Doggy Disobedience

Ask any animal trainer and they’ll tell you dogs don’t fail obedience training; their owners do. In the case of one customer after a ten week course she had to admit that not only did her dog fail the course, but every other dog in the class failed as well; but they were, in the words of the instructor, one very friendly group. All this can be nothing more than amusing if the dog in question is an overly affectionate lapdog; but when the dog is a large, aggressive beast that does not respond when its owner calls it off the situation loses all humour rather quickly. If you’re the object of this animal’s attentions it can get rapidly terrifying. All this is simply another way of saying that there are no bad dogs just bad owners.

In the performance of their duties letter carriers are required to in effect trespass on their customer’s property. It is understood that they have a right of way to take the route necessary to reach their customer’s mail receptacle and if that means opening their porch or veranda to access a mail slot or box inside they have the implied right to so do. If the inside door is open and you aren’t sure about what animals may be present it’s remarkable how fast one can move and how fast that outer door gets closed. If the dog is already present it becomes quite another matter. On my first route I had to enter an enclosed courtyard complete with in-ground pool and walk the gauntlet of two large black standard-bred poodles. No matter that they never attacked, to a neophyte those were two very intimidating dogs. On another route a customer tied their St. Bernard by a short leash to their mailbox. St. Bernard’s are extremely lazy by nature but this one plopped his considerable hind quarters on my feet while I deposited the mail and refused to budge until he was petted—have you ever smelt a wet St. Bernard? Elsewhere I met an Old English Sheepdog on a daily basis. He was so old and arthritic that even wagging his tail hurt so he lay there and growled—he wasn’t vicious, just smart enough to know that if he barked instead he’d have to lift his head.

Not all dog encounters are amusing however. Interposing a mailbag to prevent a very dark-looking German Shepherd from ripping out your throat may work but the experience leaves one rather shaken. One tends not to forget a neighbourhood with a dog such as that—letter carriers have switched routes for less. To say that it heightens one’s powers of observation may be an understatement. Add children to the equation and you have quite another situation. One small bundle of energy named Ginger used to run dizzying circles around me and then go explore the neighbourhood. Another nasty looking dog gave me the willies and when I heard that it actually turned on the children’s nanny and sent her to hospital I felt vindicated in my suspicions.

I can remember one household in particular where the boys came home from school so that their grandmother could make lunch for them. Grandmother may have been nominally in charge but I doubt her charges showed her much respect. They thought it laughable to let the dog out to chase the mailman and even encouraged it to do so. I’ve since met one of the lads in question socially now that he’s reached adulthood and he doesn’t remember these abuses, but he wasn’t the one being chased.

On another occasion I’d walked up to a house by the lake in East Oakville where houses are located on laneways so each can have Lake Frontage. I’d just left the mail and paused briefly to admire the wind-driven 15-foot waves on Lake Ontario when a tall frail-looking octogenarian came out the door to take a very large dog for his walk. The dog took one look at me and took off. To her credit the lady held onto the leash but the dog laid her out flat on her hands and knees dragging her along the walkway and making her knees bleed. There was nothing I could do but take her word that she’d be alright and vacate the premises.

Again in East Oakville I was terrorized by a small beige bundle of spite named Jiggs. Jiggs didn’t have a fenced in backyard so when he got out he was free to roam the neighbourhood and one of his favourite sports appeared to be yapping at my heels and tugging my pant legs. He wasn’t satisfied with just doing it on his own property but insisted on following me for a considerable distance around the corner and down the street. I later learned that I had the misfortune of showing up each day about the same time as the cleaning lady who couldn’t stand him either and therefore let him out.

I don’t appreciate having my heels “dogged”. Some critters seem to be just plain sneaky. They run away when you approach but then come skulking up behind you. I don’t trust a dog who won’t meet me face to face. One such dog had invisible fencing so she couldn’t get off her property but that was small comfort to me. Perhaps it was the splinters, gnaw and teeth marks on the veranda railing but this Schnauzer gave me a bad feeling. In the end I let it be known forthrightly that if that dog was out they weren’t going to get their mail—not a minor thing as they got a lot of mail that then had to be carried with me. Normal procedure would be to find a cheque and endorse the envelope, “Dog Out” with the date and time and one’s initials.

