If you’ve ever had a formal complaint filed because you didn’t wave back, you might be a rural badge.

If your kid goes to the same school as the kids of everyone you’ve arrested in the last three years, because it’s the *only* school, you might be a rural badge.

If you blow out your last pair of uniform trousers and it’s a 90 mile trip—one way–to get fitted for another pair for tonight’s shift, you might be a rural badge.

If you pack a lunch for every shift, not because some minimum wage tweaker might spit in your burger, but because nothing is open after 5 pm in your town anyway, you might be a rural badge.

If you’ve kicked in a door and cleared a three thousand square foot house solo, because you were the only one patrolling for a hundred miles, you might be a rural badge.

If the back of your rig has not just your patrol rifle, but also a case of MREs and another of water, you might be a rural badge.

If you called for backup, waited an hour for it, and when it got there it included two Forest Service officers and a game warden, you might be a rural badge.