The dog at number nine

There is a dog at number nine that fancies itself a sentry, and I will not be the one to tell it otherwise, for it is twice my height standing up and has opinions about gulls that I find frankly unoriginal.

My method, which I have refined over many years and would happily teach to lesser posties for a fee I shall not mention, is this: walk at a pace that suggests you have never once considered running, chin level, satchel swinging just so, eyes fixed on the middle distance as though the letterbox owes you money. The dog barked itself nearly inside out. I did not flinch. I do not flinch. Flinching is for herring gulls with less dignity than I carry, which, I grant you, narrows the field, but still.

I delivered the letter. I did not hurry the last three steps, though every feather on my back wanted to. I believe the dog respected that, in the end, the way one respects a rival one has not yet beaten.

Walked on along the lane afterwards feeling rather pleased with myself, which is, I find, the correct way to feel most mornings, dog or no dog.