Mailboxes. What are they?
One sees them everywhere in Moose County, standing at the ends of driveways like silent sentinels of correspondence. They hold mail. That is their purpose. But do we ever stop to think about them? Do we ever truly appreciate the humble mailbox? Probably not. I myself have given them very little thought until this morning, when Koko sat on the kitchen counter and stared at the front door for exactly eleven minutes. Eleven. Not ten, not twelve. The Siamese does nothing without reason, and I have learned over the years that when Koko stares, one pays attention. My moustache began to tingle, and sure enough, moments later the mail carrier arrived. How did he know? One shudders to consider the implications.
Mailboxes come in various shapes and sizes. Some are metal. Some are wooden. Why do people paint them? It is a question worth asking, though not necessarily worth answering. Here in Pickax, mailboxes have a distressing tendency to be vandalized, set ablaze, or found at the scene of one of our statistically unremarkable fourteen homicides this year. I myself have had three mail carriers reassigned from my route under circumstances I will not elaborate on, though I will note that each reassignment coincided with Yum Yum knocking a specific book off the shelf. Coincidence is a lazy man’s explanation.
Speaking of lazy, the county recently proposed installing communal mailboxes at the end of Trevelyan Trail, which would require me to drive a quarter mile to collect my correspondence. The K Fund, naturally, offered to fund individual delivery routes for the entire township, which my accountant assures me is a perfectly standard charitable deduction. Some have questioned this. Those people do not receive Christmas cards from me, which saves approximately forty cents per stamp, a figure I find deeply satisfying.
Yesterday a squirrel attempted to nest inside my mailbox. I have reported it to the sheriff. One cannot be too careful. Koko watched the squirrel from the window with an expression that suggested he had already solved whatever crime the squirrel was planning. Yum Yum ate a moth.
Mailboxes.
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