Beware of Cat

by Vincent Wyckoff

  With the resurgence of the wild turkey population in the Midwest, I’ve seen a couple of the big birds pecking through the neighborhood. For as smart and wary as they’re alleged to be, they never show any concern over my presence.

  There was another bird, however, that caused quite a ruckus several years ago. Big Ray, a letter carrier I worked with early in my career, stood six foot five, a gentle giant, but he somehow made an enemy out of a nesting robin on his route. He took to wearing a wide-brimmed bush hat to protect his head.

  Big Ray’s foe became quite a joke around the station. Even though it flustered him greatly, we teased Big Ray without mercy when he confided how this little bird attacked him with such ferocity.

  I drove over to his route one day to see for myself. Sure enough, on the designated block, Big Ray donned the silly-looking hat. He walked cautiously, creeping through the yards like a soldier on patrol in Vietnam. He scanned the trees for the first sign of an ambush.

  A tiny dark object suddenly hurled itself from the cover of a leafy branch. It zoomed within inches of Big Ray’s head. He ducked into a crouch, rushing forward to the safety of an overhanging garage roof. Time and again the little kamikaze swooped in, and each time Big Ray ducked, flinging an arm up to protect his face.

  From the safety of my jeep, I watched the big man pleading with that little bird to leave him alone. After a while, Ray sprinted ahead to the next house and then double-timed it to the cover of another garage roof. In this way he eventually escaped the bird’s territory. For three weeks Big Ray endured the wrath of that robin, running the daily gauntlet, and providing laughs for the rest of us.

  EVEN IN THE URBAN SETTING of my mail route, it’s possible to witness the day-to-day struggles of wildlife. Crows sometimes gang up, dozens of them, to harass an owl, chasing the raptor from tree to tree. Their racket can be heard for blocks around.

  I stood on a patron’s front stoop one day watching as a great horned owl attempted to elude his tireless pursuers. “Makes you feel kind of sorry for the poor guy,” I commented.

  Pulling his pipe from his mouth, exhaling a cloud of smoke, the elderly resident replied, “Well, I’ll feel sorry for him for

  a while.” Squinting at me through the smoke, he added,

  “But come sundown, the tables will be turned. Then it’s payback time.”

  Hawks aren’t nearly as rare as they used to be, and I saw a kestrel several times one summer. A letter carrier on a neighboring route saw the bird, too. Perched on a low branch, often right out in the open, it seemed the bird paid no attention to me at all. With his short forehead, intense eyes, and sleek profile, he was quite dapper. One day I watched as he suddenly darted off the branch, swooped between two houses, and lit into a backyard compost pile. When he returned, he clutched a mouse firmly in his talons.

  THERE’S ALWAYS PLENTY of wildlife around if one takes the time to look for it. Even so, the most bizarre occurrences, as well as the most frightening situations for letter carriers, involve man’s so-called best friend.

  Returning to the station one day, I found my supervisor on the phone with a neighborhood resident. She reported that stray dogs were harassing her letter carrier, and he appeared to require assistance. The carrier was a veteran named Mike, and even though we didn’t think he really needed help, the supervisor sent me out to check on him.

  This will be great fodder for some teasing, I thought. I was still grinning when I turned the corner and saw Mike’s jeep parked down the block. He stood on the roof, a pair of rottweilers circling his jeep like sharks around a sinking boat.

  I raced down the street, opened my window, and yelled at the dogs. They immediately turned on me. Creating the short diversion bought Mike enough time to scamper down off the roof and get in his jeep. With him safely inside, the dogs soon lost interest and wandered off.

  Mike finished the route, and back at the station we gathered around to hear his story. He had seen the dogs coming for him from way down the block. He sprinted for the jeep, not sure if he could get there first. Fortunately, he won the race, but the dogs were so close he didn’t have time to unlock the door. We laughed as he reenacted his attempts to jam the tiny brass key in the lock while two snarling, one-hundred-twenty pound carnivores closed in on him. At the last second he abandoned the effort and jumped up on the hood, the dogs lunging at his ankles. From there he climbed up on the roof to wait for the animals to leave or help to arrive.

  MY SCARIEST ENCOUNTER was a run-in with a German shepherd named Timber. The young woman who owned him rented a small house on my route. I had plenty of warning about the dog, as almost every letter carrier in the station knew him.

  The fellow I inherited the route from told me all of Timber’s habits. Basically, the dog would either be in the house, posing no threat, or outside on his chain, in which case I should avoid the yard at all costs. A doghouse sat near the front door, and I had to ensure that Timber wasn’t sleeping out of sight before entering the yard.

  Fortunately, his chain was quite heavy. I don’t think a tractor could have broken it. Also, Timber wasn’t outside very often. Because Laura, his owner, worked days, he generally stayed inside all week. Every now and then I saw him on a Saturday, though, chained out by his doghouse. He watched me pass without so much as a bark. But a sinister intelligence glimmered in his eyes, and it gave me the creeps. He sat still as a statue, ears pointed straight out, sizing me up with a menacing, Hannibal Lecter–like stare.

  I approached the yard that day looking for any sign of Timber. By now it was automatic, like putting on a seat belt. I gave a little whistle in case he was in the doghouse. I was so distracted that I didn’t immediately notice Laura working in the front yard. She had just mowed the lawn and now sat out by the street pulling weeds in her small flower garden.