Glass Testing

Not every dog appears to be satisfied with protecting its property from inside the house.  On the first route I walked there was a house with a large picture window adjoining the mailbox that had a large chesterfield placed back to it.  It supplied an ample platform for a small high-strung dog with tufts of hair emanating from the ends of its ears to charge back and forth yapping vociferously and shaking its head vigorously.   Sentry duty began the moment it caught sight of me and continued well after I’d disappeared in the distance.  At least this dog confined itself to its side of the glass. 

 

Some dogs seem to feel it their duty to test the quality of the glass in their owners’ picture windows.  Imagine the shock a relief experiences when he approaches a home all unsuspecting and suddenly a large canine launches itself at the window.  Aside from the wish that the glass hold, one wonders what effect this constant buffeting has upon the glass—the scratches, nose prints and claw marks left behind and the objects upset upon landing.  I’ve seen vases, crystal, tea sets, and similar items precariously situated.  In one case a very large dog actually wrenched the curtain rods right out of the wall and defecated all over the carpet and furniture.

 

On the first full-time route I walked a large Lab did a circuit of the living room at high speed to gain momentum and then sprang from the middle of the room to land with all fours on the glass, bounced off the glass and landed back on the floor to repeat the circuit until I had departed the area.  I’m thankful to report the window managed to hold but one could actually see the glass rebound from the impact. 

 

Not all windows survive these constant barrages.  Fortunately for letter carriers when most dogs come crashing through windows the resulting concussion and surprise stuns the dog long enough to allow for a hasty retreat—concern for the dog not being upper-most.  I had personal experience with a dog breaking a window sufficiently to get one of its paws through the glass.  Fortunately for the dog I found its owner working in the wood shop in his garage.  I was later informed that the dog not only broke a thermal pane window, but also bled all over the sofa and carpet and required 14 stitches to close the wound on its leg.  This was my fault, of course because I didn’t deliver the mail in the morning when the dog normally took its nap.  No matter that officialdom at the time had other ideas about when I should be delivering the afternoon portion of my walk. 

 

People it would seem are dogs in the manger.  They want their mail delivered, but they don’t accept responsibility for confining their dogs so that such encounters won’t take place.  Somehow, it’s always the letter carrier’s fault.  

Making Friends.doc

Being associated with Birthday Cards, Gifts, and letters from absent friends gave a letter carrier who served a single neighborhood for an extended period of time a unique relationship with the people he served that is rapidly getting lost in this age of Instant Messaging; a corporation that derives 20% of its income from un-addressed admail, (junk to most); and anonymous community mailbox service. I’ve had the privilege of serving successive generations of the same families.

Since children will be children wise customers introduced their new puppy to the mailman, often the day it arrived home and made sure that they got to know one another so that when the inevitable encounters took place the dog would know that this person belonged and should be trusted. Not every puppy is as terminally cute as Tucker, the tea cup Chihuahua pictured above; but much can be said for getting to know an old English mastiff before it outweighs its owner by more than double.

Some houses should come with instructions. More than once I’ve felt like Fog Horn Leg Horn watching out for the rope limit of some snarling hound. Imagine walking up to a house while the dog charges at you daily until its neck gets snapped back by the chain; then imagine that dog coming several extra yards and wondering if it’s going to stop this time. Someone had taken the knots and kinks out over the weekend. Then there was the Anglican Priest who seemed to believe in making me walk the straight and narrow between the hedge and his dog’s snapping teeth—that gate was indeed narrow.

Having someone let a dog you don’t know out the door to run up and nibble at your fingers can be disconcerting—until you learn that its daily routine is picking up its owner’s mail at the end of the driveway. At least the dog took the mail back to the house. Chapter and verse says you should not give a customer’s mail to them on the street unless you personally know them and never to minors. The first time you ignore this and watch a child run to the back of the house next door you learn quickly. One four-year-old decided he wanted to play postman and took his Mother’s mail, including the baby bonus, and delivered it around the Crescent.

