My name is Jen. Biscuit is a three-year-old beagle who loves the postman, the plumber and the neighbours’ kids. He greets the world with his whole body.
But every Friday at two, when the same delivery driver rang our bell, Biscuit lost his mind. He planted himself in the doorway, hackles up, growling low. The driver, a polite man named Kyle, would laugh and say, ‘He just doesn’t like the uniform.’
For five weeks I apologised and held Biscuit by the collar.
This Friday I opened the door and, for the first time, I looked at the driver’s hands instead of his face. He was holding a small handwritten sheet folded in half, not a package. He tucked it into his jacket when he saw me looking.
Biscuit barked once, sharp and loud. Kyle’s smile vanished.
‘What’s on that paper?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. My route sheet.’
Route sheets are printed. This one was handwritten, and I could read the top line upside down: our street, our number, and the times we leave for work.
I stepped back and said, very calmly, ‘Wait right here.’ Then I closed the door and called the non-emergency line.
Kyle was not a delivery driver. The uniform was real, bought online. He had been ringing doorbells along our road for a month, noting who left at what hour.
The officers found four more sheets in his truck, one for each house on the street. They arrived while he was still standing on my porch.
The next Friday my neighbours came to our front door with treats. Somebody gave Biscuit a tiny police badge for his collar.
He wore it with an expression that suggested he had known all along.
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