The Websphere has been spared my rantings for long enough. I've been busy. I'll try to jump back in.
My relationship with my mailman has been a story of delight told to more than a few of my friends. Before it leaks to Reuters or the AP, a first-hand account of events needs posting for the enjoyment of both of my loyal readers (thanks mom).
I'm sitting on my porch one fine summer afternoon when up walks the mailman.
I knew he was coming. Not because I was paying particular attention. I was likely buried in my laptop. But you see, I have the worlds most sensitive proximity sensors. Let's call them Cranky and Crackaroo.
As most four-legged tongue-draggers get up in years, they get more apathetic. A simple stick kept them entertained for hours. Now it earns me a blank stare.
Most mutts also tend to lose their hearing.
But not mine. Theirs has improved. I've a theory that for the 9 years of her existence, Crackaroo has fiddled with the tuner for the massive satellite-dishes atop her noggin... much like fiddling with the aluminum-foil-covered bunny-ears on the old floor model television tank until the snow on the screen becomes a light drizzle... until she has found perfect reception.
Only she's terrible at determining the source of the noise.
The faintest sound -- a slammed car door from 2 blocks away, or setting down my coffee mug in the kitchen -- sends her bolting from her dead-deer slumber position toward the front door like she'd been Tasered with 50,000 volts. Which in turn shocks Cranky from her day-long nap into a dead sprint. Or, more accurately, a limping scramble thanks to the lack of ACLs in her hind quarters. She doesn't feel any pain (per the vet), so I feel okay laughing at the lack of support her back legs give her. A nice firm scratch on her back while she's standing sends her butt uncontrollably to the floor. She can't possibly have any clue as to what the excitement is about, but she jumps in the melee anyway.
Instantly, my quiet world erupts into a frantic frenzy of barking, lunging, and paw-nails clattering on the hardwood. Rugs spin across the floor. Furniture is tossed over. My own body is banged and shoved aside as my runaway Mack Truck Mutt Muddle barrels out-of-control toward the front door.
Even if the noise originated out back.
The cloud of dog hair stirred up by the whirlwind barely settles before a passing pedestrian or the closing of the microwave triggers yet another crashing, barking 4-alarmer.
Rinse. Repeat.
Rinse. Repeat.
The Boy Who Cried Wolf would lecture these two on the necessity of pre-screening threats.
Thus I knew the mailman was coming. I always know when the mailman is coming.
Now is a good time to mention that I don't have a mailbox. The house didn't have one when I moved in and I never bothered to purchase one. I have a slot in my storm door. The mailman lifts the cover and slides the mail through the slot.
For a time, I was coming home from work to find my mail strewn across the floor. No big deal. It likely scatters in the 2 feet it falls to the ground after the mailman pushes it through the slot.
After some time, I was coming home to find it chewed. Okay, again, not a big deal. The owners of most mouth-breathers can relate to chewing. And Crackaroo has chewed and destroyed pretty much everything in her 9 years: shoes, ceramic figurines, rugs, mattresses, an entire couch, wooden furniture, mp3 players, computer equipment, live electrical wires.
So who cares about the chewed corners of a few pieces of junkmail? Besides, teeth marks in an invoice may serve as warning to AT&T to stop raising my rates.
Well soon, I started coming home to mail shredded and scattered, not unlike a New Years Eve confetti party or ticker-tape parade.
What the hell is happening?
Eventually, I was a witness to the carnage. I recall sitting on the couch, shaking my head at yet another 4-alarm false-alarm. The scene never fails to remind me of the old toddler song "honk honk, rattle rattle rattle rattle, crash, beep beep."
Thump. Bang. Woof. Clatter Clatter Clatter Clatter. Woof. Crash Crash.
They rush to the front door. A task Crackaroo has down to a science.
She clatters at top speed across the hardwood floors... or as fast as a feverishly wagging, overly excited, mentally handicapped klutz can gallop on ice or a swiftly moving treadmill... and plants her paws. She's done this so many times, she knows just when to plant so that she slides the last 5 feet, stopping almost perfectly at the door.
Now, I've seen this event a number of times since, and it's not always so precise. Occasionally, the law of Shaken Doggy Syndrome saps her brain of the cognitive abilities needed to execute this maneuver, and I'm witness to a muzzle-plant into the door.
But on this occasion, she times her slide perfectly. And at the exact right moment, she lunges upward and snatches the mail as it comes through the slot. She shakes the mail viciously from side to side as if killing her prey. Shreds of mail fly everywhere. The whole event seems like carefully choreographed dance.
My favorite part of the ordeal is what happens next.
She plants her feet, looks back at me, and puffs up her chest proudly as if to say:
"I'm on the job."
"Nothing to worry about, Daddy."
"Threat neutralized."
So there I was, sitting on the porch. Up walks the mailman. We chat as mutts bark and snarl ferociously through the window and screen door, most of the time standing on back legs so they can see through the window. The mailman probably thinks they're rabid. Or I'm the worst parent of all time.
Finally... in response to what I know is coming... I reach inside the screen door and close the storm door, revealing the mail slot... The mailman reaches into his pouch... pulls out my mail... and waves it as he repeats our running joke.
"I hope your dogs are hungry. It's Coupon Day."
It never gets old.
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