My driver looks upset. We’ve been sitting in this dock for an incredibly long time. I’m not so sure I can survive much longer without relieving myself inside the truck. I remember while we were backing in, my driver told me, “Sorry boy, but the sign says No Dogs Allowed on Property – Keep Pets in Truck.” I wish I could tell him, “Sorry driver, but my bladder doesn’t care about some dumb sign.” I’m going to start barking soon, which is out of my control when nature isn’t just calling, it’s screaming.
Looking over at my driver, I know he’s probably upset at more than the sign about dogs. I’m thinking it might be because we drove all night just to be on time to this monstrous D.C. This receiver won’t take any deliveries more than an hour early, nor will they take us even one minute late. He is grumbling about the fact that we still have a red light and that we haven’t been hit yet. Don’t know if I like the word hit, but better the truck than me. He’s right though, as I have not heard anyone touch or felt our trailer rock at all. If it had, I would have warned my driver about the impending doom of being unloaded by barking my head off incessantly. It is the way of things in the trucking dog’s world.
Problem is the only thing I can think of barking about is to warn my driver my bladder is about to explode. But he sits there, muscular arm hanging out the driver’s window, tapping his fingers with great intensity on the outside of the door. His brow furrows as he watches other dry vans dock and leave, grumbling about this and that. Besides the excitement when he yelled “steering wheel holder” at another driver that almost backed into our bumper while yanking on the air horn, not much has happened.
For a distraction from said bladder, I play with my rubber ball, tossing it about the cab, while my driver looks at his phone for an eternity. When he does this and scrolls on and on, his attention span is like a mesmerized goldfish and nothing I do can bring him out of this fixation. He sort of looks like that big squirrel I caught and shook days ago at the truck stop in Oklahoma – sort of glassy eyed and stupid. However, while he is in this altered state, I am prepared to bark loud enough to decalcify his spine should anyone come near the truck, be it friend or foe. This brings him back to reality. Just like that squirrel knew enough to run up the tree when I dropped him, my driver knows enough to pay attention when my barking starts.
Had I not had the intense desire to urinate on the fire extinguisher behind his seat, I’d just dig up the bed, throw the pillows on the floor, and call it a night. Sleep would seem the best recourse of action while stuck with that red-light blinking behind the trailer, but my driver cannot sleep. He has not been given the command to yet. Let me explain.
I am fully aware that my driver tells me when to sit, lay down, and stay. Dogs accept this when they bond with a human. It’s just the way it is. However, my driver’s master lives in a glowing box on the dash, and it has not told him to sleep yet. On a personal note, I never mind being told to sit before being fed, to bark for a treat, and even being told to stay while he figures out his pre-trip planning. But I am absolutely sure I could not sleep when commanded to, this is simply impossible for a dog. Guess that’s something only a driver can do.
I truly do my best when given a command, but even a dog knows when to comply and when not to. Like that rest stop squirrel, no matter how many times my driver yelled “stay” at me, it simply couldn’t be done. Sort of like the way he reacts when ‘Sleeper Berth’ shows up on the box – he obviously doesn’t obey that command instantly either. I admit, for the most part, my driver is better trained than me. His master in the box tells him what to do and when to do it. He must tell his master every time he eats, drives, or sits like a goldfish for half an hour.
I think swearing must be necessary every time he touches the screen, but sometimes it occurs when he says his clock has not started yet. Sometimes he even threatens his master, saying he will rip out the box he lives in and throw it out the window (something I would never even think of doing to my driver). However, even when he’s going berserk, in regard to his master, he does almost everything it tells him to. With that said, I can’t imagine obeying a master like that. The only answer is my driver was trained better as a puppy than I was.
There he goes again, jumping out of the truck and slamming the door. I’m sure he’s still upset about that flashing light towards the back of the trailer still being red. We like green, not red. Being color blind, it makes no difference to me, but my driver feels it warrants a certain level of frustration. This is very obvious (as he stands in front of the yard dog) by the number of times his arms have flailed about, the amount of sweat that is forming on his forehead, and the volume of his voice. I think he’s also protesting loudly about this D.C.’s preposterous rules regarding pets. My driver makes me so proud to be his dog.