  I walked up to her and handed her the mail. She was engaged in a friendly conversation with Pete, her next-door neighbor, who was working on his car in the driveway. I had never talked to her much, so I paused for a few minutes to chat. My fear of Timber was so ingrained, however, that I kept looking across the yard up to the house. His unknown whereabouts made me nervous, so I finally asked, “Where’s Timber?”

  “Oh, I keep him inside when I work out here. He gets so jealous and protective. He goes crazy if someone even walks by.”

  I caught a glimpse of him then, through the living room window. I relaxed, feeling I had survived yet another Saturday.

  “He’s a great dog,” the neighbor interjected. “I take him for walks to get him some exercise. He’s about the smartest dog I’ve ever met.”

  Laura added, “Timber is so strong I can’t handle him alone on a leash. Pete is working to control him with voice commands.”

  Pete talked about his experiences in training dogs. “I really don’t think Timber would hurt you,” he concluded.

  I laughed. “If you only knew how many times I’ve heard that one.”

  He tried to explain, and while he talked, I noticed how Laura looked at him. They were both single. It occurred to me that Pete wasn’t really doing anything to his car, just using it as a pretext to talk to his neighbor.

  Out of habit I glanced at the house again. Detecting movement through the bank of living room windows, my senses jumped to high alert. Ears straining, I heard Timber’s muffled barks from inside. My heart began beating faster. I stepped aside, into the shade, to peer more intently through the windows at the other side of the yard. I could see the dog racing back and forth across the living room. Suddenly, he changed course and charged at the large, single-paned windows. When he leaped, he seemed to hang in mid air; then glass exploded, the screen flipped away, and Timber roared into the front yard.

  Laura screamed, and I’m not too sure that I didn’t do the same. The huge dog was on us in seconds. I’ve never used my dog spray, and I don’t think it would have slowed Timber down any
way, but there wasn’t time for that now. I ducked behind the woman, swinging my satchel off my shoulder to protect myself.

  Timber came in low and fast, banking tight around Laura’s legs. He almost knocked her down trying to get at me. Snarling, he lunged, and I whipped my mailbag between us just in time. He got a mouthful of the canvas bag and thrashed it from side to side while I desperately hung on to the shoulder strap. Mail flew everywhere. Timber’s teeth punctured the satchel, and it became lodged in his mouth. I truly had a tiger by the tail.

  All the while, Laura screamed, “He’ll kill you! Oh, my God! He’ll kill you!” She was hysterical, and her frantic yelling only intensified the situation.

  I grabbed the back of her shirt to keep her between the chomping teeth and me. Pete yelled Timber’s name, and for a split second the dog hesitated. I yanked the mailbag loose and prepared for the next assault.

  When it came, the force of it startled all of us. Timber launched himself at me directly through Laura. She collapsed out of the way, knocked aside like a twig before a grizzly bear, and the snarling face lashed out at me. Staggering backwards, using the mailbag as a shield, I somehow avoided the snapping teeth.

  Pete yelled again, and this time Timber stopped. When he turned to look at the neighbor, I ran for the street. He tried to come for me again, but Pete grabbed his collar, wrestled him to the ground, and with sheer strength and voice commands managed to hold him down.

  I sat on the curb, shaking, gasping for breath. Laura lay on the lawn, sobbing. Mail was strewn across the yard, my mailbag lying in a heap near the sidewalk. Some of the neighbors had heard the racket and came out of their houses to see if we were all right. Pete sat on top of Timber, calming the dog with soft shushing sounds.

  I had to report the incident. If Timber would launch himself right through a glass window, it wasn’t safe to deliver mail there anymore. My supervisor backed me up. For a while, Laura rented a post office box. Why she kept that crazy animal I’ll never know. From then on, when passing her house, I circled way out by the street.

  Sometime later she moved. The house she bought was nearby, but far enough away to be off my route. I warned her new carrier about Timber. With the support of our supervisor, he insisted that she put a mailbox out by the street, and that seemed to solve the problem.

  Years passed, and Timber grew old and frail. His carrier told me that the dog basked outside all day in the sunshine. He didn’t bark at intruders anymore; in fact, he seldom even woke up from his nap when the mailman arrived. In his old age he was no longer a threat.

  On a whim I stopped by one Saturday. Timber lay at the front door. He heard me approaching, but I’m not too sure he could see me. I carried my mailbag as a shield, though, just in case.

  He let me sit with him. I petted his wide, heavy brow, while recounting for him our little incident of ten or twelve years earlier. Although I’m sure he had no recollection of me, sitting with the old warrior helped me close the book on that harrowing experience and come to terms with the fear that had so overwhelmed me that day.

  It was hard to believe that this docile animal had once tried to kill me. But then, I had witnessed many changes in the neighborhood during the years since Timber’s attack. Just a decade earlier, many of the residents had been retired, blue-collar, empty nesters. Now, young families were moving in, remodeling and updating the houses. There was more diversity. My daily passage through the neighborhood had been the one constant in all the changes.

  Timber nestled his great head in my lap. We sat like that in the sunshine for a while longer. When I got up to leave, I left him with a dog biscuit and best wishes for a long and restful retirement.

  Beware of Cat was designed and typeset by Percolator Graphic Design in Minneapolis. The type is Kingfisher, designed by Jeremy Tankard. Printed by Thomson-Shore, Dexter, Michigan.