Hellhound House

Some citrus trees have long sharp thorns.  Roses may have dainty little barbs to annoy florists, but an old wizened grapefruit tree is armed with spikes so sharp they can puncture boot leather.  I was reminded of this one day when I was forced to find protection from an angry pack of hounds--Basset Hounds!

The late October day was no different than most days on my rural mail route.  Tooling around the maze of country roads, I was enjoying a rather light load that was getting lighter with every mailbox.  Rural mail delivery is different from city service.  The carrier must provide transportation—the Postal Service doesn't care what as long as the vehicle has seat belts.  It's up to the carrier to figure-out how to navigate from the passenger's seat.  Whether driving an old surplus Jeep, or a shiny new sedan, just slap on a magnetic "US Mail - Frequent Stops" and you're good to go.  I drove a 1982 Toyota Corona. 

I called the car "Clint" because it was so quiet, and efficient.  It didn't rumble or announce my arrival, and it was easy to maneuver.  The radio was good, and the windows were manual.  I darted from box to box like a big blue humming bird, knocking-down the red flags while steering around the trash cans.  Occasionally, I'd have to stop and deliver a package, get a signature, or pee behind a myrtle bush.  In Postalese, any task that required me to leave my trusty Clint was called a dismount.  The term is a leftover from the Pony Express days; rural carriers are the cowboys of the Postal Service.    

Clint and I were always on the lookout for anything that might blind-side us.  Our route took us through a vast area of scrubland that had been abandoned by a bankrupt developer.  The gooey asphalt roads were full of potholes and litter.  People dumped just about anything out in the bowels of my route: broken recliners, refrigerator carcasses, derelict microwaves.  A new wasteland was replacing the old citrus groves and cattle ranges.  Bobcats, raccoons, and rattlesnakes adapted to the new landscape, raising their families around the rusting debris.  Once, rounding a corner, we surprised a panther nursing a pair of kittens.   

People in this particular part of the county often let their dogs run loose, and of course, a canine's natural enemy is the mailman.  I love dogs.  Dogs love me, too, except when I deliver the mail.  Clint and I were especially cautious at one foreboding address: The Hellhound House.  It was located at the end of a rural lane, isolated and forsaken.  Its rustic splendor had long since been supplanted by a crooked, crusty roof, and mildewed siding.  A faded sign was almost visible near the front porch door behind the scrawny remnants of a rose bush--Beware of Dog!

 I heard the Hellhound dogs every time I approached the decaying mailbox.  There were at least three of them, maybe four.  I'd never actually seen them, but it seemed they lived on the porch, where they bayed behind a collection of broken furniture, bags of beer bottles, and empty dog food cans.  Two or three times a month, I could count on an official letter addressed to the Hellhound mistress.  Always certified, the letter required a signature.  The Postal Service discourages dog bites, and respecting my employer's philosophy, I never dismounted to deliver Hellhound House mail.  Instead, I'd let Clint call out with his convincing toot.  We'd wait for maybe a nano-second, leave notice, and drive the hell away.  It's still hard for me to believe that I would ever change my mind.

I drove-up, as usual, and noticed that the yard was clean, and the porch was empty.  A dumpster near the street corner was full of familiar trash that I recognized from the porch.  The rose bushes had been hacked back to adolescence, and the "Beware of Dog" warning had disappeared;only its ghostly residue remained.  No barking or baying hellhounds.  Clint tooted.  No response.  Nothing.  He tooted again.  Hmmm.

With letter in hand, I dismounted Clint who sat gaping as I tentatively approached the house.  There was no doorbell, so I knocked on the porch door.  Again, nothing.  I was filling out the delivery notice when I saw the first dog charging.  He was coming from the side yard followed by a posse of black and tan troublemakers.  Clint was fifty feet away and I knew I couldn't make it, but a grapefruit tree between us seemed possible. I ran full-throttle to its pitiful branches propelled upward by the fuel of undiluted panic. 

The Hellhounds gathered under me, baying like evil sorcerers, snarling with furious blood lust.  I was the hostage of six Bassets, and there was nothing I could do to negotiate my release.  Baby talk only insulted them, and my singing produced even more agitation.  I would have to wait for rescue.  But how long? 

 After the dogs lost interest and fell asleep, I got a good look at my captors.  They were not young hounds; their snouts were whittled by varying degrees of gray.  The biggest guy had sore looking lumps near his hindquarters, and his slack mouth was nearly toothless.  They snored and farted in strange syncopation, waking briefly to chew an itch, to scratch an ear, to groan in sad resignation

I also resigned myself to the grapefruit tree, grateful for sanctuary, but miserable with my own prickly discomfort.  Two or three punctures throbbed on my palms, and my shins had both blossomed with hideous scrapes.  A yellow fly tormented my thighs, while mosquitoes set up a smorgasbord on my arms.  Thorns kept me in my place, and ineffable chagrin kept me quiet.

Finally, a car drove into the yard.  I'd never seen a car at the Hellhound house before, and was surprised  by an elegant coupe.  A Cadillac.  The dogs, slowly waking and remembering to bark, ran happily toward the driver.  He greeted the hounds and, not seeing me, headed toward Clint.  I announced myself from the tree. 

"Hey" I said, "Can you help me down from here?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"Postal Service."

"How long you been up there?"

"Long enough"

Jackson, a middle-aged man wearing a Copenhagen ball cap and Calvin Klein jeans, helped me down from my awkward perch.  The Bassetts, now indifferent, assumed passive postures.

"I needed someone to sign for a letter"

"Where is it?"

We found it under the porch.  It was addressed to Jackson's mother who had died a few weeks back.  He would inherit the property, and was fixing-it up to sell.

"Sorry about your Mama" I said.  "What will you do with the dogs?"

"They'll die-off naturally, one by one.  They looked-out for Mama best they could.  I reckon I can do the same for them."

I returned to Clint, exhausted, punctured, and thirsty.  We finished our mail route and drove back to the Post Office.  My supervisor looked at his watch, I showed him my wounds, filled-out an incident report, and went home.  I never dismounted at the Hellhound house again.  The grapefruit tree was replaced with a magnolia, and the roses recovered their beauty.  Over the next few years, I watched the house's charm return as each dog followed the other to wherever old Basset Hellhounds go.