Dog's Best Friend

Making friend’s with a customer’s dog if repeated encounters are likely is just a matter of survival and the path of least resistance—liking dogs just doesn’t enter into it.  One is trained to shake a paw, throw a ball, scratch an ear, rub a tummy, and untangle a lead— by the dog, of course.  Tolerating the licking of hands, face, and, in the case of one Welch Corgi getting my earlobes nibbled—is all part of “love me; love my dog.”  Learning to keep one’s mouth closed during close encounters is wise—doggy breath is notorious and you never know what that tongue was last washing—some dogs seem to be French kissers. 

 

When you get to know a dog you also seem to acquire certain responsibilities.  On my first route a black border collie used to jump an 8 ft. fence to come investigate, then jump back.  Not all dogs with such abilities have the same good sense.  I’ve known many dogs that needed to be chained in their own backyards for their own safety.  One such rather large dog was owned by a couple who would occasionally decide it was too cold to go out in their jimmies to let the dog do his doggie best.  On more than one occasion I met him up to half a mile from home.  Returning him was often a major detour and more than once my knock on the door got the owners out of bed, “Did you lose something?”

 

One extremely cold February afternoon I encountered a customer’s newly acquired puppy violently shivering just over the fence.  I picked him up and went to the door and passed him to his youthful owner with the appropriate admonition. 

 

It’s remarkable how many dogs decide to follow the mailman and then don’t have the sense to go home, or even seem to lack a sense of where home is.  Often the easiest path is to open the gate and put Rover in his own backyard.  Being certain of identity is important here or dramatic theatrics could ensue.  I’m not aware that I’ve ever committed such as error but I know I’ve retrieved garbage cans from the middle of major arterial streets and returned them to the wrong house—they usually reappear next week with a house number prominently emblazoned on their sides. 

Mind Your Fingers

The regulations governing the size and location of mailboxes is contained in the Postal Gazette—a document rivaling Britannica Encyclopedia for size which now arrives quarterly in CD-ROM form or may be consulted online via the Corporate Manual System. A mailbox is supposed to be large enough to hold a customer’s mail, protect it from the elements, and be securely affixed to the wall at a reasonable height; a mail slot should be at least 3 inches by 6 inches and a minimum of three feet above the surface one is standing on when it is serviced and not more than five feet above it. Sometime when I’ve had time to look it up and permission to publish it I’ll include a direct quote.

Most customers, of course, have never read the Postal Gazette. Every paperboy can tell you about the granny who has a cavernous strongbox the size of Fort Knox and gets one letter a month and the business executive who gets mail by the truckload and has a dainty little ornament that he’s never gotten around to mounting on the wall. I once had a developer who received the gas and hydro bills monthly for an entire subdivision he was building who had one small partially blocked mail slot 6 inches above the ground.

Mail slots are a special cross that must be born. They come in all shapes and sizes, double hung, spring-loaded, and with razor sharp edges. Every new trainee is advised that if he wants to keep them all intact he should never push fingers through one. In this case the hazard is not the receptacle itself but “Jaws III” waiting on the other side. Every mail route has at least one house at which the mail is cautiously started on its way through the slot taking care not to have too tight a grip on it for before the operation is complete the mail magically disappears as if sucked into a vacuum tube. This action may or may not be accompanying by other sound effects including but not limited to scratching noises, barking, growls, panting, and the sound of shredding paper. One customer after an exhaustive search found their toll-road transponder buried among the cushions in the living room sofa. Another had to have their lawyer reprint the deed to their home and yet another, her doctoral diploma replaced.

Back in the 70s every respectable home had a life-time subscription to National Geographic and Life Magazine. Life was a glossy 10 by 14 inch monthly purgatory for letter carriers until lack of sufficient interested advertisers put an end to its existence. In those days I used to rail about customers who had a mail slot a mosquito couldn’t f**t through, (pass flatus), who complained about its condition when it arrived at the other end—leaving the thing out in the rain wasn’t an option either.

