Whistler

(Sadly, there was a photograph associated with this blog entry.  When transferring it from one site that was shutting down to this site, the photo was lost.  I am unable to locate it among my possessions.)

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One of the first dogs I ever encountered on the mail route I’ve been delivering for over the last 15 years was named Whistler.  As I pulled up to place the mail in the curbside mailbox, this yellow lab came charging toward the mailbox at full speed.  Wonderful.  Brand new on the route, and I’ve already found a territorial dog.

He arrived at the mailbox in mere seconds, and then hit the brakes – coming to an almost instantaneous stop next to the mailbox.  It was then that I noticed two important details; Whistler was wearing a shock collar (for the Invisible Fence) so he had an ingrained concept of boundaries, and secondly (and most important to Whistler) was that he had a tennis ball in his mouth.

Whistler was not in “attack mode”.  He was in, “I’ve found a sucker to throw my ball” mode.  And he was right… in no time at all he had me trained to throw the ball for him whenever I showed up. 

This became a game for both of us; I’d show up at the mailbox and so would Whistler.  I’d throw the ball toward the back of the house (their yard sloped downhill from the street) and Whistler would run at full-tilt to retrieve the ball and make it back to the box before I was done getting the mail sorted and off to the next stop.  Whistler always got two throws of the ball because of his speed.  On heavy mail days he usually got three tosses of the ball.

This went on for a few years, and then one day one of Whistler’s humans was out in the yard, waiting by the mailbox.  When I got there, they told me that Whistler had cancer and wasn’t going to be around much longer.  They also asked if I’d do them a favor and pose for a photo with him.  They were compiling a photo album for their kids, tentatively called “A Day in the Life of Whistler”, where they were going to document his daily goings-on.  My routine stop there was apparently on Whistler’s “to-do” list, so it was only natural that it should be part of the documentary.

The photo that appears above is a copy that was given to me from that day’s “photo-shoot”.  It’s also a pleasant reminder of the dog who helped to make a game out of delivering the mail to that one address on my route.  Even though Whistler has been gone for years, I still pull up to that one mailbox expecting to see him standing there with his ball, waiting for the game to begin.

Alti

Not all the dogs on my route are extraordinary; some are just plain ol’ loveable mutts of average ability.  So it is with “Alti”, a dog of no fixed breed and (as far as I can tell) possessing little to no ambition.  I say this because unlike so many dogs that might start barking, or come running when they see you – you’ll never know Alti is even out in the yard until you walk around a corner and nearly trip over her.

Alti is a medium sized dog, although her size is accentuated by her girth (she’s been hitting the kibble a little too hard) and a long, thick coat of fur that would serve her well if she lived in the Yukon.  Her name is a derivative from a cross street just one house up from where she lives: Alturas.  Why didn’t the folks just name her after the street they live on?  Well… they lived on a numbered street, and even a dog wants to be known by a name, not a number!

Alti is so passive that if she’s soaking up a little sunshine on the sidewalk and there is a parcel I have to lug up to the porch, I have to be careful to either walk around the dog or step over her.  She willmove, but only to roll over on her back so I will be suckered into rubbing her tummy.

Occasionally she will bark.  It’s rare, but it has happened a couple of times.  Sometimes if she’s in the house and hears me putting a parcel on the porch she’ll let out a “woof” or two.  This is more or less a “warning” telling me that she’s lumbering toward the doggie door at the rear of the house and will come meet me out front just as soon as she gets a little momentum going.  When she gets there I’m usually greeted with a wagging tail and then a quick roll onto her back for the traditional tummy rub.

The height of “pathetic” was attained the other day as I was taking a parcel up to the porch (yes, they seem to get a lot of goodies through the mail).  The dog wasn’t in her doggie-bed by the front door, nor did I hear her inside the house.  As I turned to head back to the truck Alti started barking at me… from underneath a bush beside the porch.  As soon as I said, “I hear you,” she hushed up.  But would she come out from her napping spot?  No… that would require more effort than she wished to expend.  But it was obvious she still wanted some attention.  She rolled over on her back and gave her tail a few good wags.

It was up to me to get down on all fours (woof, woof) and reach into the bush to give a quick tummy rub.  I’m sure that to Alti this was just “normal behavior”.  But if any of the neighbors were watching the mailman crawling around their neighbor’s front yard and reaching into a bush… well, who cares what they think!  Judging from the wagging tail as I rubbed the tummy inside the shrubbery, I was doing “OK”!  That’s Alti’s opinion, and she’s sticking to it!

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!

Denbigh the Dog, Part One

There was once a family that lived on Resseguie Street that had a couple of dogs.  One was a dog of questionable breed, though probably had some border collie in her, named Riddle.  The other was a dog that was definitelya border collie; his name was Denbigh. 

They were located at the end of this fabled street in Boise, so automobile traffic was limited just to those living up the dead-end street that adjoins at Resseguie’s terminus.  Riddle was much older and was approaching the end of her life as Denbigh was reaching his prime.

Riddle was going blind and deaf, and was happy just to sit on the porch and enjoy the sunshine.  Although she could no longer see or hear me coming, she could feel the wooden steps and porch reverberate with each footstep and when I offered my hand for a sniff she immediately would start wagging her tail and say “hello” to me the best she could. 

