Now and then even the easiest newspaper toss winds up in the bushes. The subscriber probably chalks it up to sloppiness, but most of us really try to get the paper as close to the door as possible. For some carriers it’s the perfection of an art to land the paper in that special spot. Try to do this from your car window in the dark, and you’ll see what I mean.
When a toss goes awry, I usually retrieve it and jog those extra steps to the porch. It gives me an aerobic stretch and the only exercise of my sedentary night. I’m a lot less cavalier about it since one of our group recently broke a hip taking a paper to someone’s door. A slippery walk can be especially dangerous in the dark, but I at least give it a try.
Several homes on my route come equipped with the anti-burglar device known affectionately as “Pepe LePew,” aka the skunk. There is no carrier or burglar in the world who will dispute the territorial bounds of this animal. There is no bribe you can feed it nor is there a way to stop its unique ammunition, once deployed. So when I come face-to-face with Pepe guarding the lost paper in the bushes, I get my exercise in reverse. Pepe always wins.
One crisp, moonlit night I turned down a gravel road which was about five miles long and had only one customer on it, located at about the half-way point. The woods to my right gave way to an open field, bordered by a narrow driveway. A small blot ambled from the driveway onto the road before me, his striped tail bobbing as he went. He trotted at a brisk pace of 3 mph, squarely in the center of the road. Road painting crews in broad daylight have never exacted as straight a line as Pepe. There was no room to maneuver around him; so on we went, in tandem for a mile and a half, until he had his fill of tormenting me.
At last he turned into a driveway. His tail flicked a quick salute and off he disappeared into the night. I hastened away, lest he decide to renew our brief acquaintance. But I’m sure we both breathed a long sigh of relief.