Fezzig's Box

I first encountered the Peculiar Event when I was taking my daily exercise along the river path. This is a pleasant walkway that travels right along the edge of the river, with benches every fifty feet or so, and conveniently placed trash baskets to catch the detritus of those passing by. I like to walk there because trees provide shade and the path is mostly empty in the mid-morning hours. I find it a convenient way of fitting in some healthy exercise.

All right, it’s not exactly an every day exercise. But it’s exercise. And I walk the path at least once a week. Or two. I mean, on this particular day I walked. At a brisk pace.

All right! So I sauntered. No need to be so nit-picky.

I was sauntering along the river path, contemplating serious issues, such as what to do with myself now that I Survived the Worst. The whole tenor of my life was shredded. My marriage to a highly respected doctor fell apart after I found him canoodling with not one, but three different nurses, a discovery that destroyed my faith in the A.M.A’s Hippocratic oath of doing no harm. Hypocritical oath is more like it. I came out of the separation in good financial order due to an iPhone with panoramic photo capabilities and the sharkiest attorney I could find. Hey, I didn’t vow to do no harm!

But even having plenty of financial resources didn’t mean my life was settled and serene. Far from it. My family decided I was a fool for dumping an eminent doctor for any reason, and took his faithless side. My friends mostly felt the same since I left the monstrously large house to the philandering physician and opted for a beautiful new townhouse condo complete with private elevator, a pool someone else maintained, and neighbors who ignored me.

Thus, I skated through my days, calmly, peacefully, but with little purpose to guide me while I tried on new habits. One of those was my not-really-daily habit of strolling the river path.

That’s what I was doing when I heard a rustle-scuff-plunk-yap! behind me. The sounds didn’t seem all that unusual because you never quite knew who you’ll encounter on public pathways. I took a quick glance behind me but didn’t spot anything too unusual. A couple of lovers making out just inside the tree line—I thought they were the source of the noises, but no. I think they’d fallen asleep. Or perhaps they were dead. At least they looked inert. I also noted a medium sized white and brown terrier snuffling at a trash basket with a box wrapped in brown paper perched on top. On the river side of the path some geese waddled along.

Nothing suspicious there, right?

So I kept sauntering. A little farther along the sounds repeated: rustle-scuff-plunk-yapyapyap!

I decided to do what any normal urban dweller would do upon noticing strange noises along a public park pathway. I ignored the noise and speeded up.

My saunter turned into a decisive stride, as if I’d remembered that I left the roast in the oven and the potatoes boiling over on the stove. Not that I cook, of course, but still. I reminded myself that anyone watching me wouldn’t realize that.

A few minutes later, I turned the corner that headed back to the parking lot—you didn’t think I walked to the river path, did you? It was at least half a mile, maybe more to my condo. You can’t expect me to do that much exercise and also walk the river path, can you? No you cannot. This is the South, bless your heart. We Southern ladies don’t do that.

Where was I? Oh, yes, at the edge of the parking lot. I paused to catch my breath—all that sauntering and decisive walking makes a lady go all dewy, you know. Ever so casually I glanced back the way I’d come. No one was behind me. The inert lovers were out of sight, possibly still asleep or dead. The geese glided with natural grace on the river. But the dog was still there, yap-yap-yapping at another box in brown paper wrapping, this one sitting on the ground not ten feet behind me.

I stared at the dog and box a moment longer, then shrugged and turned toward the parking lot. The noises from the encounters with dog, geese, inert lovers, and boxes ruined my intentions to improve my physical fitness. I went to my car, unlocked it, and got in. My exercise regimen was over for this week.

Driving home, I pushed the odd encounters out of my mind completely. Instead I focused on the lovely quiche from my favorite French bakery waiting for me in my refrigerator. After parking in my garage, and divesting myself of keys and wallet, I wandered into the kitchen—only to stop dead in the doorway.

Sitting on my kitchen island was another of those boxes, again wrapped in brown paper. And on the counter stool beside it, perched with hopeful pride, was the white and brown terrier yap-dog.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?” I had little hope of receiving a coherent reply from either canine or paper-wrapped box. They indeed met my expectations and gave me no meaningful response.

Since neither dog nor box offered any aggressive movement, I cautiously stepped over to the island to inspect the box. It looked ordinary enough, almost a cube in shape and a little over a foot on each side. And on the top, in clear, elaborate script was an address.

Ms. Madelaine Pennyfeather

14 Riverwalk Way, Unit 7

Marietta, Georgia

United States of America

North America

Planet Earth

Sol Star System

Milky Way Galaxy.

