The Dog

Author's note: In an attempt to preserve some of the stories and culture of the United States Postal Service, I will occasionally share a post such as this. I wrote this on April 13, 2010 and it took place at 168 E. College Avenue in Cedar City, Utah. As mail carriers, we face dogs all the time and sometimes things don't end so well. 

 

I stepped outside my mail vehicle with a watermelon-sized parcel in my hand with the words “Fragile” written all over. The mail slot was inserted through a lattice wall that separated the sidewalk from the three apartments inside the fence. This package I would have to deliver to the door.

I turned off my truck, slid the door shut, locked it, and slid the key ring onto my middle finger. Having had to deliver a certified letter here a few weeks ago, I was somewhat familiar with the premises inside this mini-compound. There was a large fence that surrounded the perimeter of all three apartments. But to get to these apartments, another gate and fence had to be traversed. None of the apartments showed a number, so I had no idea which door I was looking for. 

I entered through the second gate and slid shut the latch behind me. I saw a door in front of me and another to my right and debated which one I should knock on. I walked over to the door on the right and glanced through the adjacent window which gave the appearance of vacant lodging. No furniture, no shelves. Just carpet and empty walls. 

As I turned to my left, I noticed the stir of a white animal in front of the far apartment. Suddenly, a crazy mongrel swept towards me, barking violently with every step until he was right in front of my body. I didn't know what else to do so I kicked him hard on the side of the face. This knocked him back and sidewards, but I was hoping he would whimper and run away. He didn't. He was mad. The roaring from his throat became more intense and he turned back towards me. I about lost the package as I kicked him, as well as the keys that were around my finger. I readjusted the parcel and slipped the keys off of my finger and into the chest pocket of my shirt. The package I held out, my arms mostly extended, and at the level of the dog's face. 

He was a stocky mutt, a body builder if there was such among dogs. His white fur was short and clean, but about all I took notice of was his mouth and teeth. His bark echoed in the little breeze-way where we stood, he and I face to face. He didn't stop. His jaw and teeth incessantly moved up and down like one of those little toys you saw as a kid, a skull that you could wind up and watch the mouth chatter. I didn't know if his mouth was vibrating or if it was the pulsating inside my head. 

I didn't know what to do. No one seemed to be home because surely they would have heard the din and rushed out. I searched around for anything to grab, something that I could throw at him or jab him with: a chair, weights from a dumbbell set, a rock. Maybe the package. But every time that I would lean towards the rock or the weights, the dog stepped forward. He was looking for his opportunity to lunge and wrap his sharp fangs around my leg. 

By this time, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. Perhaps we would stand off all day long until somebody came to my rescue. The gate that held the route for my escape was probably fifteen feet away. 

I took a step towards him and was pleased to see him step back. His intensity didn't quit, however, as his high-pitched cries shrilled from his mouth. The corners of his lips pulled back and his white teeth, all as sharp as knives, looked ready to bite me. 

Once again I stepped towards him, and again he stepped back with his rear leg, and again I did it and this time he almost fell to his haunches. I didn't take my eyes off him though, because I knew that once I did, he would be on my leg quicker than a bear on a salmon. 

At last I was at the gate and with my left hand I felt behind me and unlatched the lock and slid my left leg and then my body through the opening and into safety. Quickly I fumbled around shutting the gate and latching the lock and still the hound was within the walls yapping and growling and mad. But I was out and safe. Now all I would need was time to let my heartbeat return to normal. ♠

Lovey and Moki Mounds

At 3:00 last night I was awakened by the persistent bark of our black schnauzer, Lovey. Worried that she was waking the neighborhood, I walked outside to calm her down. As soon as I stepped out the front door, the overwhelming stench of skunk consumed the air. I now knew why she was barking.

Lovey has been a lonely pooch ever since her mother, Moqui, passed away. She gets anxious anytime we leave the home. Her temporary dog house is cordoned off with a small fence, and any time we leave her alone, she makes a high-pitched howling whine. 

I decided that I would spend a little one-on-one time with her this morning. I put her on a leash and we walked down the hill, then slipped through a barbed-wire fence into the field. Here I removed the leash. 

Lovey was excited to be free, criss-crossing from one side to another, exploring and sniffing any nook she could find. She kept her head down as she roamed and never noticed the horses at the far end of the field. 

As we walked I observed the prints on the dirt between the clumps of wild grass. Recently a coyote had wandered across the field. I also noticed two sets of deer prints, that of a doe and very a small fawn. Bigger than them all were the indention of horse hooves. 

After crossing the field we entered a stand of juniper trees, then came to the rim of a small canyon. I worried about Lovey stepping onto cactus, but she didn't. 

I slid down a five-foot ledge. Lovey recoiled when she saw the drop-off, scared of the jump down. But I lifted her into my arms and quickly she was down into the grass and sticks. 

Although Lovey didn't know this, I was taking her to one of my old haunts. As a kid I came here with my brother and we explored the canyon. A stream runs down the middle and we once dug a fork in the stream so that the water flowed on both sides, creating an island. We set up our tent and camped on the island. 

Just a few seconds later and we were at the stream-side. We found the rock and cottonwood tree that once sat inside our tiny island. But now the water no longer flowed on two sides. Nature had reclaimed our little project and the stream only flowed on its original route. 

We pushed through a tangle of reeds and cottonwood trees. Just a little ways up the stream we found a very small waterfall pouring off the moss and logs. Lovey stopped to lap a mouthful of water. 

We climbed up the hill that led to the rim of the canyon. Beneath the lip of the rim is an old Anasazi ruin. About half of the circular-shaped stone structure still survives, looking almost exactly as it did centuries earlier. Inside the cave are foundations of other rooms, but the walls have long since tumbled. Lovey headed to the deepest part of the alcove and sniffed intensely. 

This was a good spot for the Anasazi to live. The stream provided fresh water, the cave protection, and the flats above furnished space to grow crops. 

To exit the canyon I had to climb out and lift Lovey up two different ledges. 

We now walked through the juniper trees. My intent was to walk toward the field and return the way we came. But then I saw the moki mound. 

These small hills of dirt and rocks are likely locations of former dwellings of the Anasazi. At one time these ancient people built land structures just like the ruin we had found earlier. It is possible that they might have occupied and abandoned the same habitations several different times. 

Over the centuries the stone walls tumble to the earth and dirt blows over the structure, essentially burying it. Plants and even trees begin to grow over it, creating a camouflage. A freezing and thawing cycle, over many years, can cause artifacts to be pushed to the surface. 

An array of pottery laid scattered around the mound. I searched and found several interesting sherds. Some were painted in black and white design. Others were textured with various patterns, likely shaped with their fingers. Some pieces contained no decoration at all. But all were made with fine workmanship, being smooth and sturdy. 

As my eyes scanned the ground, I heard a rustling in the trees. I looked up and beheld a roan horse just 25 yards away. She seemed not to care that we were here. Her soft peachy mane fell over her back. 

Lovey and I both stared at her. I was worried that she would start barking and scare the horse away. But she didn't. All three of us just stood and stared. This was our experience, one that I, at least, will never forget. ♠