|B.T. —always a reliable source for sustenance.|
B.T. retired sometime in early summer, and while I perked up my considerable ears every time I heard his truck, he, his friendly greeting—"Tucker, where've you been? Sleeping?"— and his treats, were not there. I gave up.
Now, I've never been interested in any other mail truck. I walk all over the place, and ignore any mail carrier--unlike my neighbor Charlie, who can't wait to get a piece of one. It's a good thing that the mailboxes are clustered in our neighborhood, rather than in front of our houses, otherwise poor Charlie would probably have a heart attack.
So I was out walking yesterday, when suddenly, I heard it: B.T.'s truck! I zoomed over, only to find—no B.T. Savvy Mom asks, in between gasps of much-needed oxygen, "Was this B.T.'s truck?" Indeed it was. "They're all the same," says the postal worker, clearly not impressed. But no. They are not all the same. B.T.'s truck had a special sound. And B.T. was special. I miss him.