[really wish this picture had turned out better - Maggie's stoned out of her mind from the scraps Eric fed her over the weekend]

A while back I told you about Alert Drills. That lovely telephone-tree phone process where someone calls you & you in turn call someone else – all in the hopes that everyone will show up on time, gear in tow, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

Alerts are usually started early in the wee hours of the morning. And when you show up, at say…0630, your time clock starts. The guys (and girls) are not allowed to work more than 12 hours in a day…unless you’re in the sandbox…so an Alert that begins at 0630 should technically put you heading home no later than 1830.

And I’ve told you all that to tell you this…

Eric got an Alert Drill call in the past few days that was described as…”not technically an alert drill”.

Enter the fudge factor.

By “not technically” calling it an Alert Drill they can “not technically” let you head home 12 hours after you arrived.

It’s also a signal of a L-O-N-G work day ahead & little rest.

So I’m hoping Eric can hold out. He’s been put permanently (at least for the next who-knows-how-many-months) on nights & “not technically” getting an Alert Drill at 0530 is in fact, technically when he crawls in bed every morning.

He’s in the field – I can’t tell you when he left, where he went or how long he’ll be gone - but he’s bound to be one cranky bear.