If you get dispatched to a road hazard at 3 a.m. and it’s a herd of mules on a two lane highway, you might be a rural badge.

If you’ve worked traffic control for a cattle drive, you might be a rural badge.

If your investigator waits on his tailgate for hours before starting an OIS investigation because the grow site’s so remote a helicopter is longlining the JTF guys out two by two, you might be a rural badge.

If you’ve not only evacuated backroads ahead of wildfires, but also saved the good parts of your MREs for the little kids you escort, you might be a rural badge.

If your agency’s ‘vehicles’ include horses, ATVs and snowmachines, you might be a rural badge.

If your shift is more like the second season of ‘Justified’ than anything from ‘End of Watch’, you might be a rural badge.

If you roll your eyes when your chief hires someone from a big city because you know he’s never lifted a print or processed a scene by himself, you might be a rural badge.

If you know from experience that two adult Nubian goats or one miniature donkey fits in the rear of your vehicle, you might be a rural badge.

If the last guy who backed you up in a fight was the same guy you arrested the month before for public intoxication, you might be a rural badge.

If you drove Code 3 for forty minutes to respond to a robbery in progress, and when you arrived the bar patrons had disarmed the robber, hogtied him and resumed drinking, you might be a rural badge.