One of my fondest memories is of the Wall Street Journal and a little Dachshund who displayed the stubbornness and determination for which Germans are supposedly noted. Yes, two to three pound, three-inch-thick copies of the Wall Street Journal once arrived daily for delivery to investors in East Oakville. The home in question had a small letter-sized slot through which this monster was expected to be passed—not an easy task and I’ll not vouch for the product that arrived at the other end. Enter the Dachshund who felt it his duty to assist in the operation. This performance is one I’ve always wished I could have witnessed first hand. As the much folded newspaper made its appearance through the slot our friend would grab it and start tugging and grunting. The task being too much for the little fellow but that stubborn streak not permitting a back down he’d hold on as the paper slowly turned to mush. When that mouth full of soggy paper finally cut off his breath there’d eventually be a small cough and the dog could be heard collapsing on the floor. Nothing daunted the performance was repeated daily.

Another challenge was delivering larger items through accommodating slots despite the competition on the other side. Having worked the offending parcel half way through the slot accompanied by a woof and bump on the door the item would come hurtling back through the door often to land in a mud puddle. On one occasion I’d worked the offending item just far enough into the slot to enable completion of the task, and then before the dog could get to it I gave it a sudden, sharp push. The book shot through the slot and on the other side could be heard connecting with something other than the floor. The lady of the house, without opening the door, announced, “You got him, right on the head.”

With the ‘benefit’ of age and maturity today I’d out and out refuse to bend over to deliver mail to a slot at ground-level. This may sound petty but think about doing this day in and day out even when tired and sick, loaded down with thirty-five pounds of mail and your perspective may change. When I was younger and less militant I tolerated these abuses and at one such slot as I was hunched over to accomplish the task I could hear the daily snuffling and throaty growls of the two Great Danes I knew to reside within. Imagine then, if you will, my reaction when, upon performing this daily task I came to the realization that there was utter silence within. Gingerly turning, at eye level, I was met with the rapt stares of the two dogs standing at attention four feet away. Lucky for me their only interest was in seeing what this looked like from my side of the slot.

Living High Off the Hog

My background is as a Nova Scotia farm boy who lived on a subsistence farm where the vet was called for farm animals.  Pets like cats and dogs served the purpose of keeping the rat and mouse population in check and either lived or died, their survival being of indifferent concern as there would always be more.  Considering this background the care lavished by often childless or empty-nest couples on their pets is a revelation.  This is Oakville after all where pets live better than at least 90% of the world’s population.  To a farmer who never earned enough in one year in his life to have considered filing income tax such as my father the idea of spending $1000s of dollars on an operation for a pet would have been inconceivable.  Even I find it hard to believe that people actually get a cat to eat an insulin tablet twice daily. The cat I have in mind was so stupid it climbed a tree and stayed there for three days until I heard it one day, recognized it, and carried it home. 

 

Anyone adopting into their family a puppy that has the potential of acquiring the kind of weight and size we associate with a Great Dane or a St. Bernard should discipline themselves to restrain their tender affection for that puppy and never teach it that it can expect to sit in their laps.  Once learned such habits are nigh impossible to break.  Why anyone would keep two such dogs is one question but to approach the home of that couple and find them seated in their living room each acting as pillow for one of those dogs is a sight hard to forget. 

 

One woman kept a Malamute named Yammer whose chain was attached to the bumper of an old Ford Pinto Stationwagon parked in the open garage with one of its rear doors open to allow Yammer to use the extended, blanket-covered flat bed as her kennel.  Can you imagine what that car looked and smelled like?  When the vehicle was traded, it was actually taken shopping with Yammer ensconced, I was moved to comment, “I see you’ve gotten Yammer a new doghouse.”

 

Spoiled pets are one thing but no matter how pampered they get it’s hard to remove a canine’s genetic memory.  On the day after a major blizzard when the temperature had dropped below zero Fahrenheit I can remember approaching a back door milk box serving as mailbox and discovering a Malamute had dug her way into a massive snow bank and was curled up there with a look of absolute bliss on her face. 

 

 

Doggy Diplomacy

Everyone knows about not disturbing a dog while it is eating. Though I once knew a placid old German shepherd who would allow you to add and remove food from his dish while he was in the very act of eating it. He’d even sit three feet away and watch a crow help itself to his food. He also loved fetching a stick, he just would never give it up willingly when he brought it back; though he’s look disappointed if you tired of his game and walked away. So dogs are as individualistic as the humans who own them but a few guidelines apply.

