Panties in the Postbox

So the other day, my husband brings in the mail as he gets home from work in the evening. “Who put these panties in the mailbox?” he asks. Good question. I didn’t know about any skivvies being posted to our address. “Whose are they?” I ask, eager to solve the mystery. He describes them and I realize, with a sinking feeling, that they are mine. “What were they doing in the mailbox?” I ask accusingly, as I glance over at my daughter. At 13, she does some unusual things occasionally, like crouching quietly, an animated gargoyle, unseen on the foyer roof directly above her daddy as he exits the front door to depart on a weekend bike ride, while a bewildered neighbor looks on from across the street.
Elsa quickly defends herself. “I didn’t put them there!” So, if I didn’t, and Joel didn’t, and Elsa didn’t… Oh great. A helpful neighbor must have found them and placed our “wasuremono” or “forgotten item” in our mailbox for us. But how could a pair of underwear have found their way out onto the street?

I do remember one time, when I was in a hurry to get dressed, that I pulled on the same pants I had worn the day before (they were still clean after all!) and started down the hall to the stairs, only to feel something slide down my leg and drop to the floor. Yes, indeed. The bloomers of yesterday were hiding in my pant leg, just waiting to embarrass me at some point in the day. Luckily it was only myself and one of my daughters who witnessed this faux pas, and when we had finished hyperventilating from laughter, I calmly consolidated my laundry, making a mental note to always check my pant legs in the future. And I always do check those pant legs now, so I know that I didn’t accidentally “drop my drawers” on the way to work.

This leaves only one remaining possibility: our always-eager-to-carry-things-in-his-mouth Golden Retriever, Bjorn. He has the irrepressible habit of padding around the house in the morning, looking for items which have been carelessly left on the floor. And the first person to get up in the morning is proudly presented with whatever he has eagerly retrieved. Often, the item is, appropriately enough, a slipper. He can sometimes be encouraged to drop the first bedroom slipper at your feet and on command, “go get the other one.” Occasionally, the next item of footwear delivered is actually the other slipper, whereupon Bjorn is declared a genius dog and we rush to contact the local news station. Usually not, though. Sometimes the item proudly delivered to our morning-eyed bleariness is a not-so-appropriate item.

After his morning delivery, Bjorn knows that he will soon be let out into the small field near the house where he can relieve himself. We have found the occasional slipper in that field before, but we had never before inadvertently let him out of the house with panties in his maw. Thinking back now, I remember him exiting the house in the morning with his mouth firmly closed and his tail wagging. I should have searched him for contraband before letting him past the front gate.

The truth begins to sink in. The kindly old couple next door must have found Bjorn’s early morning retrieval item near the field, and thoughtfully placed it in our mailbox. The conclusion that follows is obvious and inescapable. We have to move. This is just too embarrassing. And to top it off, he had to pick the ones decorated with cherries. That dog is definitely in the dog house… for a long time too.

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