Good Dog!

Having spent twenty-nine years as a mailman, I would like to dispel the myth that we don’t get along with dogs. I refer to pets, of course, not dingoes, hyenas and such. At any point in the history of mail delivery, postal carriers and dogs have developed an understanding.

Dog owners, on the other hand, are a different animal.

Consider this scenario. Let’s say you’re a substitute carrier filling in for a fellow mailman who walked into the side of a bus while ogling a college coed. It’s your first day on the route, so you are approaching yet another unfamiliar house. As you walk up to the porch, you notice that the interior door is open. The storm door is closed. The window in the storm door has a crack running down the middle of it, which has been taped. This is a red flag. You step onto the creaky porch and hear the scrabbling of doggie nails on a wooden floor. He's coming for you. He's getting closer. Closer still, and BAM! He slams into the storm door, and repeatedly lunges at it, rising to his hindquarters with each lunge.

He’s a scary one, half German Shepherd, half Doberman Pinscher, half Tasmanian Devil. Very scary to be sure, but hey, he’s just doing his job. You’re doing your job as well, and as long as the storm door holds—with the aid of your foot propped against the bottom of it, you’re cool.

Enter the dog owner. A guy wearing a tank top and jean shorts—with the pockets sticking out the bottom—comes striding up, stoops and grabs the dog by the collar. Backhanding him, he yells, “Shut up! Bad dog!” Let me interject: The Post Office frowns on mail carriers accosting customers. So you can only think, Why are you doing that, you moron? That dog is defending you and everyone else who lives here. He’s not a bad dog. He’s a good dog. You’re a bad owner.

At this moment the guy looks up at you, and says, “Hey, I’m really sorry, man.” And you think, For what? Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to him. You’re not doing me any favors, Pal. This dog is already angry at me for invading your space. Granted, he doesn’t keep a diary, but he has a memory, and now—thanks to you—he’s going to associate all this pain and suffering with my presence in his life. This can only fall back on me. He’s going to love you again in about 20 seconds, but he’ll hate me forever. So, yes, you should apologize to me, even though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

Because, you see, three or four days from now—as sure as I’m sitting at this substandard Dell keyboard—this same dog will be out in the front yard, loose and unsupervised. Let me interject:

All mail carriers are trained to “finger” the mail between houses, so as to have it ready to drop into the mailbox as soon as we reach it. It saves time, but there’s a drawback. As you amble into the yard, you don’t see the dog because you’re fingering the mail. By the time you do see him—at about the same time he sees you—it’s too late. To complicate matters, you discover you’re standing between the dog and a two-year-old child sitting on the front steps.

Let me interject:

Certain dogs are extremely protective of children. Unfortunately for you, from this particular dog’s perspective, you are not simply a loathsome intruder that he associates with pain and humiliation. Now you are openly threatening the defenseless little boy he loves more than any other creature on God’s green earth.

Let’s say the dog is about forty feet away from you. How long do you suppose it will take him to get here? A second? You might have just enough time to drop the mail and wet your pants.

Here's the key question: What do you suppose he’ll do when he reaches you? I’ll make it easy for you. Multiple choice. Will he:

1. Drop his red rubber ball at your feet so you can have a quick game of “fetch”?
2. Roll over on his back so you can rub his tummy?
3. Chew your leg off? Or:
4. Tear your face off, rip your throat out, scarf down your ears, and then haul your carcass from house to house so that all the other dogs in the neighborhood who have been abused—by their owners—in the presence of a mail carrier, can each have an opportunity to C. chew your leg off… or your other leg. Each of your arms. Any remaining appendages. Devour all of your flesh and organs. And then drag whatever’s left into a ditch for the crows to pick clean.

Remember, he was just doing his job. Okay, maybe he got a little carried away. Nobody’s perfect. Keep in mind that it wasn’t his fault, which I realize is of little comfort to you now. But take heart; your demise will help in our national campaign to have all those annoying signs altered to read:

Warning: Beware of the dog owner!