I’m in the pool yesterday, when Bentley races to the gate and begins barking as if we’re being invaded by jackals. I get out, barely dry off and rush over: There’s a postal truck, and a woman mail carrier emerges with a large box stamped “priority mail.”
“This wouldn’t fit in your mailbox,” she said. Two things occur to me:
- Was this the only mail? That would be highly unusual.
- Bentley appears to be loading a gun and I have to get her out of there.
“Is this the only mail?” I ask.
“No,” she responds, you had a few letters and I left them in the box.”
My mailbox in 150 yards down the driveway. I went to help Bentley find some bullets.