An Ironic Twist of Postal Relationship

I haven't been able to update because a dog ate my arm. Really, Teacher.

Part of my job description is to deliver the mail. Many, many, MANY things in Alaska are sent via US mail. It is very expensive to ship freight of all kinds to towns you can only fly into, so Alaskans figure, "Why not let John Q. Taxpayer help with the bill?" and they throw whatever it is in the mail. (letters, packages, soda pop, toys, turkeys, concrete blocks, etc.) After this mail is processed in all the usual ways, it finds its way to the ramp at Smokey Bay Air, where your favorite bush pilot loads it onto her Cessna 206. (Yes, it is expensive to send concrete blocks by 206, but at this point in the story, you should be more worried about me having to load them than about the taxpayer's pocketbook!)
I fly the "mail" into three villages. It is against postal code for me to leave that mail unattended, but luckily there is nothing for the postman in said villages to do until I arrive, so they are usually waiting on the airstrip.

In Seldovia, said postman has a dog that rides in his white van.  This dog is the size of a Tyrannasaurus Rex.  It sounds like one too.  I think to myself, this dog will be reasonable if I offer it my hand and prove that I am friend, not foe.  So, before I begin off loading the mail from the plane, I extend a tentative arm to the snarling carnivore.  (Unfortunately, I was not wearing my raptor gloves.)  

To my surprise, the dog received my hand with a curious sniff and gave me the go ahead to give him a scritch behind the ear.  I obliged.  After a five second ear scratching, in one swift movement, the dog swung his Mastadon head and chomped my right forearm.  I moved just as fast to get away.  Ow! Ow! Ow! I checked my arm.  Two layers of thick winter clothing, still intact.  Ow!Ow!Ow! I peeled back my sleeves. Though his teeth didn't penetrate, the pressure of his jaw ruptured the skin on my arm.  Ow!Ow! Don't cry at work. Don't cry at work. Owwww!  

The postman raced to the van and told the dog to "Get in the bow!" (Apparently, this dinosaur/lab mix is also a Midshipman.)He said he was sorry, ascertained that I would not sue, and helped me get rid of the mail.  

I have changed my dog policies.  As you might notice, heretofore the principle was to never pet a dog without seeing how he reacts to the smell of your hand.  No more!  I will henceforth be one of those polite people that asks pet owners for permission to get their pets fleas all over my person.