Chapter Three: We Capture the Mailman
Do I dare let you in on the procedures we followed on this assignment? I’ve already mentioned that we “launched all dogs,” but there was quite a bit more to it than that. And some of it was pretty technical and complicated.
What do you think? Let’s give it a try.
Okay, the first report of the tresspassing vehicle came in at 0831. At 0832 I put the ranch under Red Alert and gave the order to launch all dogs. At precisely 0833 Drover and I left the Security Division’s Vast Office Complex, taxied into the wind, and went to Full Throttle on all engines. It was a successful launch—smoke, flames, a deafening roar, the whole nine yards—and by 0834 we were streaking northward on a course of oh-five-zirro-zirro.
(Just a brief note here. Ordinary dogs who do ordinary things would express that compass heading as “oh-five-zero-zero.” But those of us who’ve spent years in this line of work have found that saying “zirro-zirro” instead of “zero-zero” just—well, it sounds better, more official. Don’t you agree? Of course you do).
Where were we? Oh yes, we had just launched ourselves into the so forth. At precisely 0837 we reached the southeast corner of the yard fence, and there we executed a smooth ninety-degree turn to the leeward larbor—or “to the left” for those not familiar with all our terminal technology.
Our technical terminology, let us say. I know this is pretty complicated, but just hang on and bear with me.
Oh, and let me point out that making our ninety-degree turn wasn’t as easy as you might think. Do you know why? Because at the moment we executed the turn, the outside temperature on the ranch stood at only forty-five degrees. As you can see, this left us forty-five degrees short of the desired turning ratio and . . .
Let’s skip the math and mush on.
We executed a perfect ninety-degree turn, and never mind all the complex calculations we had to do to pull it off, and went streaking northward up the gravel road in front of the house. At precisely 0839 I broke radio silence.
“Drover, we will now shift into our code names. Baloney Ring, this is Buttermilk Sky. Clean up the formation. You’re lagging behind, over.”
“Well, I’m running as fast as I can.”
“That’s a rodge, Ring.”
“What’s a rodge ring?”
“A rodge. It’s short for roger, and I’ve shortened your code name from Baloney Ring to Ring. When we’re airborne, we have to do these things, over.”
“I’ll be derned. And what’s your name again?”
“Buttermilk Sky, but you can just call me Sky. It’ll save us a little time.”
“Boy, I sure like buttermilk.”
“Rodge, Ring. Stay alert for Charlie.”
“Charlie or Murphy?”
“Roger.”
“Three spies! Oh my gosh!”
I felt my temper rising. “Drover, if this too complicated, just skip it. Stay off the radio and pay attention to—holy smokes, Drover, do you see what I see?”
“I thought I was Ringworm.”
“Roger, Ringworm! Straight in front of us. Do you see it now?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Drover said, “Oh. I’ll be derned. It’s the mail truck.”
“Mail truck! Are you crazy? That’s no mail truck, son. Stay in formation. We’re going in for a closer—”
Huh?
Okay, what we had here was . . . tell you what, we’re going to call off the Red Alert and go back to Condition Normal. It seems that we had just intercepted the . . . uh . . . mail truck, so to speak, but let me hasten to point out that the mailman was running two whole hours ahead of his normal schedule. He wasn’t supposed to come by our ranch until 10:30, and how’s a dog supposed to . . .
He hadn’t bothered to notify ME of this, and it’s very hard to run a ranch when they don’t . . .
But the important thing is that our systems had picked up the sounds of his vehicle and we had conducted a successful test of the Scramble All Dogs Procedure. Pretty amazing, huh? You bet. I mean, we don’t expect trouble from postal employees, but it never hurts to check these things out. With a dangerous spy running loose on the ranch, a dog can never be sure . . .
But wait, hold everything. Maybe there was more to this.
We’ve mentioned that the mailman had changed his routine, right? But what you didn’t notice was that he didn’t stop at the mailbox on the county road! Okay, maybe you weren’t there and couldn’t have picked up this important clue, but I noticed it right away, and all at once it seemed pretty derned suspicious.