First and foremost never enter a confined space when you see a dog occupying it. This applies equally to verandahs, entryways, a house, a car, a yard or a doorstep. If you have to deliver mail in person to a customer while supervised by a dog it were better if they came outside and closed the door, in any case never reach toward the customer; make them take the item from you. People who tie their dog to the front doorknob or worse yet, the mailbox subject both their pets and the mailman to needless stress. If you meet someone walking their dog or in their yard with the dog nearby always make sure the person takes an item from you, don’t reach toward them—such actions can be misinterpreted. Never stick your hand into a vehicle with a dog in it—again make the owner reaches out of it toward you.

We’ve all heard about dogs bred for aggression but I’ve also known a pair of Dobermans that would enthusiastically lick whatever part of one that was closest. Small, over-bred dogs seem to be the most excitable and high strung. I know a Yorkie who would take on an Irish Wolfhound without blinking an eye. The dog weighs 40 ounces. Lassie may have been made famous by Timmy but when a collie or any dog for that matter approaches you with its head lowered, it’s hackles and back raised and tail between its legs back off. I’d rather a dog barked at me than stood or sat there at attention watching my every move.

There is much advice about not looking a dog in the eye, keeping your hands in plain sight—in winter one tends to keep them wherever they’ll stay warmest, and talking or shouting at an approaching dog. In my experience this kind of advice is specific to the dog and person using it. Generally such encounters occur without much warning or time for philosophical thought. The one thing I would say is never turn you back on a dog—tough advice to follow when there are two circling you. Personally I don’t like having my heels dogged by a creature I don’t trust. The best advice when forced to work in an area that isn’t familiar to one is to be vigilant at all times and err on the side of caution—if you don’t feel comfortable don’t go near.

When asked by friends for advice about dogs when they canvass for charities or political campaigns I tell them wear light coloured pants, go hatless, and carry as little as possible—advice not available to letter carriers.

Tiger was a Heinz 57 dog on a corner lot with a backyard fenced in on both sides. Tiger started barking on his side of the fence the moment I got near his property made a dash around his house and resumed station on the other side of the house until I was out of range. While I was on vacation the relief had occasion to meet Tiger face to face—unfortunately he ran. As described by the customer who heard the kafuffle from her basement when she arrived at the front door there was an explosion of mail all over the yard, Tiger cowering in the garden, and a mailman with the rear-end torn out of his pants cowering in another corner.

Avian Hazards

Not all hazards come on four legs; some have wings.  Every spring rural route drivers have encounters with nesting tree swallows.  And then there’s the old world robin in the Midlands who found the perfect nesting box: waterproof, perfect sized entrance, and centrally located.  Oh, people had a habit of poking mother robin with bits of paper while she set her eggs but she just poked the paper back out the hole.  All was well until people started complaining about missing mail. 

 

Nesting robins can be quite feisty when they’re brooding eggs.  Letter carriers have been dive bombed on many occasions when the got too close to a nest.  After our Crown Corporation was proclaimed and its leaders decided to impose their idea of a wardrobe on their less than willing employees, I hit the street on a hot day with long polyester pants and a 100% acrylic “burger king” shirt.  Somehow I felt it only appropriate when a robin dropped a deposit all over me. 

 

Purple martins and other small songbirds seem to sense that predatory birds do not like to get too close to human habitations.  People who fail to take down their Christmas Wreaths frequently find themselves hosts to an avian family.  Hanging baskets are also favoured haunts as are the occasional unclosed mailboxes.  Homeowners frequently avoid their front entrances until the brood has been hatched and fledged but the mailman still has to visit the mailbox enduring the squawks and hurried departure of the nesting inhabitants. 

