Denbigh the Dog, Part Two

(Continued from "Denbigh the Dog, Part One")

My current mail route is an amazing amalgamation of different delivery styles.  The first half involves walking from door-to-door, and some parts where I drive from house-to-house, walking up to each doorstep individually.  This sounds a little counter intuitive, but actually is easier in one section that involves a steep hill and too many stops to actually try and walk the thing.  Plus there’s the parcels that need to be delivered; too many of those to get stuffed into a satchel as well!

The last half of the route is my “reward” for surviving the first half every day.  It’s also in a hilly section of Boise, but all the mailboxes are right on the curb so I get to drive from house-to-house, and only get out of the truck if I have a package that is larger than the mailbox.

One day when I had finished my “flatland” portion and had gone to my “reward” on the hill, I arrived in the first little cul-de-sac and noticed a dog running directly toward my truck.  This dog was coming at full speed, and… he had a stick in his mouth!  It was Denbigh – and he was a good distance from home.  I threw the stick for him a couple of times and then convinced him to get into the truck, which he reluctantly did when he figured out that I was done with the stick.

We then drove back down the hill and then the remaining ten blocks or so back to where he lived.  I stopped the truck and opened the door and we both got out and went to the front door.  Nobody was home.  Denbigh walked over to the side gate and waited for me to open it.  I did, and he calmly walked back into his yard and I closed the gate behind him.  Off I went to resume my deliveries.

The very next day, I received a notice that Denbigh’s family had put in a “vacation hold” order.  It was a day late in getting to me, and the hold should have started on the day Denbigh found me.  I panicked thinking that he’d been forgotten, or worse that he was now trapped in his yard with no one to feed him.  I’d make sure he was okay when I went by later that day.

When I stopped at Denbigh’s house, he was nowhere to be found.  “I suppose he’s escaped again,” I thought to myself.  “I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”

Fortunately the family wasn’t gone for very long, and as soon as they were home Denbigh was as well.  I stopped and said hello, and we talked a little bit and then the woman shared a mystery with me.  “We went on vacation, so we left Denbigh with my sister.  He disappeared, and so she came down here hoping he had found his way home.”

I could feel my stomach churning a little.  She continued.  “My sister came here and found that he had managed to get back into the yard!  He always gets out… getting back is a new trick!”

I then confessed how I had found him (okay… he FOUND me) up on the hill, and had no idea that he was staying up there.  Apparently the sister had gone off to work, and Denbigh had immediately said goodbye to their dog and escaped to find more exciting things to do when I happened along.  Fortunately they laughed about it and were actually grateful that I tried to bring Denbigh back home – even though he was supposed to be staying up on the hill. 

I assured them that if I found him up there again, I’d check with the sister first before returning him home.  They in turn thought they’d rather have him returned home than to be wandering about in strange territory.  One way or another, we’d all make sure Denbigh was okay.

Then came the day when the lady met me at the house and asked if I had seen Denbigh.  He had gotten out, and wandered off and had not returned.  Both she and her husband were sick with worry and had no clue where he went.  I hadn’t seen him either, and things weren’t looking good for Denbigh at this point.  The weather wasn’t helping either; it had been raining most of the day.

The next day was dismal, and the rain hadn’t stopped.  I just arrive at the start of my route where O’Farrell Street turns into Horizon Drive (and that steep hill begins).  At the second house I noticed something move underneath a bush and then emerge; it was Denbigh.  Instead of coming to me, he frantically started looking for a stick.  The moment he found one, he ran over to me and dropped it at my feet.  “You idiot!” I said.  “You’re soaked!  I don’t want to throw the stick!  Let’s go home.”  And with that I opened up the door and beckoned for him to get in.

Nothing doing.  Denbigh would NOT get into the truck.  Again he dropped the stick at my feet and assumed his crouching position, waiting for the throw.  I finally had a little light bulb go off in my brain, and figured that if he wanted to play with the stick…

I drove the four blocks back to Denbigh’s house with my arm fully extended out the window, stick in hand, with Denbigh merrily running after it – but never quite catching it.  When we got to his house, there was a minor celebration in honor of his return.  They asked where I’d found him, and I told them where it was – although it was Denbigh that had found me.  “We searched all up and down that street, calling for him constantly,” they told me.  But their searching yielded no results. 

So back in the yard he went, and the fence line was patrolled and anchored down even more.  Three weeks went by and I didn’t see Denbigh.  Then one day they met me at the door once again.  “Denbigh’s gone again.  We searched all over including where you said he was the last time.  We can’t find him… will you keep an eye out for him?”

It was a day similar to the one when Denbigh found me a few weeks before.  The only difference was that I had gotten out for delivery earlier than usual that morning, as the mail volume was light.  (The more mail, the longer it takes us to get the route put together.  The less mail, the quicker we get out on the street.)  I had passed the point where Denbigh had met me almost two hours before the time we had found each other previously. 

I decided to take a chance and go back to that spot “just in case”.  When I think about it now, it seems pretty stupid – thinking that a dog would have an internal clock, and that he’d return (in the same weather conditions) to the same place where we had met a few weeks before.  As I rounded the corner and drove back to the house where he’d spotted me previously, my jaw dropped open as Denbigh emerged from under the bush with a stick in his mouth, ready to play.

Again I had to drive back to his house, holding the stick out of the window at arm’s length while he happily chased it.  I believe that it was after this latest adventure that the family invested in the chickens, and gave Denbigh a new chapter in his life.  Once “his chickens” had arrived you couldn’t get him to leave the yard for anything.  Well, unless the chickens were safely napping and he heard the mail truck coming down the street!