The words *Approved by the Post Master General* were embossed on the front of a very large metal mailbox that was staring back at me a few feet below my face like some sort of dwarf sentinel. I could practically hear it stamp its post down into the ground while shouting *No one gets past this point! Well, unless you have been approved by the Post Master General.* 

I disproved it by unwinding the leash Slobber King had managed to tangle around the mailbox post, and we carried on. Slobber King, by the way, is one of two dogs I adopted recently. Slobber King is a hundred pound coonhound. Upon first meeting him at the shelter, I thought that maybe his droopy neck skin, elongated lips, and the slobber strings hanging six inches down from his mouth accounted for at least twenty-five percent of that weight. And then I got to know him and *nope,* he is a hundred pounds of muscle. Which brings me to another point.


![20220625_230639.jpg](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/ginnyannette/AKDiu9RTcZngntwEBSLQP68zrvHeF9DsqZw1WdPEXxxM4QQ1FHvRskGAPrY6qEh.jpg)


I, and I’m sure many other people, should not be trusted in an animal shelter. Because, for instance, some people might go there specifically looking for a young German Shepherd mix: the charming sort; the sort that is young enough to patrol the property and still be trustworthy with said person’s children. Instead, said person might decide to adopt a five-and-a-half-year-old neglected hunting dog that is heartworm positive, who spent his entire life severely flea infested and living in a kennel. Said person might also own a flock of chickens and a couple of well-loved fluffy bunnies. Said person probably even said *It will be fine.*

So, this is the summer of dog training. I have no regrets—some souls are worth spending your summer on. But let’s get back to the mailbox. 

Above that mailbox the clouds were doing that beautiful thing where they bundle up all snuggly together on the horizon while also looking really fat and jolly like they’ve just eaten an entire chess pie and now they are blushing a soft pink and hoping that nobody noticed. The sun was hanging a few fists above the tree line and streaming into my eyes in a way that really is quite acceptable on a June evening. 


<center>![20220625_230358.jpg](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/ginnyannette/23ynatzFy2dcCuS5vmCFACVQxKgY9oMMWvbHQepzpPRS7zMZ1ydAfw7Q9zB3SgmpzfKnS.jpg)*[This is **Lil Crazy**. She is a greyhound/plotthound mix who was seized by the county as one of eleven dogs removed from a farm for neglect. She was emaciated, but now she is sleek, and has no difficulty bossing Slobber King.]*</center>


I laughed at that mailbox then, because who really cares? Who gives a crap about the Post Master? Who gives a crap about standard mailbox sizes?

I had this profound thought, because I had the meaning of life dancing before my eyes, invisible, but probably up in those pink clouds somewhere. I was reaching out for its coattails, and although the coattails of serenity are not really the real deal, they sure as shit are better than nothing. Everyone can use a little mind opening now and then—a little clarity; a little chat with the higher self.  

You too can achieve all this by following a very simple, but careful recipe, as follows:

**Recipe for Chasing the Meaning of Life’s Coattails** 

2 months of stress related to losing a beloved canine friend, and the change of meeting new canine friends, one of which wants to destroy all critters chicken-sized and smaller 

1 very pretty wine glass

2 cups of wine

Approximately 5 pink colored clouds somewhere within the vicinity of the wine glass

A dash of sweat

Mix all ingredients together gently on an empty stomach, wait for twenty minutes, and then take a walk with a slobbery dog. Expect to find mundane details on mailboxes and all the problems in your life to be equally unimportant. 

And there you have it, folks. I hope that you too will chase those coattails. Who knows, maybe you will catch one.