As a line officer and incident commander, I often try to
view our ongoing operations from our customers’ point of view. After all, it is probably one of the worst
moments of their lives, and any little thing we can do to help make these
moments seem brighter will help their adjustment and recovery from their
misfortune. The other evening, I was
speaking with a friend and was reminded of an incident where I tried to do just
that.
It was a reported kitchen fire in a little one-block deep
cul-de-sac just a few blocks from the station.
I happened to arrive first and assume command of the incident. The fire was a fairly insignificant, stove
top job with a little cabinet scarring, but nothing a PW couldn’t take
down. The first in engine stretched a
line to the front door, but it was never charged. The light gray wisp of smoke out the front
door and window prompted the crews to grab a fan while others isolated energy
to the cook top and checked for any extension.
The foot traffic of responders up and down the driveway
toward the front steps kicked up a big, fancy black strap with small, but
expensive-looking electronic device on it and figured it was something
important that the tenants dropped during their hasty evacuation. I picked it up so our jakes in boots wouldn’t
stomp it up and wreck it. I was all
about property conservation from fire, but particularly from firemen! My pride picked up even more when I
discovered another one along the other side of the driveway, so I snatched that
one as well.
It only took about 5 minutes to secure the building, during
which time I was systematically dismissing units from the call. When only the first engine remained and was
packing up the hose bed, I decided it was time to speak with the
homeowners. A quick peek inside the
kitchen gave me a good idea of the damage, as well as the origin. I learned long ago that the first thing
people ask is, “how bad is it?” I wanted
to be able to prepare them mentally before they saw for themselves. I asked the police officer (who arrived on
the scene ahead of me and was now parked in by the apparatus) where the
homeowners had gone, and he pointed me across the street to the neighbor’s
porch.
I made eye contact with them and turned to start walking
their way to gather information for my report.
So many things began to race through my mind in the next few
seconds. This incident seemed like a
typical household accident or moment of forgetfulness that invited the fire
gods to come pay them a visit. However,
the look of fear on their faces immediately concerned me. Were they thinking they would be
arrested? Should they be arrested? Am I missing something? These folks were petrified with a fear whose
source I still did not know. Perhaps I
should have reassured them sooner. I
usually make contact with a distressed homeowner as soon as I am able, but this
event was literally over in minutes, and this was my first opportunity to check
in with them. Were they mad at me for
ignoring them? Did we do something
wrong?
I stopped in the driveway briefly to answer a quick question
from one of the fellas, but then began my stride down the driveway toward the
neighbor’s porch. The homeowners held up
their hand as if to tell me to stop, and that they didn’t want to speak with
me. What was their problem? They have no idea how nice a guy I am. Just shut up and let me come talk about your
fire so we can go home and resume watching Monday Night Football. Besides, I am the fire chief and if I want to
come speak … BZZZZZACK- HOLYMOTHEROFGODWHATDAHELLWASTHAT!
As the homeowners cringed and covered their
eyes in horror, I was struck. I saw a
blurry white flash, and yelped out some unintelligible expletive with any air I
had in my lungs. I felt the hairs in my
nose curl up, and I am pretty sure I peed myself a little inside my bunker
pants. The pain was instant and
unbearable and I vibrated violently as I staggered into the street.
As my head cleared, I realized that those homeowners didn’t fear me… they feared FOR me! As it turned out, I was the only one among us
who was ignorant to the existence of their invisible fence. I had completely forgotten that I was still
clutching not one, but two shock collars.
They had been lying dangerously in the driveway because the responsible
pet owners knew enough to take them off their dogs before walking them across
the street to get away from the fire.
Apparently, the jolt required to train Great Danes is rather
significant. Twice that jolt was
certainly enough to train a dumb fire chief.
As you may imagine, our conversation began with a mixture of
humility and apology. Once my fist
relaxed enough to release my grip on these buggers, I dropped them in the
street and never touched them again. I
couldn’t hold my pen worth a damn, and I could barely remember what street we
were on. I wasn’t about to rely on my
memory, so I was not even asking them the standard report informational
questions. I simply invited them back
into their house for a review of what we had done for them, and explained that
I would call them in the morning to gather their pertinent info.