To be honest, I don’t think he will be proud of me when I piddle on the truck floor after involuntarily combusting from the stress on my bladder. I must start barking – it is the only acceptable course of action as a urinary implosion is imminent. My driver’s finally heading back to our rig, and I don’t mind one bit him almost tearing the truck’s passenger door off opening it and reaching for my collar and leash. I think I’m piddling a bit now with excitement as he lets me jump out of the truck.
The anti-pet policy suddenly doesn’t seem to be a factor as we head briskly towards the very sign that forbids me or any dog to touch the hallowed grounds of the D.C. But I’m going to pass out if I don’t relieve myself soon. “Go here boy.” That’s certainly a command I can follow, just as if the master in the dash box had ordered me to. Turns out that emptying my bladder on a signpost puts my driver in a much better mood as he’s suddenly laughing out loud. All I know is the strain I felt internally these long hours is dissolving as I water the post.
I am quite aware to always watch every mirror on the truck as my driver goes back to surfing his phone with eyes slowly glazing over in squirrel-like fashion. Suddenly, one of those shifty, neon-yellow clad, clipboard carrying humans is approaching our truck! These are people that might knock on our door, which is not allowed, in the canine code. I immediately begin barking with a roar that would de-scale most goldfish phone users, especially those playing games involving candy. Perhaps it was my loud alarm that woke up my enthralled driver, but more than likely it was my knocking his cell phone on the floor, when I attempted to jump on his lap.
I’ve been told to stop barking (with swearing included) and to get my front feet off my driver’s lap. Clipboard man looked concerned when my teeth clicked and slid on the window, and then some dog slobber fell on his head. My point is made, though, so I’ll wait in the bunk to see what happens. Things are most assuredly getting louder as my driver talks to clipboard man from the truck. Amidst the growling from my driver, I heard him demand detention. This can happen when my driver has lost his mind sitting and decides to make others pay for the time he spends being a goldfish on the phone. Seems like a good thing, but I think he’d rather be driving.
I notice my driver has become quiet as he listens to the clipboard man. I can tell his heart rate is increasing and he’s breathing slowly and intensely. I think about barking to make him smile again but think twice about that one. His jovial attitude from when the trailer shifted once has disappeared, and I notice his hand has moved from resting on the shifter to gripping the wheel with both hands. His knuckles are white like they were when we were slipping down I-70 last winter in Colorado and the trailer went one way and the truck another. Clipboard man is still standing there as I hear a rumbling coming from my driver, which is on par with my rumblings before a good barking session.
Suddenly, he startles me as he jumps out of the truck and slams the door while clipboard man is attempting to slink away. I think my driver is a bit upset about hearing from the yellow vested man that he must pay lumper fees before they unload our trailer (something they neglected to inform him before we left the shipper). My understanding about a lumper, from listening to my driver, is they are a bunch of humans who gather around a dock door in secret waiting for a driver to dock. Then, unbeknown to him and the shipper, yell “Surprise!” to my driver and expect him to happily pay them to unload our trailer.
I don’t recall my driver ever being happy about lumpers, quite the opposite, but maybe he doesn’t understand their playful intentions. Maybe if they threw a ball, too, it would improve things, but I digress. I think this is getting rather ugly between my driver and the loathsome clipboard man, but it’s not my concern, as no one is touching or trying to get into my truck. One must know what’s important in life. My red ball has just rolled off the bunk onto the floor, but I think I will leave it there.
I realized that today I have played with my toys, piddled on a signpost (which deserved it), and scratched my ear that had been itching for a while now. As I stare towards the front of the truck, my driver and clipboard man throw their hands around, the volume of their voices increases, and they start to stand closer together. Then, an epiphany strikes me. I’m wondering, if my driver obeys every command given to him by his master in the box on the dash, is there a “FEED THE DOG” option in the menus?