See, he didn’t stop at the mailbox, open the little door, or slide the mail into the box. He always did that, but this time—holy smokes, he was driving toward the house! What was the deal? Right away, I got on the radio.
“Onion Ring, this is Milktoast. This guy’s up to something. We will now go into Escort Formation and follow him down to the house. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“How do you peel your eyes?”
“Drover, please try to be serious. If you don’t know how to peel your eyes, just keep them open.”
“Oh, okay. I can handle that.”
“Let’s move out!”
And with that, we reversed our thruster engines and fell into formation beside the mail truck as it drove toward the house. Drover took the west side and I took the east. On my side, I trotted right up to the door and gave the mailman a couple of barks, just to let him know that we dogs were on the job and watching his every move.
He glared back at me through the window glass, curled his lip, and muttered words I couldn’t hear. Maybe he didn’t enjoy being barked and escorted through our ranch, but that was too bad. I mean, if these people think they can just drive through the ranch any time they feel like it, they’re badly mistaken.
He could mutter and mumble all he wanted, I didn’t care. Once he left the county road and pulled onto our private road to the house, he became My Problem, and . . .
Have we discussed this particular postal employee? Maybe so, but it’s been a while. We didn’t know his name, but that didn’t matter. He was a big guy with dark brooding eyes, a hateful disposition, and a bulge in his left cheek.
Right cheek? No, it was the left side. His cheek bulged out because—this will shock you—because he chewed tobacco on the job. Yes sir, he chewed nasty tobacco.
And he rolled down his window and yelled, “Get out of the road, moron!”
Ha! Did he think he could scare me off with threats and hateful words? You know me. When they start yelling and hurling insults, it just makes me more determined than ever to give ’em the kind of barking they so richly deserve. So instead of running away with my leg between my tails, I gave him another barking, this one even louder and more ferocious.
Furthermore, I got on the radio and ordered Drover to do the same on the other side. Heh heh. That would teach this smartypants mailman to . . .
You won’t believe what he did—the mailman, that is. I was shocked, although maybe I shouldn’t have been. I mean, he’d done this before and . . .
He spit tobacco juice at me! And I’m sorry to report that he was, well, a pretty good shot and scored a . . . I never did like that guy or trust him, and he deserved every bark I’d given him over the years.
“Be careful, Drover! He’s taking countermeasures. If you see anything brown coming your way, you’d better duck!”
“Where’s a duck?”
“No, I said . . . never mind, Drover. If you see anything brown coming your way . . .”
SPLAT!
Okay, that did it! This meant WAR! By George, if he wanted to get serious about this deal, I was prepared to . . . well, back off and put a little distance between us. I mean, I didn’t see any sense in . . . but the important thing is that we kept him in sight and followed him all the way down to the house.
Yes sir, we followed him every step of the way, only now we were on guard against his childish . . . he stopped in front of the house. I stopped and motioned for Drover to do the same. He saw my hand signal and . . . oh brother, he waved back and yelled, “Oh, hi there!”
Sometimes I think . . . never mind.
The postman stopped in front of the house, stepped out of the truck, and reached into the backseat of his vehicle. I saw his hind end sticking out and wondered what would happen if I rushed forward and . . . but, no, that would be too risky, so I hunkered down and observed him with a full array of instruments: VizRad (Visual Radar—eyes), Earatory Scanners (ears), and Sniffatory Analyzers (nose), the whole nine yards of high-tech equipment at the disposable of the Security Division.
We had him on our screen, fellers, and whatever he did now would be recorded for all time.
Blinking my eyes against the stinging mist of the Toxic Tobacco Juice he had spat upon my head, I watched as he carried a large box up to the front door and knocked. A moment later the door opened and Little Alfred stepped out on the porch. The mailman said a few words to the boy, left him with the box, and returned to his vehicle—which he had left running.
That seems pretty suspicious, don’t you think? I mean, why would a postal employee leave his vehicle running?
Maybe he was in a hurry. No clues there.
He climbed back into the vehicle, the mailman did, and slammed his door. At that point, I rushed out of my hiding place in the weeds and delivered a withering barrage of . . .
SPLAT! Tobacco juice.
He drove away, leaving me wounded and bleeding.