 

Each June marks the arrival of swarming wasps who find the air holes in mailboxes the perfect entrance.  Many customers discover they have tenants when they receive notice that they won’t get mail until they mount an eviction.  Mailboxes are frequently mounted at doors used only to reach the mail as the owner accesses their car through the garage entrance and never use their front door.  This can result in approaches that don’t get shoveled in winter but also can lead to wasp nests of which their hosts are blissfully unaware.  In one such case I served notice that I didn’t consider it safe to continue delivery with the wasps inhabiting the customer’s rather overgrown lilac shrubs.  When the professionals were called in they had to cut out much of the shrubbery to remove the one yard diameter nest.  Which serves to remind me of the gentleman in Boston who decided to do something about the honeybees in his attic when people started crossing the street before they walked past his house.  The exterminators removed 5 tons of bees wax and honey from the hive in his attic.  One can only hope he had better screens applied to his attic vents. 

 

In just the past five years I solved a problem of another kind for a customer.  When I met her with her children in the driveway I reminded her that she hadn’t picked up her mail in over a week.  She was scared of spiders and reported that there was a spider in her mailbox.  Returning to the box I found a hitherto unobserved nest in a corner of the box where mother spider was raising a large family of spiderlets.    With a piece of the customer’s unaddressed mail I cautiously removed the nest and its inhabitants and unceremoniously stomped on them—no, it didn’t rain the next day.   

Man's Best Friend

Not all dog encounters, of course, are of the negative sort. One week while I was still a rank rookie I was joined in my rounds in Bronte west of the creek by a large black Lab. This dog didn’t just follow me around, he’d obviously made this round before and led me around the route, fending off other dogs and leading me unfailingly to the correct door for every mailbox and slot in the area.

Another small lap dog named Cuddles walked a considerable distance from her home each morning to meet her female letter carrier on Rebecca St. just opposite the YMCA. She knew her companion’s schedule and was almost always on time or waiting. She then accompanied the letter carrier on her rounds until they reached the dog’s home. Being surveilled by one’s supervisor is one thing, but his dog?

In East-end Oakville Tux, the Border collie took such a liking to her mailman that she insisted on being let out daily to follow him on his rounds. Hung in the relay box nearest her house was her leash. Tux was quite discerning in her tastes however; if her friend was off she made it quite clear to his replacement that she didn’t approve of her buddy being kept from her.

Dogs are as varied in their responses as the people who own them. On Ingledene Crescent in Falgarwood in the 70s I met Josephine the Basset hound. The first of her breed I’d ever encountered she looked for all the world like a gigantic sausage bouncing up and down in the middle as she chased me up and down the street. Upon finally meeting up with her mistress I felt compelled to ask, “Why Josephine?” “Oh, that’s easy,” was the laughing response, “Napoleon lived next door when we were in Montreal!”

Scaring the Heck out of Others

Over my career I’ve trained scores of new letter carriers. It’s always amazed me that someone with a pathological fear of dogs would even consider the job. One such trainee soiled himself when he saw me charged by two of a customer’s dog who managed to get out through an improperly latched door. One spring I encountered a college-aged summer replacement hydro meter reader out alone for his first rounds. We exchanged greetings and I thought nothing more of it until we next met on another street outside a customer’s back gate. His strikingly handsome features were contorted in a look of abject terror; he’d just punched up the house on his portable data terminal and gotten the message: dog, Bear! Well I knew this dog and opened the back gate to show him a medium-sized dog house in the back yard with the name, “BEAR”, mounted over its entrance. The look of relief on his face was palpable.

On another occasion another Hydro employee had arrived at an east-end home to replace a meter; found no one at home; and the huge female Landseer Newfoundland dog in possession of the back yard. I knew that dog as well and offered to hold it while the technician performed his duties. He agreed but obviously didn’t trust that I would be any impediment if that dog decided to attack—he made a thirty-foot circuit around us in making his way to the hydro meter.

Yet again a child opened the door and let loose a large black mongrel. It charged and attacked me with amazing ferocity leaving permanent teeth marks on the mail bag I was carrying at the time. My only wound was an abrasion on one finger and in my panic I couldn’t determine whether it came from the dog or the metal clip that attaches strap to bag. It was days later that I learned that a hydro reader was across the street when this happened and sat in a neighbour’s kitchen for an hour having a full-blown panic attack having witnessed the event. Apparently he repeatedly stammered, “That, that, that cou’, cou’, cou’, could have b’, b’, b’, been me!”

