree veteran. He squats in a tree, secured by lines and wedged next to the trunk of the tree. He begins to tell me about his business. » Continue Reading
Many animal advocates say Saturday is the number one adoption day of the week. Many animal control experts claim that all progressive animal control operations with the budget and staffing to do so, are maintaining Saturday hours to maximize the number of animals placed in good homes.
Williamson County Animal Control is open Monday thru Friday 8am - 6pm. The shelter is also open one Saturday a month, for 4 hours.
The question raised by many residents in Williamson County is why? Why not stay open all day Saturday?
Saturday is a day when the most amount of moms and dads are off from work. It’s the day that all kids are off from school. It’s a day when families spend time together, and if they were going to adopt a puppy or a kitten, chances are they would go to do so, on a Saturday.
I have spoken to Williamson County residents who have tried to adopt animals at the shelter on a Saturday, only to go there, and find the doors locked. They were disappointed.
Animal Control officials tell me these are the hours that work best for the citizens of Williamson County.
So the question is simple: Do you feel that Williamson County Animal Control should revise it’s hours to be open all day Saturday?, every Saturday?
If you want to vote now, then vote now. If you want to read more then scroll down. You can vote later.
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