Please Mr Postman

It has been bred in dogs since the stone age to attack the postman. At that time people communicated by drawing on stone with slate. The postman would be weighed down with stones, so, when they walked up uninvited to our cave opening, we gave chase, and, because they were so weighed down, they were easily catchable, and because food was scarce, well, things could get ugly.

Their only recourse was to throw stones at us, which allowed us, after the chase, to catch up with news from the other caves. Strangely, this means of chase and learn still exists in Afghanistan.

Today I think we dogs have to agree to overcome our breeding and let the postman be, because as of late Pocket and I have received more mail then Mommy and Daddy combined.

In our village Daddy leashes us, takes us for a walk to do our business, and to get the mail. The mail is kept in a little room at the front of the village. Because this is the Village of the Pruned there is a handicapped ramp leading to the room. Sometimes Pocket pees on the ramp and then we hide on the other side of the landing, wait for some old guy to slip, and then we laugh while Daddy calls 911.

When the ramp becomes clear we ascend it again, Daddy puts the key in the mailbox lock, pulls out the envelopes, and announces who the mail is for. One for Mommy, one for Foley and Pocket, two for Foley and Pocket, three for Foley and Pocket. And then he turns to look at where the big packages are. If there is one with our address it is inevitably for us two little Yorkies.

When we get home Mommy opens our cards and reads them then hands them to us. We have got too many to mention and it’s only the beginning of December. We did get an exclusively made Puppy Malatesta ornament. I let Mommy hang that from her tree but then Pocket and I take the rest of the cards into the leopard skin vagina condo.

Like all the really good kitty condos it is bigger on the inside then out the outside. Pocket and I took the game room, moved out the pool table and the Frogger machine, put in an eight foot Colorado spruce, and on the walls we are hanging all our cards from our friends. We have the walls color coded so we can match the toy in the Toy Room, with the card in the Tree room. Just because you’ve had your anal glands squeezed doesn’t mean you’re not anal.

So I ask all my dear friends out there to not chase the postman anymore. I know, he used to bring things to Mommy and Daddy that would either make them sad or make them spend time away from us. But more and more these creatures of the night are bringing things to make us smile, feel loved, and to play with, or eat (yummy!)

So resist the urge, leave the postman alone, and maybe even give him a kiss, because you never know what he has for you.

As for the need to chase, bark and possibly bite, there is always the newspapers guy.