The Delivery

“Hello? Hello?”

“Yes, I’m here. How may I help you?”

“This is an emergency, you hear me? A real emergency!” The voice on the other end is deep, scratchy, and vaguely…French.

“An emergency, you say?” I start to panic. I’m a good man in a crunch, but definitely not one for a true emergency. “Maybe you should call–”

“No, doggone it, you’re the one I need.” The voice practically growls through the phone. “Now listen closely! Do you have your notebook?”

“Uh”–I slide the notepad I keep next to the phone closer–“Yes, sir!”

This gentleman means business and I’m not about to argue. He begins to rattle off instructions and I carefully take notes. His directives are remarkably specific. I read them back to make sure I got everything perfect.

“How soon can you be here?” he asks.

“Well, I imagine this will take at least thirty min–”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty-five?”

“Done.” He grunts in approval and the line goes dead.

I immediately set to work, checking my notebook numerous times to make sure I haven’t missed a single element. When the timer sounds, I’m greeted by a wave of heat. I scramble to fill the boxes. Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I check my watch. Ten minutes to go and I still have to load the truck.

With the slam of the door and rev of the engine I’m on my way—finally. I have just seven minutes remaining to make the drop-off.

The house is larger than I expected, darkly painted with Gothic style turrets and black framed casement windows. I exit the truck and approach the metal gate cautiously, the delivery carefully poised on my right shoulder. I take one step after the other, telling myself not to be nervous. I make deliveries all the time. This is nothing to get worked up about. As I step onto the porch, the lights in the house flicker. Twenty-five minutes exactly. He’s expecting me.

I knock on the door. Nothing. I knock again, more boldly this time. Still nothing. I try the door handle. Something.

It’s unlocked. The door swings open and I step inside.

“Hello?” I call into the dimly lit chamber. I notice a light switch and go ahead and flip it on. It’s a living room with comfortable-looking red armchairs and framed portraits of…trees? I’ve never seen so many pictures of trees. It’s a bit unsettling to be honest.

“Hello?” I call again, wishing desperately for some type of response. I guess I should find the kitchen. I peer down the hallway. The delivery boxes are getting heavy and I can feel the steam seeping from the edges. The kitchen is probably down this first hallway.

I enter the room on the left and am rewarded with a black and white checkered floor, shining wood cabinets, and gray marble countertops. Bingo! I must have a second sense that leads me to kitchens. I set the delivery boxes on a classy marble-topped kitchen island.

“Alright, Sir,” I call into the empty room. “I’ve got one extra large cheese, one extra large pepperoni, and one extra large sausage—hold the tomato on all three. Are you going to come get your pizza?”

There’s silence for a second—a very long second—and then I hear them. Footsteps. A scraping, jingling, dare I say, pattering of footsteps.

Moments later, a pair of double doors swings open and a French bulldog trots into the room. He's an older dog with patches of gray on his snout and wrinkles around his eyes. His pug-like nose is the centerpiece of his rather squished face. He’s kinda cute for an old guy.

I can’t help smiling. “Hey little fellow, where’s your master?” I lean down to scratch his ears. “I’ve got his pizza here.”

The dog looks at me in what can only be described as a glare. He is not interested in my patronizing ear scratches.

He trots over to the counter and jumps on a little step-stool. Standing on his hind legs, he uses his teeth to deftly snatch a $50 bill from the counter. I can’t help thinking how clever this dog is as he trots back towards me. I look around once more for the owner. Still no sign.

A line of drool stretches from the $50 to the dog’s chin as he drops the money on the floor by my feet. I have to stoop to pick it up and find myself eye level with the little bulldog. As I look into his beady black eyes, an idea suddenly occurs to me.

“Wait…that couldn’t have been you that called me on the phone, could it?”

The dog only stares and I laugh at the sheer lunacy of my conjecture. To think I even entertained the notion is absurd.

“There’s no way a dog can talk,” I say aloud.

I start to reach in my jacket pocket for change when a deep, scratchy voice interrupts me. It’s a firm, commanding voice and vaguely French.

“Keep the change, kid,” the dog says with a smirk.