By Rose Spinelli
Indisputably dead is the condition in which he finds many of the hunted by the time he gets to them. Because our furry friends have never quite gotten the hang of sharing the road with the human interlopers who mow them down with such abandon, last year alone Chicago’s Bureau of Road and Control picked up a reported 7,600 dead animals. Evanston’s estimate comes in at about 600 per year. Considering Chicago spans 228 square miles to Evanston’s 8.5, that makes Bill Andrews a busy man. “Roadkill, yeah,” he says. “I think I got a dead dog in the back of my truck right now.” A canine hit and run. They call them DOAs.
Though he’s her supervisor, Andrews insists he’s set up an egalitarian system of responding to calls, each doing at least one daily round solo and one as a team. Then they divvy up the rest of the calls. But now there seems to be an exception to this rule. Skunks are the largest carriers of rabies and by state law must be destroyed when captured. Without a word, it’s understood that Andrews will do the dirty work.
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He pulls out his .22-caliber revolver, puts a couple of slugs into the cylinder, and returns it to its leather holster. After some cajoling under an ample belly, he finds the right spot to snap it onto his belt. Mornings are hectic at the shelter, and before he has a chance to head out the phone rings again. This time Teckler probes a citizen on the particulars of a strange bird sighting in the city parking garage on Benson Avenue. She hangs up. “Woman says she saw a bird with a big body, long legs, and a tiny head.” Sounds a lot like an ostrich, but Andrews makes a more sensible guess. “Maybe it’s a crane,” he says. Whatever it is, it looks like he’s got his work cut out for him. Armed and ready, he leaves Teckler to her own paperwork and morning coffee.
After some tense moments, he emerges empty-handed. He’s been stood up. The men discuss the last sighting and possible escape routes, and finally Andrews agrees to return if necessary. Heading back to the truck, he responds offhandedly to the dried-up entrails stuck to the truck. “Oh,” he chuckles, “sometimes Linda misses.” He climbs in without bothering to scrape it off.
Still, danger comes with the territory, and finding a mate who’s able to cope with its hazards seems like a good idea. Witness his eight-year marriage to the animal warden for the village of Skokie and their improbable fairy-tale courtship: Girl adopts from boy what she’s told is a male cat. Cat gets pregnant. Girl returns threatening to sue boy. Boy teaches girl more about animal control. Girl becomes animal warden too. Boy marries girl. Years later, though now divorced, they’ve still got enough in common, including two boys (one of whom Andrews adopted from her previous marriage), that they can talk turkey all the time.
With the scheduled calls finished, all that’s left are routine checkup calls, including one more search for the wayward coyote. But first a slow drive by the tot lot, where parents frequently complain that owners unlawfully allow their dogs to frolic unleashed. Today all life forms seem to be bipeds, however, give or take a teetering toddler. He gives a reassuring nod to the moms and drives off in the direction of a house once occupied by seven rottweilers, five of them puppies. This visit turns out to be more nostalgia than business. The animals were found living in squalid conditions, and of the seven only the adults are still alive. Here Andrews grows glum. Shortly after the young puppies were confiscated, they were diagnosed with parvovirus, an intestinal disease that’s deadly if not diagnosed early. It was too late to save them, and the entire litter had to be euthanized. “I feel just rotten about it,” he says as he drives slowly away. He makes his way in silence for a bit until the mood changes suddenly.
