Dogs and the Postal Worker Conspiracy

// July 30th, 2003 // Tales

Within a collection of dark and dusty archives there exist ancient manuscripts and tomes, chronicling the earliest days of long-distance written communication. To carefully page through the immense, crumbling volumes in this vast library below the office of Postmaster General, one would begin to recognize extraordinary continuities.

Since the earliest days of postal lore there exists a struggle on the very grounds of which these valiant deliverers of the word tread. Not since before the conquering of rain, snow, sleet and hail has such a menace so hindered the task put upon these letter carriers, these conquerors of Mother Nature herself. I speak, of course, of the puppy.

These texts apparently remain very vague on their definition of what is considered “dog” and “puppy”. Does one begin to call a certain K9 a dog at three months old? Six months? Two years? Perhaps upon conception, there is indeed a tiny puppy there, snug within its mother’s womb. But once born, that there is a beast-from-hell DOG (as the texts bluntly put it).

Almost all my life, I’ve had a dog. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that my parents owned dogs, then I moved out, got married, and adopted a Guinness. No, I did not adopt a brewery (although that would’ve been cool) and no, I am not cruel enough to name my kid after an Irish beer (although…). I am however cruel enough to give this name to my dog. I say “a” Guinness” because at the time, I thought we were being so clever and original with his name, but apparently “Guinness” is slowly becoming synonymous with “Rover” and “Fido” these days.

Like most people, I’ve of course heard the stories of postal workers being attacked and sometimes mauled by dogs, although I cannot recall ever seeing it happen. My parents’ dogs were small beagles, which probably rank somewhere between “garter snake” and “rabid toad” on the animal threat scale. Guinness, however, is a sort-of German Shepherd. To those who know him, his threat level hovers around that of the beagle or less, but to postal workers he’s apparently classified between “rabid feral badger” and “Sasquatch”.

Recently I’ve accidentally discovered that postal workers like to communicate via “Dog Warning” cards. One such card was left in our mailbox by mistake not once, but twice. What’s interesting is how they use the name “Ginger” for our dog, which is actually the name of a dog we had for a short while and forced to give back due to Guinness’s, as I put it, “Needy-Bitch Syndrome” (I’m awaiting scientific approval for this disorder to be included in the next edition of Psychopharmacology of Animal Behavior Disorders). Also interesting is the fact that Ginger was only, I believe, 4-6 months old at the time we had her — borderline puppy, I’d say.

Now that I’ve seemingly cut the cryptic lines of communication among mail carriers coming to our home, I can only hope that we’ll start to get our mail, regardless of the howling beast sounds from behind our fortified wooden barricades (i.e., small wooden fence). My message to all mail carriers coming to our house is this:

There be not a beast within these walls that doth do harm to you, and articles of communication you deliver should here be deposited! Bring forth thine bills and fliers, for we await them with utmost eagerness!

Wait…”bills and fliers”? Ah screw it, here’s your card back. Take it before Guinness makes a meal out of your privates, punk!

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