The Unwinnable Game: Chasing Perfect Metrics

All these systems – Geotab, the EDV eye, CDF – they all feed into the grand altar of METRICS. And let me tell you, it feels like we can't ever do good enough. You can nail 99% of it, perform miracles of navigation, single-handedly solve world hunger with the snacks in your lunchbox, and still get dinged because your "idle time" was 30 seconds too lon
g while you helped a confused elderly person find their apartment.

It’s a constant, nagging pressure. You’re not just delivering packages; you’re performing a tightly choreographed ballet for an audience of algorithms and occasionally unreasonable customers, all while trying not to get a "speeding" violation in a 25 MPH zone when you’re actually going 23.

It’s enough to make you want to… well, it’s enough to make you really appreciate the moments when things actually go right. 

And to really, really lean into the absurdity of it all. Because if you don't laugh, you'll definitely cry. Or start talking back to the camera. Not that I've ever done that. Ahem.

Customers & Canines: The Wild Kingdom of Residential Routes

Alright, so you’ve navigated the tech gauntlet, you’re hyper-aware of the unblinking eye of the EDV, and you’ve made peace with the fact that your metrics will never quite satisfy the Amazonian gods. Now, let's talk about the actual flesh-and-blood (and fur-and-fang) encounters that make up the bulk of the day: the customers and their four-legged overlords.

Customers: The Good, The Bad, and The "Is That a Robe or…?"

Bless their hearts, the customers. Most of them are genuinely lovely. You get the appreciative wave from the window, the "Thank you so much!" shouted from the porch as you’re already halfway back to your van, the occasional offered water bottle on a day so hot you feel like you’re delivering on the surface of the sun. Those are the little interactions that sprinkle some much-needed humanity into the robotic precision of the job. They remind you that you’re not just a cog in a giant machine; you’re the bringer of eagerly awaited dog food, birthday presents, and that one obscure kitchen gadget they absolutely needed by tomorrow.

Then there are… the others. The ones whose delivery notes read like a scavenger hunt designed by a slightly unhinged leprechaun: "Leave package behind the third potted plant from the left (the one with the slightly droopy leaves), under the ceramic gnome holding a fishing rod, but only if it's between 2:00 PM and 2:07 PM. If outside these times, teleport directly to my hand. Do NOT ring bell, baby sleeping (since 2017)." You learn to become a master interpreter of the bizarre.

And the door encounters! You haven’t truly lived – or questioned your life choices – until you’ve handed a package to someone who clearly wasn’t expecting company, or perhaps even clothes, for that matter. The quick dash to grab a towel, the awkward "just woke up" vibe at 3 PM, the full-on "is that a bathrobe or are you auditioning for a Jedi cameo?" moments. You develop a poker face that would make a professional gambler weep with envy. Just smile, nod, hand over the box, and back away slowly.

Dog Encounters: From Tail Wags to Tactical Retreats

Now, let me be clear: I love dogs. I’m the guy who always has a pocketful of treats in my vest, ready to make a new four-legged friend. And most of the time, it’s great. You get the happy tail wags, the gentle nudge for a head scratch, the big goofy grin from a Golden Retriever who’s just thrilled to see anyone at the door, especially if they might smell faintly of Snausages. Those are the good boys and girls.

But let’s be real, not every canine encounter is a scene from a Disney movie. Sometimes, that bark isn’t a friendly "Hello!"; it's a full-throated declaration of war on your ankles, your shins, and the very concept of package delivery. You learn to read dog body language faster than any training manual could ever teach you. The stiff tail, the low growl, the ears pinned back – those are your cues to adopt a "strategic package placement" policy, which usually involves a gentle toss from a safe distance and a hasty retreat.

I’ve had my share of… memorable moments. There was this one time, I’m walking up to a house, and out of nowhere, this dog – looked like a cross between a dire wolf and a very angry Ewok – comes tearing around the corner, teeth bared, making sounds I didn’t know a terrestrial creature could produce. My fight-or-flight kicked in, and let me tell you, "fight" was not looking like a good option. I spotted an alleyway between two buildings, made a beeline for it, and with the adrenaline-fueled grace of a terrified squirrel, I shimmied my way up the wall, wedging myself between the two structures like a human sardine. The dog is down below, barking its head off, trying to figure out how to defy gravity.

And then the owner strolls out. She sees me, plastered against a brick wall about five feet off the ground, heart pounding like a drum solo, package probably clutched to my chest like a life raft. And she says, with this blissful ignorance that still astounds me, "Awwww, he's really usually very sweet."

Lady! LADY! What in the ever-loving, package-delivering world is the matter with you?! Your "usually very sweet" angel of death just chased me into a structural embrace with two buildings! I’m pretty sure I left a permanent indentation of my terrified face in the brickwork! "GIT YO DAMN DOG!" is what I wanted to scream. What I probably managed was a slightly strangled, "Uh… package… for you?" while trying not to fall and become a chew toy.

You develop a sixth sense for "Dog On Premises" situations. You listen for the tell-tale jingle of collar tags, the click of claws on a hardwood floor from inside, the subtle woof that means "I see you, and I am judging your choice of uniform." It’s all part of the adventure. And it definitely keeps things from getting boring. Most of the time, you learn to just give a wide berth, make your drop, and move on, chalking it up to another day in the suburban jungle.

But then there are the encounters that stick with you for entirely different reasons, the ones that tug at your heartstrings even as they initially scare the daylights out of you.

I remember this one scorching hot summer day. I was on a particularly dusty, sun-baked stretch of road, feeling like a rotisserie chicken in my van. I hop out for a delivery, and suddenly, this pitbull comes trotting up to me. No barking, no growling, just… trotting. Now, after my "human Spiderman" incident between the two buildings, my internal alarm system for "unleashed dog approaching" goes from zero to DEFCON 1 in about half a second. My heart leaped into my throat, and I swear, for a moment, I think I actually died. I braced myself, picturing another 

desperate scramble for safety.

But then he reached me, and instead of lunging or barking, he just… gently took my hand in his mouth. Not biting, not even pressure, just a soft, warm grip. I froze, my brain trying to process what was happening. Is this a new stealth attack method? Am I about to lose a hand in the quietest mauling in history?

And then I looked into his eyes. And all I saw was exhaustion and a kind of pleading. He let go of my hand, nudged it again, and then looked towards my water bottle sitting in the van's cup holder. It hit me like a ton of bricks: this poor guy wasn't aggressive; he was incredibly thirsty. He was lost, hot, and probably desperate. The "grabbing" my hand thing was just his way of getting my attention, the only way he knew how.

My fear just melted away. I coaxed him over to the van, poured some water into a spare Tupperware I kept for my lunch, and he drank like he hadn't seen water in days. He had no collar, no tags, just this incredibly sweet, trusting demeanor once he realized I wasn't a threat (and had life-giving H2O). I gave him the rest of my treats, made a few calls, and eventually, we found a local rescue who could come and get him.

It was a stark reminder that even in the midst of the daily grind, the crazy metrics, and the occasional terror-inducing animal encounter, there are moments of unexpected connection and kindness. And that sometimes, the "scariest" looking dogs are just big, misunderstood softies who need a little help. It didn't make me any less cautious around unknown dogs, mind you – a healthy respect for teeth is a good survival trait in this job – but it definitely added another layer to the wild, unpredictable tapestry of being a delivery driver. You just never know what the day, or the next driveway, will bring.

You just never know what the day, or the next driveway, will bring. It’s a wild ride, this delivery life, full of barking dogs, bizarre requests, and the occasional moment that genuinely restores your faith in humanity (or dog-manity, as the case may be).