phil jacobsen

Blackie 1. Postman 0.

Blackie waits for me every day. I hate Blackie. Every time I deliver this route I forget about Blackie, but Blackie never forgets about me. Blackie hides behind her doghouse, she doesn’t eat in the daylight, because the mailman comes when the sun is shining. Blackie only shits in the dark and pisses when the moon rises, because when it’s daylight all Blackie wants to do is jump over the fence and bite me. Thoughts of nutrition are secondary to scaring the mailman. Most of the time she leaps out from behind her doghouse with a vicious bark behind the fence just to watch me say, “Oh Shit,” but sometimes she jumps over the fence and then I say, “Oh Fuck.” Today, I remembered Blackie.

Even though this is the seventh time I’ve carried this route, I’ve forgotten about Blackie four times. The first time I didn’t know about Blackie. The second time I forgot and the third time I forgot. The fourth time I forgot and she jumped over the fence. The fifth time I remembered, but Blackie stayed behind the gate. The sixth time I forgot and Blackie chased me down the street, because I couldn’t introduce my mace to her face. Today I was ready.

Blackie lives at the end of this route. Perfect. All of the mail has been delivered, except for three houses. This means by the time I get to Blackie’s house the heaviest thing I’m carrying is my extra-large can of police grade mace.

Some postal carriers keep their mace in their pocket; I used to keep mine on my belt until Blackie chased me down the street. Now, I have a quick release holster on my mailbag. At home I practice unleashing my mace like an old west gunslinger practiced the quick draw with his Smith and Wesson. Thanks to Blackie, I can unleash my mace by the second bark.

“Rough. Rough,” Dogs once said to me.

“Rough…..damn,” The dog now says as the pepper spray attacks the cornea. According to the Los Angeles Times there have been 61 deaths attributed to the use of pepper spray. On day seven, I’m hoping Blackie becomes 62.

Because I know what to expect from Blackie, I don’t wait for the surprise attack, I have a surprise of my own. It might be fair sport to wait for Blackie to jump over the fence, kind of like in a duel when the other gunfighter would wait for the first move to the holster, but today I don’t play fair.

Three houses to go to Blackie and I pop the Velcro off my pepper spray holster. Two houses away, I take the mace out of its place and work the nozzle with my thumb ready to pounce in case Blackie decides to jump the fence. At Blackie’s house, there is no Blackie. She must be at the vet getting a finger dislodged from her throat. I re-holster the mace.

In my truck, I wipe the sweat from eyes and then drive straight to the 7-11 with one eye closed and one eye burning. The pepper spray on the tip of my finger is now in my eye. Blackie: 1. Postman: 0.