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Maura Mekenas-Parga does not tip-toe her words. She sheds BS like a locust does its shell. Mo is a big woman, but not girth big. A street thug might overcome her, but he might limp away minus an ear or a jewel. What she had going was a likable brashness that football-loving, beer-drinking guys embrace as one of their own. Mo was born to be a cop or a bull rider, but the rodeo job was too tame. As a what cop? Nice, easy case. She once made a bad guy wince for a long time whenever he thought of her. She and her partner had discovered a bag of rock cocaine in a southeastern San Diego raid in Her partner was jumped by one of the thugs, so she shoved the rock cocaine down her shirt and started whaling on the guy who was atop her partner. She chose a baton because they did not yet have Tasers, and Mace tended to smear her mascara. She gave the bad guy a ruptured spleen. But she paid a price, too, because her action resulted in a police-brutality accusation against her. They said I was too aggressive, that I needed to chill out. They live on a small spread outside El Cajon that they share with three horses and no kids. Her goal is to see it restored, especially for street protests and events where crowd control is difficult. She said the reason the mounted patrol was abandoned was the cost of maintaining a stable of horses: vet bills, feed, tack, insurance, the costs go on and on, making horses perhaps the most expensive animal to own other than a black rhinoceros or raccoon-fighting beagle. Mo is proposing to form a unit consisting of horse owners in the department who would use their own animals when called upon, like at soccer matches. I worked a few of those soccer games at Qualcomm. It gets brutal out in the parking lot. There's some major fights. These soccer people up from Mexico are passionate! So are some people. In the wild, all horses had to do was eat grass and outrun mountain lions. Not too bad if grass is your thing and you can run really fast. What has she not done? Oh, yes, administration. But that would have been fun to watch the red tape fly. Her main job in homicide was missing persons, which included suicides and every unexplained death in the city. You could see where she had all the loan documents. Everything was denied, denied, denied. On the table were all these denied loans. Her eyes redden and well up. Any officer would approach his car and often find an unwelcome surprise. Perhaps there was glue or honey smeared on a door handle, or dog poop placed on the radiator. When she turned it on, she received a blast of Mace that had been sprayed into the ventilation system. It was just rancid, and I smelled like crap. Even my prisoners complained. It was a good joke. Squad car keys were interchangeable. Is that dramatic enough? I see a guy selling crack out front. I put it out over the radio for my team, and they come up behind me. I chase the guy into an apartment. There are several people inside. Then I kick him off of me, and I crawl out. I have burn marks on my face from the discharge. Oh, hell yeah. I try to talk to people, though. Do you remember Donna? Donna was murdered by her son. She was a child-abuse detective. Big red lipstick, big red glasses, just a hoot. It was embarrassing. She continues to campaign for a horse patrol with characteristic ardor and, uh, gentle persuasion. She says her persistence irritates some superiors, but their annoyance does not lift her foot from the accelerator. Mo smiles angelically. I ask about fitting in with male peers. What works best for a woman? You have coffee, you talk about stuff. The guys stop for a beer in the parking lot leaving the station. You stop and have a beer with them. By Fred Dickey. San Diego Union-Tribune. April 24,