Laying on the bunk, I’m suddenly and violently thrown forward into a tangled heap of fur on the floor. I can hear my driver say, “Sorry boy, it’s Chicago, didn’t mean to slam on the brakes so hard, but these four-wheelers CAN’T DRIVE TO SAVE THEIR LIVES!!”
This apology means nothing to me as I jump back in the bunk and look for my stuffed pink pig I was blissfully chewing on a second ago (just before the lurching of the truck unceremoniously tossed me onto the floor throwing more than just my nose out of joint). Why would I care about Chicago or any of the other places that my driver rages about when he drives in hellacious traffic? He should know that the main issue is that it disturbs my sleep and play time with my aforementioned plush pig.
Actually, being knocked about, slammed into the dash or tossed onto the floor mat from the front seat happens quite a bit in extreme traffic. He seems to believe it’s because these four-wheelers can’t drive, but I’m thinking perhaps it’s the cities’ fault and not the four-wheelers. After all, he claims it’s because of where they live that causes their demented driving. So, logically, it’s the cities breeding these insane drivers, which cause him to hurl cuss words about (which, when he’s in good form, must be appreciated for sheer creativity). I must admit however, my driver does tend to be correct when commenting on the clown show put on by four-wheelers in a crowded metropolis.
For example, in the truly western states (without the crowded cities), we happily hurtle down the highway, at around 80 mph, while my driver chatters away on his archaic Cobra CB (always enthused when he finds another driver who actually answers him). This is a rare thing, apparently – truckers who have CB radios and are intelligent enough to use them. Communication amongst dogs is essential, even back to our ancestors, the wolf. They howl we bark. Seems that the steering wheel holder and many modern drivers feel it’s not so important to be informed by their fellow trucker that their side box is open, a tarp is tearing, the chicken coop is open, or an unseen chain is loose. I guess the truck driver’s art of conversation is lost amongst them, as well, but my old school driver still enjoys talking about kitty CATs versus Cummins, location of bear traps, and jokes that make him truly laugh out loud.
My driver seems to be in his element out in the west, it’s a trucker’s paradise to him (partially due to the population of demented four-wheelers being less). However, one of the downsides, I’m told, is seeing a dry van or reefer in Wyoming who suddenly decides to “go to sleep” ahead of us because of ferocious winds. Even with the thousands of illuminated thirty-foot signs flashing warnings of destruction for CMVs that the state erects, there are those who convince themselves their rigs will never get blown over, but nappy time happens none-the-less.
It begins when a trailer decides to pull a tractor along with it in a gust of continual wind powerful enough to cause it to dog leg for miles. The term ‘dog leg’ has always seemed a bit odd to me as I have four legs and the trailer none, but such is the terminology. I’ve seen trucks and trailers on their sides before, snoozing away on the highway because, as my driver puts it, these falsely confident drivers don’t know how to simply park, put down their landing gear and wait out the wind. The major problem here, as he tells it, is that dry vans, especially empty ones, are lazy buggers who when a 65 mph gust of wind tells them to have a quick ‘lie down’ they do, which forces the connected driver and truck to join them in this stressful siesta. No one ever worries about the livestock haulers, as everyone knows they drive faster than any Wyoming wind, so they are mostly impervious to sleeping on the job.
Here in Chicago and yesterday in St. Louis, I decided to retire to my bunk because sitting with my head out the window with the constant start and stop, hard braking and stress could cause me to barf my breakfast all over the truck’s floor. I don’t want to add to the already ever-present colorful language put out by my driver this evening by vomiting semi digested dog food on his hand and shifter knob like I did in Los Angeles last month. Upon reflection, I don’t think I want to be, what did he say, “Secured to the catwalk with grade 80 chains and binders until my muzzle turns gray?” That threat did sound extremely ominous at the time, so earlier I decided to wait out this traffic and spend my city time (plush piggy in mouth) back in the bunk for some peace.
Suddenly, and with intense horror, I notice my rubber ball is missing. In a panic, I look on the cab floor and realize it flew off the bunk the same time I did and is rolling around under my driver’s feet! I’m not at all sure he’s aware of this occurrence or of its extreme importance. The ball is rolling back and forth, while he shifts gears, pausing on and off under his boots (but never underneath the pedal he is mashing down). He seems to be busy threatening another four-wheeler in a dented pickup truck. Ignoring the newly lit cigarette balancing in his butt bucket, he colorfully educates the driver about blind spots, completely unaware of the danger my red ball was in!
I don’t want to bother my driver by asking him to retrieve my ball as he is quite frustrated at the moment that traffic has only moved ten feet in the past twenty minutes. I’ll just grab it quickly so as to not upset him further. I’m positive I can silently slink up front and grab my ball from under the pedals, unseen, and then retreat in ninja-like fashion, but then a cacophony of four-wheeler horns blare all at once and my driver slams the middle pedal down hard, narrowly missing my snout. The loud popping sound coming from the truck is ear-splitting, and the truck lurches to a sudden stop as both of us are violently flung to the side.
This sudden stop instantly causes my rear to get stuck between the shifter and the large Pilot coffee cup, which immediately explodes and drenches the paddles, switches and gauges with a brew of Bourbon Pecan. I immediately think to myself, what luck that the hot liquid didn’t burn me. Following the coffee’s lead, his butt bucket launched upwards bursting into a large, gray, ash filled cloud. The burning cigarette, still attached to the wayward lid, flew up onto the dash without singeing my tail (a continuation of my good luck).
Suddenly, I feel my driver’s large hand roughly grab the scruff of my neck, yanking my front half from underneath the pedals. The shifter grinds away underneath me, unable to find a gear without help from the clutch. With his right arm and some Herculean force, he ejects me back towards the rear of the cab and I land upside down on the bunk. Undignified for me but quite the feat for him, as I am not a small, light, yappy little dog. The four-wheelers continue to blast squeaky little clown horns at our stopped truck, drawing attention to the fact that our rig is not moving.
My driver’s face is swollen and red, his saliva sprays in all directions as he starts screaming questions at me, none which I can answer while crumpled on the bed. I have no clue what steamy hot coffee feels like on his skin or why it will take eons to clean the coffee mixed with ash out of the gauges and switches, or how to repair the hole burned in the dash by a wayward cigarette! Why should I care, for that matter? All I know is that I was victorious in retrieving and holding my precious ball during the mayhem.
I attempt to understand his rage about coffee, cigarettes, and threats about what would happen if I stuck my head under his legs again (catwalk punishment included). I’m sure had he known it was to retrieve my beloved red ball he would better understand, but he continues to loudly blather on and on, seemingly forgetting we are sitting still in traffic. I agree, these four-wheelers don’t know how to drive to save their lives, but I don’t know why my driver keeps threatening mine!