Our PaperLady is sweet. She didn’t get upset when Gordon Labradoodle jumped on her car door to see if her red car was a giant rolling Pupperoni, and she slows down if she sees him, so if he does shamelessly throw himself at her again, she won’t kill him. I appreciate that.
But PaperLady is not the sharpest crease in the newsprint. At least once a week she’ll throw us a paper on her way in to the neighborhood, Gordon will trot out and get it while she continues her rounds, and then she’ll throw us another paper on the way out of the neighborhood.
Why? Because Gordon made her first delivery magically disappear. He’s the David Copperfield of the dog world, only less creepy and smaller nose.
Receiving two newspapers is a problem for two reasons:
1. Monday – Friday it is an afternoon paper, and having the dog stare at the back of your head making little annoyed “booof!” noises when you’re trying to eat dinner or relax after work isn’t ideal. You have to get up and let him get the paper.
Then, the second you sit back down, there he is again with urgent notice of paper #2..
2. It annoys the living tar out of me that after delivering the paper for the last 5 years, PaperLady doesn’t have a pattern. All she needs is a pattern – papers on the right on the way in to the neighborhood, papers on the left on the way out – something. It makes my jaw clench.
Sidenote: I don’t know why I just said “living tar” – Well, I do, I said it to avoid saying ‘living f*ck’ because my writing is the one place I try not to curse like a syphilitic wharf rat. But “living tar?” What is “living tar?” I think I just deciphered Southern culture. Seems their whole colorful way of speaking is just an attempt to keep from cursing. Mark that cold case solved.
Anyway, PaperLady hit a new low this Saturday morning.
I was peeking through the blinds to see if PaperLady had delivered yet, when I caught her in the act of throwing the paper, on her way out of the neighborhood. Usually, she hits us on the way in.
Did I mention she has no pattern?
I unclenched my jaw and moved to let out the dog.
As I turned, I caught the flash of PaperLady’s brake lights. PaperLady had started driving away and then stopped.
Curious, and not wanting my dog under her car, I peeked through the blinds again.
I watched as PaperLady whipped into our driveway in reverse, picked up the paper she’d just delivered, and drove off.
She’d delivered, and then stolen our paper.
I opened the front door to stop her, but it was too late. I stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open, watching her drive away.
Why had we, The People of the Two Papers, suddenly been deemed unworthy for even one paper?
Because Gordon hadn’t gone out to get Friday’s paper.
For the first time in her two-paper-deliverin’ life, PaperLady thought she’d delivered us two papers.
And we can’t have that.
Never mind that it had been raining Friday night and Friday’s paper looked like a paper wasp had vomited it on to our driveway. The only thing Friday’s paper was good for was creating a giant paper mache statue of me helplessly shaking my fist the PaperLady.
Then I could stand next to it in the same pose, and she could come and take one of us away.
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