snacks for the mailman

 

I have no idea how long we'll keep it up, but for now we keep a box of snacks out on the front porch for the mailman. And, I suppose, any other delivery people who bring us things.

It started a couple months ago. Blair and the kids were on the West coast, and I was home alone for a couple weeks. I invited a few people over to watch music documentaries with me on a Saturday night. I ordered pizza and bought snacks. As usual, I overbought.

There are several reasons I overbought. The primary one is that I'm neurotic. Growing up I heard my father tell and retell about the "lotta lox" incident. With that bit of family lore, I absorbed the notion that the worst possible mishap is to run out of some food or refreshment when there are guests over. But there's another quirk I have. Suppose, for argument's sake, I'm buying meat for a cookout, that there will be ten people, and that I plan to cook hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken breasts. I ask myself how many hamburgers I may need. I figure that the most hamburgers anyone will want is three. So, with ten people, I will need thirty hamburgers. The most hot dogs anyone will want is four. So forty hot dogs. And the most chicken breasts anyone will want is two. So twenty chicken breasts. I've gotten a little better about it over the years, but I still buy way too much. Also, I had a couple of cancellations, so I was expecting more people than actually came.

The upshot is that I had way too much in the way of snack food. And, this being the era of COVID, the snacks were in individual serving size packages. That way people didn't have to reach into communal bowls with their hands.

When all was said and done, I didn't mind having the extra snacks left over. I work from home, so I figured they'd last a while.

But when Blair got back from California a week later, she had other ideas. The snacks all went into a box on the front porch with a sign telling people to "please take." Probably just her way of making sure I didn't eat them. But it was a big hit with the mailman and delivery folk. They didn't make chazeirim out of themselves. But they've been taking. And we've been replenishing, including with some drinks.

As I said, we';ll see how long it lasts. But the fact is it's good to be on the mailman's good side.

worry for wiggy

So now, at Midnight on a Sunday night, we're up waiting for the police. The kids founds puddles of blood on the backyard patio. With smaller splatters going up to the back door.

It's most likely that this is animal blood -- the neighborhood raccoons and stray cats get along like, well, like the Sharks and the Jets.

OK. That was in bad taste.

Anyway, the fact that the blood goes up to the back door was kind of creepy, so Blair felt we should call the police, who said they'd send a car. But with no active crime going on, this isn't a high priority.

My fear? I had a cat, Wiglaf, who disappeared a little over a year ago. And when I say "I" had a cat, I don't mean that we, the family, had a cat. Wiggy was my cat.

A few days ago the kids saw a cat in the neighbor's yard who kind of looks a little like Wiggy. They managed to get a picture on a phone. I said it's not him. Most notably, he's not long-haired like Wiggy. Of course, as the kids point out, a year on the streets could leave his fur matted.

Yesterday they saw the cat again. This time he was hanging by the front door. But he got spooked and ran off before they could get close enough to him. This time there was no picture, but they say it was the same cat. And I'm thinking about how Wiglaf would, if he were to return, go to one of our doors.

Now, tonight, this. Blood -- most likely animal -- in the backyard, with spots going up to the back door. What animal, other than Wiglaf, would go to our back door? We know this blood is fresh, since it was raining today.

I hope Wiggy didn't die tonight.