Getting the Bite

Nothing gets the heart pumping and the system on edge like the sight of a dog that suddenly appears out of nowhere and can be seen racing toward you with obvious malicious intent.  With all that adrenalin coursing through one’s veins the head may know that it’s best to stand one’s ground but the body is rigged for flight.  My first such encounter was with a black Lab by the name of Nipper whose family, ironically enough, lived next door to a future supreme court justice.  I was new to the game and got my first dog bite that day; I was “nipped” in the left hamstring. 

 

With its overwhelming experience with dog encounters Canada Post has experimented with many devices for the prevention of serious injury from dogs.  Everyone has heard of mace, we don’t carry it anymore.  Then there was the device that emitted an intense high-pitched noise and worked, sometimes—if the battery hadn’t run out, if children weren’t present, and if the dog wasn’t too excited to pay attention to the pain in its ears.  The things were $100 each 20 years ago.  We’ve used pepper spray in various containers and formulations.  Presently Canada Post has a special dispensation from the justice department to allow its use by delivery employees. 

 

In my own personal experience I’ve found it wiser to use my abilities as the singing mailman to ensure I got advance warning of a dog at large—if you don’t trust it don’t go near it and if it acts as if it owns an entire crescent so be it—just endorse the mail with the reason for non-delivery and continue on to safer fields.  That was until somehow I got charged by three dogs within one half hour.  The one time I did use pepper spray I saw the dog on the customer’s lawn and sensed trouble.  When it charged I was across the street as far as I could get from its property.  I had the aerosol already cocked and aimed hitting eyes and nose as soon as it got within range—it worked! 

 

Aside from owners who are just plain careless and irresponsible the usual reason for dog encounters are doors left improperly secured; gates left open; and children.  No child accustomed to pulling Fido’s tail and ears or dressing him up in doll’s clothes seems to be able to conceive that their beloved pet could be a hazard to someone else.  When asked to put the dog in the house most will just stare at you dumbly or utter some haughty insult—this is Oakville after all.  Some will even let the thing out on purpose.  That’s when the obvious defence is a well-placed mailbag full of mail.  After that initial charge most dogs will back off.  I’ve delivered mail with teeth marks already in place on more than one occasion. 

 

Dog bites are serious business, especially today with the prevalence of rabies among the local raccoon population, and the bitten had better be able to identify the dog and its owner or rabies shots are now required treatment as a precaution for a disease that is almost always fatal.  The bite may do no more that graze the skin but it must be reported.  What follows is a daunting mass of paperwork, much of it now performed online; a trip to the doctor; tetanus shot; a course of antibiotic at the doctor’s discretion; and, up to six months later follow up documentation from the Compensation Board.  How the weather that day and the day before is relevant has always escaped me.  In response to a question about the lingering effects of the injury I once wrote: “Writer’s cramp from the interminable paperwork.”  However tedious all this may seem proper treatment is essential.  One letter carrier got infection in his leg, the entire limb turned black, and he was off work six months. 

Snowball

Snowball was a Samoyed Dog I encountered in East Oakville over three decades ago who had a habit of accompanying his grade school charges to and from their classes. The day of our first encounter was a cold February day on which I was wearing at least 4 layers of clothing on my upper body and three layers below. In addition I was carrying at least 20 pounds over the allowable 35-pound limit of mail in my satchel and gloved hands. It was snowing steadily and the going underfoot was plodding at best where it hadn’t been shoveled and treacherous where it had. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a patch of white that appeared to be moving toward me at break neck speed. Yes, Snowball was bounding toward me.

Seeing a large strange dog approach one at speed is never a comforting experience for a letter carrier but the best approach most times is to stand one’s ground and if necessary interpose the mail between one’s vital parts and the attacking beast. In the present circumstances I couldn’t have moved with any speed had I wanted to and I was wearing considerable padding in any case. That ball of white continued hurtling toward me and when it reached a point 10 feet away launched itself at me placing one forepaw on each shoulder. Then, to my shock it proceeded to lick my runny nose. I’d survived that one and luckily didn’t even need to do laundry.

