I kept putting dog biscuits in that empty mailbox for three winters after she died.
Didn’t matter that the house was boarded up, didn’t matter that the beagle started limping. He still waited. So I still came.
Route 6 was mine for twenty-six years. Rain, snow, heatwaves thick enough to fry your soul. Didn’t matter. The truck always started, and the mail always moved. My name’s Roy Dunbar, retired postal carrier, and there’s not a shortcut, alley, or cracked sidewalk in Greenfield I don’t know like the creases in my palm.
I started delivering to Old Lady Henley back in ’78. Real name was Margaret, but everyone called her “Miss Henley” out of habit or respect. Or maybe fear — she had that stern schoolteacher look, glasses low on her nose, voice like splintered oak. Lived alone in a weather-beaten ranch house near the edge of town, mailbox number 304 nailed to the fence post like it was holding the whole thing up.
But the dog — Lord, that dog. Name was Bentley, though I didn’t learn that until year two. Little beagle mix with ears too big for his head and eyes like he remembered things from before he was born. Every morning around 10:15, like clockwork, he’d be there. Tail stiff, ears perked, waiting like I was bringing more than bills and junk mail. Maybe I was.
First time I gave him a biscuit, I was trying to get on Miss Henley’s good side. Figured maybe if her dog liked me, she’d stop glaring like I’d parked on her rhododendrons. She never smiled, but she did nod once. That was a big deal.
And so it became routine. I’d pull up, hand Bentley a treat, slide the mail in the slot. If she was out pruning the hedges, she’d raise a hand without looking up. When winter hit, she left a thermos on the porch — black coffee, no cream, no sugar. No note. Just there. Quiet understanding between two people who didn’t say much but meant things anyway.
Time passed like it always does. Kids grow up. Neighbors move. Miss Henley didn’t. I think she buried three cats and a sister during those years, but she never left that house. Bentley started greying around the muzzle. So did I.
Then came January 2003. Ice storm swept through. Trees down, power out, roads like glass. Mail got delayed, but not stopped. Never stopped. I made it to 304 two days later, walking the last quarter mile on foot after my truck skidded into a ditch. Bentley was waiting, paws trembling in the cold. No Miss Henley. Porch light off.
I fed him the biscuit. He didn’t eat it — just held it in his mouth, then dropped it at the door. That was the first time I knocked. No answer.
Turns out, she’d passed two nights earlier. Peaceful, they said. Heart gave out. Neighbors didn’t find her until the pipes froze and the meter man called it in.
No family came. No funeral. Just a notice in the paper and a locksmith changing the bolts. But Bentley stayed. Day after day, that damn dog waited by the gate.
I could’ve stopped. Should’ve, maybe. Protocol says we don’t deliver to closed homes. But who the hell was watching? I kept one biscuit in my pocket, just for him. Slid it through the gap in the gate, dropped an empty envelope in the mailbox. Every single day. Until spring. Then summer. Then winter again.
People asked me why I cared so much. Told them I didn’t. Lied through my damn teeth.
THE LETTER
It came three winters later. I was six months into retirement, sitting on my back porch with a thermos of cold coffee and too many memories.
Postmarked from Denver. No return address. Envelope was yellowed, hand-addressed in that spidery cursive only old folks use. My name. No mistake.
Inside was a single sheet of paper and a photo. The photo first: me, younger, kneeling beside Bentley — biscuit in hand, smile crooked. Must’ve been ’89 or ’90. I don’t remember it being taken. Miss Henley must’ve watched from the porch.
The letter was dated the summer before she died.
Mr. Dunbar,
If you are reading this, it means I have passed. Please forgive the intrusion.
I never said thank you for your kindness — to me, and more importantly, to Bentley. You treated him with dignity, which many forget animals deserve. You reminded me of my father — a quiet man, a mailman too, in Kansas City before the war.
I’ve left instructions in my will to have this mailed to you on the third anniversary of my death. Perhaps odd, but grief lives in small things — and I suspect Bentley may still be waiting.
If he is gone, then let this be a note of gratitude. If he is still there, please, one last biscuit from me. And one for you, too. I’ve enclosed a small gift to cover the cost of both.
— M.H.
Tucked into the folded corner was a $5 bill, crisp as if it had been printed yesterday.
The next morning, I walked up to 304.
The house was falling in on itself — roof bowed, porch steps cracked, mailbox still standing. Faded numbers. The gate hung open, rusted at the hinge.
Bentley wasn’t there. Of course not. Couldn’t be. He’d be long gone now. I knelt anyway.
Set down two biscuits. Whispered, “This one’s from her.”
Waited a while.
Just in case.
Some stories live in photos, and some in mailboxes that never get emptied. This one lives in both. If you’ve ever lost someone — a person or a dog — and still find yourself doing things just in case… you’re not alone.
