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A package arrived yesterday with no return address and no identifying information other than the postmark. Naturally I turned it over to the bomb squad. Two police dogs went crazy over it, but with a strict command from their handler (a wide-shouldered, roughly handsome guy named Chuck) they reluctantly gave the signal that meant they'd detected nothing amiss.
The men moved the mysterious package to an enormous field where they could pry it open remotely with waldoes. Soft packing material began to emerge. I could tell the guys were edgy; such material could have been used in an attempt to keep an explosive device from going off before it reached its intended recipient. A gruff officer pulled me away from the monitors. "You might not want to see it happen, miss," he cautioned.
A half hour later I was presented with the contents. Cat toys, catnip, a pedicure-in-a-box, and some delicious cookies!
Cyd, you total, utter, complete sweetheart! 8-) 8-)
(The guys curtly refused any form of payment, but I saw cookie crumbs in more than one moustache. Apparently they considered themselves well repaid.)
The men moved the mysterious package to an enormous field where they could pry it open remotely with waldoes. Soft packing material began to emerge. I could tell the guys were edgy; such material could have been used in an attempt to keep an explosive device from going off before it reached its intended recipient. A gruff officer pulled me away from the monitors. "You might not want to see it happen, miss," he cautioned.
A half hour later I was presented with the contents. Cat toys, catnip, a pedicure-in-a-box, and some delicious cookies!
Cyd, you total, utter, complete sweetheart! 8-) 8-)
(The guys curtly refused any form of payment, but I saw cookie crumbs in more than one moustache. Apparently they considered themselves well repaid.)