Hmmm. This seemed an overly precise address, but accurate, even to the resumption of my maiden name. Apparently the box was meant for me. What about the dog?

I noticed his collar had a tag. I let the dog sniff my hand—I do know something about dealing with obstructive males—and after both of us were satisfied no hostilities loomed on the horizon, I took a look at the tag. Although small, the script was as elaborate and clear as that on the box:

My name is Fezzig. Do not open the box.

“So you are Fezzig, eh?” The dog's tail wagged proudly at my comprehension. “Why should I not open a box obviously addressed to me?”

Fezzig nudged my hand with his nose until I once again grasped the tag. It still bore elaborate script, but the words were now different.

You may regret opening it.

“I see. I don’t suppose you can explain why I would regret opening the box?”

Fezzig looked doleful as he lay down, his nose on his front paws. Clearly, he apologized for his inability to provide an adequate response.

I studied the situation for several long moments. I considered ignoring Fezzig’s request not to open the box, and even got so far as to dig out my utility scissors to cut open the brown paper. But Fezzig’s woeful expression caused me to put them down without attacking the parcel.

Eventually, I realized I could better decide what to do on a full stomach. I reheated the quiche. I of course cut two slices, a large one for me, and a smaller one for Fezzig. He may have been an uninvited guest, but here in the South, we take our hostessing responsibilities seriously.

I placed our quiche slices on plates, poured myself a pleasant glass of a crisp sauvignon blanc, and placed Fezzig’s plate on the floor. After his reproachful look, however, I moved the plate to the other side of the small round luncheon table and sat down. Fezzig hopped up neatly into the chair opposite me and politely waited for me to start my meal before nibbling at his serving.

A male with excellent manners, I thought. Too bad he’s a little too far on the canine side of the house for my taste.

I chatted with Fezzig as we ate, though he contributed little to the conversation, other than offering an attentive expression and an occasional doggy grin of appreciation. He was exactly what one wants in a luncheon companion, to be honest.

After lunch, I relaxed on the family room sofa with Fezzig curled beside me and had another glass of wine. Or maybe two. All right, I finished the bottle. After the distressing occurences with box and dog, I needed a calming influence.

Every so often I commented to Fezzig on how much I appreciated his visit and that he brought something interesting to my life, even if it was in the form of a Peculiar Event. By the time the sun was setting behind the trees, filling the room with golden light, Fezzig had his chin on my lap while my fingers caressed his silky ears.

Then I began to worry about what was in that box on my kitchen island. Perhaps I needed to open the box, if only to be certain it contained no threat. I discussed the matter with Fezzig, explaining my concerns regarding the safety of whatever was inside. Although he indicated his disapproval, he also resigned himself that I would do whatever I wanted despite his lack of enthusiasm for that decision.

So…I rose from the couch, collected my scissors, and opened the box.

It took only a few moments to remove the brown paper. Out of habit, I folded the paper neatly, address out, and set it aside. The box itself bore a logo I didn’t recognize: Stellar Express Delivery. With slightly shaking hands I sliced open the taped flaps of the box itself, opened them wide, and looked inside.

It was a thingamajig. A doodad. A gizmo. A device with a purpose I couldn’t fathom. I lifted it out carefully and placed it on the countertop. It looked like something out of a steampunk novel or a Dr. Who episode. Worse, it was operating with a quiet hum.

“What on Earth…?” I asked Fezzig.

Again perched on one of the stools at the counter, he didn’t answer but looked dolefully first at me, then at the device. On a hunch, I checked the tag on his collar. Once again the words were different than before:

Don’t push the red button.

Yes, indeed. There was a large red button on the device, prominently glowing. I studied it. Studied Fezzig’s sorrowful face. Studied the mechanism. Contemplated the bland emptiness of my life.

My hand hovered over the tempting red button. I looked at Fezzig, then leaned down to kiss his furry head. “No matter what happens, Fezzig, thank you for bringing this to me. This is the most interesting thing I’ve experienced in a long, long time.”

And I pushed the button.

# # #

It’s been a long time since that fateful button-push. I never felt the ray that zapped out and converted me to a lovely brown and white terrier. But Fezzig and I now roam the galaxy, wandering from star system to star system learning about strange new worlds. He and I are true soul-mates, completely loyal to each other. Pressing that button was my acceptance of his proposal to become his forever mate.

And if you ever hear a rustle-scuff-plunk-yap behind you I recommend that you turn around, collect the box and dog, and press your button too. Galaxy-roaming faithful friends are as rare as…well, you know.