A Diplomatic Delivery

Dawn broke, and Golden Fred was still out there holding his ground. Clearly, the staring contest was a stalemate. A master strategist knows when to deploy physical correspondence. I scavenged a stiff rectangular strip of cardboard from the recycling bin by the door, dragged a graphite pencil stub with both paws, and etched a rudimentary blueprint of a greeting—complete with an arrow pointing toward the window. Slumping down beneath the mail slot, I used my tail as a lever and nudged the card firmly through the rubber flap. A gentle scrape, a sudden flutter, and it landed on the porch mat right before him. Ball is in your court, metallic amphibian.