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. ♠

The Funeral

Author's Note: The following is a true account that I wrote on April 24, 2013. I would like to collect and share some of the stories that I have written. This one happened while I was on my route for the United States Postal Service. I hope to add more stories that pertain to my job considering the likelihood that the Post Office may cease to exist some day. 

 

Yesterday I was delivering mail on Mesa Hills Drive when a silver sedan pulled up alongside me. An older gentleman, probably in his eighties, got out of the passenger side holding a piece of paper and came toward me.

“Can you help us, sir? We're lost and can't find the church and we're late to a funeral.” 

It is not uncommon for us as postal workers to be asked directions. But to receive a plea from a person who is wishing to find the place where he can pay his last respects rarely comes. In fact, I have never seen it. 

He pulled out a piece of paper with the obituary and some hand-written directions on bottom. “The address they have here has got to be wrong, doesn't it?” – I examined it, and without a doubt, it was incorrect. The obituary stated 1925 east, and clearly, that point did not exist, and we were at nearly 1925 west. And as for the written directions, they were messed up also – take a right on such and such a street that doesn't even exist. But, reinterpreting the address, I determined that it had to be the church just a couple blocks away. 

“We just drove past a church over there,” the old man stated, “and nobody was there.” 

That didn't sound right. There was only one church on this hill and I was determined to get them to their funeral!

“Let me drive you there,” I insisted. The old man was happy with that as he pranced back to the car. The driver was his daughter, a younger lady also dressed in her Sunday best. I led the way in my postal vehicle through the maze of streets on the hill. The church wasn't too far away, but I didn't want them lost. They were late! 

We pulled up to the church. No one there.

I walked over to the passenger-side window and peered in at the frustrated couple. 

“It's got to be here,” I said. “It's the only church on the hill.” He pulled out the paper again with the directions and obituary. The deceased man was Leslie Brower, a person I was familiar with and who lived on my route. I began skimming downward to the date of the funeral⸺Monday, April 22 at 9:30 am⸺the obituary stated. I read it out loud. “I know,” the man said. “Today is the 22nd.” 

“No it's not, Daddy. Today is the 23rd. Tomorrow is your birthday!” 

At this realization, the man's face immediately became sullen. He looked downward in devastating introspection. 

“I am very sorry,” I offered the man. “This is awful.” Indeed it was. I said this with every genuine feeling I had. I had just experienced my own daughter's funeral and knew how important a funeral can be to bring closure to a broken heart. 

“No. I am the one who is sorry. That man was my best friend growing up. We were inseparable.” 

There was little left to be done. His friend by now was in the ground, never to be exhumed. 

I offered to drive them over to Leslie's house, hoping there would be a family member still at home. They gladly accepted and I led them to 1945 west 265 south. They pulled up at the curb just behind me. There was one white pickup truck with an elk decal parked in the driveway. 

“Yep, this is it,” he said. “I've been here before and it looks familiar.” 

I moved on my way, but prayed all along that someone was home to greet them. That's what they needed in this time of tragedy. ♠