A day in the life of Polk’s animal control officer

Put yourself in the boots of Cowboy on a typical workday. Today, it’s a back yard with a stray 60-pound Boxer at the edge of dense woods.

Every time the dog feints toward you across the grass, his teeth flash with barks and snarls at about the level of your knees. Hackles are spiked and muscles defined under a fawn coat. As you step forward, he spins away toward the tree line, then whips back to face you, hopping left and right, yammering with insistence.

You’ve never had a rabies incident with a domestic animal—odds are against it—but perhaps there is a fleeting moment of wondering. Yet, you take another step. It’s your responsibility. The sheriff’s deputy waits off to your side, following your lead. The woman, who called in about an aggressive dog, watches from her home.

You look for signals that he’s been pushed too far and raise a taser gun with an effort greater than its half-pound weight. You don’t want to use it. The electroshock that will immobilize the dog will hurt, and even though only momentarily painful, you believe in the veterinarian’s credo, “First do no harm.” You do this job because you love animals. Now, however, even with all of your training and experience, you can think of no alternative. The dog lurches in the fraction of a second after compressed nitrogen fires two electrode probes. Only one strikes and he yanks away easily, fleeing into the undergrowth, leaving you with another unpleasant choice.

Such are the routine challenges and decisions of Sergeant Michael Herman, Animal Control Officer, Polk County Sheriff’s Department; a family man with three children, four rescued dogs, and a once stray cat; and a man of few words known by many as Cowboy.

“Suppose I got the name because I used to manage cattle ranches and rode bulls on the pro circuit,” says Michael. “I’d been on bulls for about 15 years before my last show. My daughter was three or so then. I told her to stay behind the fence with everybody and watch. Third time the bull went up, I went off and slammed into that fence. I was on the ground looking at her and she was looking at my bloody face. ‘Daddy, no more bulls’ is all she said.”

Time moved on and Michael was working at the Polk County jail when the position of Polk County Animal Control Officer opened.

Even though he had been milking cows at 11 and usually had animals in his life, the first step in Cowboy’s new career was 50 hours of training to become nationally certified in animal control. Since then he’s also received certifications in Animal Cruelty Investigation; tranquilizers and rabies vaccinations: and from the Commissioner of Wildlife, certification as a Damage Control Agent. That means he’s trained, as an example, to handle skunks.

The scheduled workday is 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. with an average of 200 miles a day patrolling in his truck. He’s looking for distress situations, wandering animals, and has the right to check for rabies tags on dogs chained outside on private property. He also listens for calls, such as the one that came from an elderly woman who, despite her fear of getting bit, had been feeding a feral Chow Chow.

“The woman made me promise that the dog would not be euthanized. She was not going to let me leave until I shook hands on it. This was before the shelter was no-kill. I wound up taking the dog home and calling her Molly. She was good with my dogs for a little while, then she and my Blue-Heeler got into it. I returned Molly to the shelter but couldn’t leave her. I told her I’d give her one more chance. She knew what I was talking about and was a good girl until she died of a stroke five years later. We planted a Molly bush over her grave. I’m real happy that the shelter is now no-kill and there’s always room for my rescues.”

The Foothills Humane Society has an annual contract with Polk County that provides about 18 percent of the shelter’s annual operating budget in exchange for assured space. The balance comes from adoption fees that are hundreds of dollars lower than actual value; and donations and grants that get stretched beyond the shelter to include community services.

“When Cowboy comes in you know he cares,” says Christine Taylor, the shelter’s executive director. “I remember when he brought in three dogs from an abandoned house. Two females in the house had not been fed or watered, but were not as bad off as the intact male Staffordshire Terrier that had been left chained to a tree. He was disoriented, frightened and wobbly, barely able to stand, starving and dehydrated. A collar had become imbedded in his throat. Cowboy handled what could have been a dangerous situation calmly and professionally but I could see his emotions inside.”

Today, that dog has now earned the title of Canine Good Citizen from the AKC and is ready for adoption. A bundle of energy named Kramer, CGC, he’s looking for fun and a hug.

Cowboy can tell many stories across an emotional gamut drawn from his job and from the volunteer group he started, Polk Animal Rescue (PAR).

On a county call, there was a Boxer/Shar-Pei mix that was bald from flea infestation, skin blackened by infection, and chain scars around his throat. Thanks to Cowboy and the shelter staff and volunteers, the dog’s name is now Jag. He never protested during months of treatment. Today, looking into his eyes, you see only a joy of living, a laughter that perhaps, if you look with an open mind, is also forgiveness of what had gone before.

On one PAR call during February, Cowboy waded into the frigid Green River to rescue a 1,500-pound steer. Then there was a horse in the swimming pool, kitten in the wall, dog in the well, and, of course, the frantic Boxer that had fled into the woods.

“About a 100 yards in, the deputy and I finally caught up. The Boxer was just sitting there watching us. Next to him, with a leash tangled in the brush, was his friend. I petted that Boxer and told him he was a good boy. A day and a half ago, we’d gotten a call from a couple who’d been out walking when lightning struck a tree and their two dogs ran off. On the way to the vets, I called them and felt really good that I could say that their dogs were safe. Times like that remind me of why I love this job.”

To a final question, “Do animals have souls”? Cowboy, a man of few words, never hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

~ Written and photographed by Vincent Verrecchio