Lost Dog 2
So far, being a security guard hadn't killed him. Of course, it was just his first week.
There was plenty of time for that later.
His new uniform laid out on the bed by his wife Christine didn't quite depress him. As a vice cop in Gnu York, he'd long been happy that his uniform wearing days were behind him. Except for the occasional ceremony like a funeral or a speech by the mayor, he got away with wearing comfortable non-attention getting clothing for much of his professional life.
A fur gets too old for Vice, tho. And the last few years had been hard with the diabetes. A Cat's Disease. Or so he thought. He held on to the Job longer than he should have. Because it was impossible to keep to a balanced intake of healthy foods when you were trolling for hookers and perverts and the pushers.
Plus, he dreaded giving himself injections, with a surprisingly deep rooted resentment to the little silver pricks twice a day... then three times a day, obviously because he wasn't managing his disease properly. IA catching him with needles was probably the worst day of his life (and it probably saved his life, too), although he was able to prove he had good medical reasons for having that kit.
He'd been exposed.
And, while it hadn't been a secret, the diabetes had at least been kept quiet. People looked the other way.
Still, things got better after that, for awhile. He knew his workload was quietly adjusted but he was in his late 40's and figured that was going to happen anyway. He could leave a box of Milque Bons on his desk and his co-workers would mostly not touch them, knowing he might need a boost of carbs to help balance his blood sugar at any time.
Until the stake-out where he fell asleep. Of course, the report called it "became unconscious and slipped into a comatose state." Ironically, that was his wake-up call. He'd gone off his meds and he hadn't noticed, wrapped up in the details of the case.
Nothing happened while he was out. The suspect turned out to be innocent, so it wouldn't have mattered if he been there or not. Still...
Still, something Could Have Happened.
And He Would Not Have Been There To Cover His Partner.
He was on disability now. Early retirement.
It was 15 years too early. He had to take another job. Had to wear a meaningless uniform when he'd spent most of the last 25 years avoiding wearing the one uniform that ever had meaning for him.
It was one of those jokes in life that was never funny, yet you had to laugh.
At least, he was still a productive member of society. He showed people where the pens were. He told people that the nearest public restrooms were in the Stag/Bucks across the street. Made sure children didn't swing from the velvet ropes nor balance like a flagpole sitter on the stanchions.
No need to be bitter, he thought. "At least I have my health."
And then he did laugh, pulling out the diabetic friendly socks and pulling them over his furry feet, finally deciding that he was ready to get ready to go to work.
Stalling was for sissies.