Ever since I was a pup, I have been fascinated by the one that arrives every day, bringing papers that he stuffs into the thing at the end of the gravel road in front of the place where the people stay.
I can hear the truck coming from far away, the noise of its engine coming through the air and through the ground, and I can feel its wheels whirling, one of which has a problem. I don't know what the problem is, but I can hear it thump thump out of relation with the other ones.
When I hear it, I run to the front and wait, smelling the air it pushes out, waiting for the delivery.
It is exciting, waiting, hoping for another taste of the person that comes. His smell is so different than the ones who live in the house, and the taste is different too. It makes me hungry just to think about it, but I can't help it.
The other dogs around know about him, know the taste, and we all look forward to his coming. Lately he hasn't come around as often, and we don't know why. So we have gone around the neighborhood, digging up all the metal things that can hold paper, late at night when the people are asleep, and last night we dug holes to put them in, making sure we did it right, and steadying them with our forepaws while others put the good dirt back.
So it can be easier for him to visit, we put them all in one place, and we wait around the corner of the house, out of sight, and upwind, out of smell.
When he comes, we can all get a taste. It will be wonderful, I'm sure.
(this short tale was the winner of the January 2001 short fiction contest at the late, lamented Vines)