I worked in that area for most of a year and became well acquainted with Snowball who continued his school yard supervision. Everyone seemed to know him but I later heard that a negative encounter with some child resulted in a bad end for the wandering canine. I’ll leave it to my readers to draw their own conclusions.

In the same neighbourhood I had occasion to meet a grizzled German Shepherd named Caesar one summer’s day. Again this was decades ago at a time when people felt safe about leaving their homes unlocked. As I walked up to a 3000 sq ft home the front door was open and only the screen door was between me and Caesar. As I placed the mail in the box the dog, that I’d definitely never before met, lunged at the door hitting the latch and opening it. Seeing freedom in view the dog launched himself through the door and not wanting to be in the same space as the dog I quickly jumped inside the house and got the door closed.

Now I was inside the foyer and the dog was outside barking loudly. What to do? Imagine my chagrin after making considerably more noise I came to the realization that there was no one at home. Oh, there was a telephone in the foyer but even I realized I’d never live it down if I called this one in. So I settled down and after a while Caesar got bored and went off to investigate the neighbourhood. When I was satisfied that the dog was nowhere in sight I cautiously resumed my deliveries unharmed. It was days later that I talked to the dog’s regular letter carrier and learned that once he got outside the dog was harmless. You could have fooled me.

Introduction

The battle between dogs and delivery employees has existed since Fred Flintstone first ordered home-delivery of a Brontosaurus Burger or the paperboy delivered his first edition of the Bedrock Times. When I visited my friends in Kansas City, Missouri I had my first opportunity to witness the phenomenon from the other side of the mail slot. Their Bichon took up station on her side of their mail slot at least two hours before the expected arrival of their representative of the US Postal Service and patiently sat waiting until she heard her canine neighbours announce his approach from the end of the street. At that point she assumed full attack readiness posture, her body quivering as she growled and wined in anticipation. The moment the mail slot started opening she sprang like a prehistoric wolf attacking a lion at her cave-mouth grabbing that encroaching paper and grinding and rending it between her teeth. Her duty done she dropped the damp, torn, canine-punctured mass and trotted calmly to her water dish in the kitchen.

This kind of scenario is repeated daily in every major community in North America that still enjoys door-to-door delivery and doubtless further afield. Dog encounters with delivery personnel are legend. To put it in perspective the last year that Canada Post published statistics the total cost to the corporation in one year of dog bites was over $1,000,000. From a letter carrier’s perspective that a lot of irresponsible dog owners.

Theories of why these attacks occur vary. My favourite one holds that dogs are descended from wolves and one of the few traits not bred out of them is the instinctual need to protect their pack’s territory. Some breeds are more territorial than others and there is also a wide variance in the levels of aggression and excitability. (We all know about the old mongrel that would let a thief walk off with anything he desired as long as he didn’t step on him or touch his bowl.) When we bring a dog into our homes the family that resides there becomes its pack—most dogs will even recognize the scent of family members who no longer reside there. The property owned by that family therefore becomes the dog’s territory and defending it their sacred duty. One additional theory holds that the mailman actually trains the dog to bark at him. Each day he approaches the dog’s territory and the dog reacts and each day the mailman reinforces that behaviour by turning around and leaving. Here’s one more premise for those who think they know everything: if you think you have a fool-proof theory for handling dogs, just make sure the dog understands it.

There’s no accounting for taste and dogs are no exception. A dog who will welcome the regular mailman with excited tail wagging woofs will lower his head, raise his hackles, and place his tail between his legs for the relief. By the same token relief letter carriers have been upbraided for befriending a dog that gives the regular route holder problems. There have been dogs who took exception to my yellow fluorescent rain gear and many who growled at the scent of hair shampoo samples in the mail. The scent of the wearer’s after shave cologne definitely has an effect on a dog’s reaction and in a creature with olfactory senses many times more sensitive than ours, one’s body odour and the pheromones in it definitely come into play. One thing for sure, a dog can always scent fear. Many delivery personnel carry doggy treats for their canine friends and although this may work for them there’s nothing worse for a relief than to have a strange dog come bounding up and nip at their hands for a morsel. I’ve always held that my canine friends had to love me for who I was not for the treats I carried.