The Day I Declared War on the Mailman

Hello, dear reader. It’s me, Winston, your trusted French Bulldog correspondent, back with another vital update on Life As I Know It. This week, I bear weighty news, a tale of vigilance, suspicion, and bark-filled resistance. Yes, my friends, I’ve finally decided something that has been sitting uneasily in my little bulldog brain for quite some time now: I do NOT trust mailmen.

I can practically hear you gasp from here. But Winston, you say, mailmen are harmless! Just hardworking people delivering packages! Oh, if only it were that simple. Sit, dear reader, and allow me to lay bare the truth I’ve discovered.

It all began with the holiday season, the most magical, package-heavy time of the year. Every day, the humans would rejoice as boxes big and small appeared on our doorstep. And who brought these boxes? The mailman. At first, it seemed innocent enough. But after weeks of observation, I noticed things. Suspicious things. Why are their trucks so weirdly shaped, as if they’re built to hide something sinister? Why do they wander around with those massive, stuff-bulging bags? Are those really filled with mail? Or are they, gulp, ploys to infiltrate our homes and TAKE things? Yes, I’ve said it: theft masquerading as delivery.

The humans roll their eyes when I share these concerns. “It’s just the mailman, Winston,” they say. “Calm down, boy.” Hah! Easy for them to say. Their job isn’t to stand between a mysterious, awkwardly-shoed stranger and the family’s fortifications. Mine is.

So, as of last Wednesday at precisely 2:47 PM, I made it official. I distrust all mailmen, and henceforth, I am instigating a strict no-mailman policy. To enforce this, I’ve taken on the sacred (and noble) duty of scaring them off. My weapon of choice? Barking, loud, relentless, unapologetic barking. Every time their truck so much as creeps into my line of sight, I spring into action. I rush to the window or door (whichever offers the best view) and unleash my fiercest growls. If they dare inch closer, I take it up a notch—throwing in some rapid zoomies just to underscore that I mean business. Like a furry tornado of justice, I make it clear that they’re not welcome.

Yet, the humans still don’t get it. Amid my heroics, they scold me: “Quiet, Winston!” or “That’s enough!” As if they’re not fully grasping the magnitude of the threat I’m thwarting. But I soldier on, knowing that one day they’ll see the bigger picture. After all, while they sit sipping their coffees, who’s on the front lines of defense? Me. Winston.

I must admit, dear reader, there’s a certain thrill in this new role. The wind in my ears as I dash from hallway to living room, the satisfying roar of my own voice echoing through the house, the panicked retreat of the mail truck—it’s exhilarating. I can feel my ancestors, the great guard dogs of yesteryears, barking their approval from above. “Good job, Winston,” they bark back. “Defend the realm.”

And yes, I will defend it. I’ll defend it every single day until those suspiciously bagged humans with their sneaky trucks learn to steer clear of my domain. Their bags, their awkward uniforms, and their faint smell of paper (or is it conspiracy?) are no match for this French Bulldog’s resolve.

Until that fateful day when mailmen retreat entirely, I remain steadfast. So if you hear furious barking from a house in your neighborhood, don’t be alarmed, it’s just me, Winston, holding the line. I protect the humans because, frankly, they need it. The world is full of hidden threats like mailmen, and someone has to stay sharp.

Until next week, stay safe, stay vigilant, and PLEASE: double-check what’s in those so-called “mail” bags. You can never be too careful.

Loyally yours,

Winston 🐾