Riddle didn’t quite make it to the 20-year mark, but she gave it her best.  Once she was gone and Denbigh was alone, he needed a diversion.  His “parents” got a few backyard chickens, which immediately became his obsession; his herding instincts took over and he had a sense of purpose to his life.  Denbigh would spend hours watching “his” chickens and keeping track of their every movement.

Denbigh was also one of the smartest dogs I ever met, and this excess of intelligence often got him in trouble.  Early on in our friendship, Denbigh had decided that my sole purpose in his life was to throw a stick for him whenever I showed up.  He once told me (telepathically, of course) that “Petting was fine for other dogs… but life is short and here’s a stick.  Now THROW it!”

The minute I would step into Denbigh’s yard he would start glancing from left to right until he found a stick that was suitable for the task and then bring it to me and drop it at my feet.  He would then back up a few feet and then hunker down, never taking his eyes off of the stick.  I’d throw it, he’d bring it back and we’d repeat the process a few times until I had to move on.  Then he’d look at me with a hurt expression, like I’d failed him somehow by walking away.  But if he was out the next day, all would be forgiven and we’d start the process anew.

Ah… now there was the key.  IF he was out.  You see, he had a nice fenced back yard.  He wasn’t hurting for space to run around in.  But Denbigh was an escape artist, and if he could find a weakness anywhere along the fence line he would exploit it.  Many a day would find me ringing the bell, and then letting the folks know that Denbigh had escaped once again.  “I just fixed two new escape routes I found in the fence yesterday” would often be the reply.  No matter.  When the master closes a door, Denbigh opens a window. 

Not only did Denbigh know how to get out with alarming regularity, but he also could recognize the sound of my mail truck before I’d get to the house.  So as I was rounding the corner a couple of houses away I’d see Denbigh come bounding out of his yard with a stick in his mouth, running up the middle of the street directly at my truck.  I’d have to stop and open my door, at which point he would get out of the way and come over to the door and drop the stick inside by my feet (or in the footwell, depending on his placement).  He’d then back away and wait for me to throw it.

It’s tough to play with a dog and drive at the same time.  Especially when it’s a determined dog.  Fortunately the houses just prior to his had some terrain that required a little effort to get up and into, so I could make it to the next house before he’d show up with the stick again.  One more throw and then I’d be at his house, ratting him out to his owner once again who would say in a defeated tone, “nowhow did you get out?”

The trouble with an escape artist is that sooner or later they discover that they can wander further than the front yard.  Denbigh did just that, and I’ll share a couple tales of his “travels” in Part Two of this tale one week from this posting.

(Jump to "Denbigh the Dog, Part Two)

The Ambassador of Horizon Drive

Ben Glen with the City of Boise as a backdrop.

 In Idaho’s capital city lies a street named Horizon Drive, aptly named (one might suppose) because from the top part of the hill this street climbs one can look westward and see the state of Oregon on the horizon.  Or maybe not… what do I know?  I’m just the mailman on that street…

Horizon drive is not a gentle incline.  It is a steep hill, and can be a menace in the wintertime – many a winter people have parked their cars at the base of the hill and walked home, only to retrieve their vehicles the following day once the road had been plowed and sanded. I’ve also heard tales of the lure of a fast downhill descent on a bicycle claiming the life of one of the neighborhood kids many, many years ago.

Delivering mail on this particular street in the winter can be challenging, or if one isn’t cautious it can be just plain treacherous.  But then comes the spring, and from the top of Horizon Drive you can watch as Boise comes back to life, as the city turns from drab to green as the trees shoot forth new leaves.  The people are out tending their yards, and the neighborhood goes through its yearly rebirth.

Sadly, one of my favorite residents is forever missing.  Ben Glen, as his “parents” called him, has gone on to where all of our beloved pets ultimately go.  Ben gave the appearance of being an unremarkable dog, and yet he was one of the finest I have ever met.

He didn’t bark when I’d arrive with the mail, nor would he run up and act frantic – like nobody had paid any attention to him in years.  He didn’t have ulterior motives, such as being friendly with the hope of receiving a treat, nor would he try and play the “pathetic card” to where a person would feel sorry for him and pet him out of pity.

Ben would calmly walk up to me, and lean into me as he received his attention.  Some days it was hard for him to get up from his spot in the sun, and I’d have to make a slight detour over to where he lay.  The tail would wag, but that nasty old sun sometimes just saps the energy out of a yellow dog.  Getting up could sometimes be so exhausting!

I began referring to Ben as “The Ambassador of Horizon Drive” because of his demeanor.  Anytime I would be off of the route, the substitute carriers would tell me about this “wonderful yellow dog” on Horizon Drive.  Ben was able to tame even the most canine-skeptical carriers, and the bona fide dog lovers looked forward to carrying this part of the route just for the chance to say “hello” to Ben.

Then there’ the neighborhood itself.  Everybody knows everybody and (in case you were wondering) this is a good thing.  It seems that people also know which pet is at which house, who has the friendly dogs and which mutts are best left alone.  Ben was at the top of every resident dog lover’s list on Horizon Drive.

Waiting for some attention.
Photos courtesy of M. Glen

For an “unremarkable dog”, Ben had a lot of admirers.  He was my favorite on this street, and I still look to the spot where he would be waiting as I arrive with the mail.  Even though his physical presence has ceased, Ben was one of those dogs that I will remember long after my letter carrying days are through.  Pretty remarkable for an “unremarkable dog”, don’t you think?