What do you mean I stink? My driver is looking at me with a scowl on his face. With mouth awry and eyebrows furrowed, he continues to stare at me in a rather accusatory manner. I’m sitting here, attempting to have a blissful day looking into four wheeler’s cars, when he looks over and loudly tells me that I must be rotting from the inside out! To add to that rather strange comment he further informs me the flattened skunk we passed at the last exit would make a fabulous air freshener compared to me!
Frankly, I don’t see or smell anything to confirm his rather less than superior human senses. Attempting to ignore my driver, I stuck my head out the window and let the 70 mph humid air blow over my body and swirl around the cab. This only causes a horrified gaze from him as if I had committed some felony assault to his senses. It reminds me of the look he had when coming out of a port-a-john at a receiver in Louisiana last summer – a look one gets before puking up undigested cubed cheese curds from Loves.
I must say that usually, when we suddenly get off the highway with this kind of intensity, it tends to depend on the sound a pack of cigarettes makes when he shakes them, or should I say lack of sound. This must be the reason as the only other time we fly off the highway at mach speed is when I’ve been whimpering at him for an hour (which usually turns to barking because my colon is about to explode).
Leaning into the off-ramp turn and pulling my head back from the window, we circled around and entered a rather large truck stop. This is one of those truck stops with a gazillion fuel islands and, of course multiple trucks, sans drivers, parked with doors locked just before the actual pumps. I’m positive this is not because they had exploding colons too, but because they just had to have a roast beef sandwich and soda before putting diesel in their rigs.
Strangely enough there’s one lane clear and my driver pulls through the first parking spot in the front of the lot. As I don’t need to relieve myself and am not hungry, this sense of urgency seems unwarranted for anything other than for what he calls his “cowboy killers”.
A misty, light rain begins to fall, unlike the torrent of rain that hit the highway last night. This is welcome, I think to myself, as the recent unbearable, unrelenting heat has caused my driver to close us up in the truck when sleeping, engine idling and A/C blowing, which is a bit irritating because it gives me no opportunity to bark at half asleep drivers walking past our rig at 0300.
My driver is strangely quiet as he swiftly pours out of the truck and slams his door loudly as he trudges around the hood to almost rip my door open. The scowl on his face is still obvious, but I’m assuming he’s thinking about that leaking wheel seal he keeps forgetting to change and last night’s rain and then scorching daytime heat which has been preventing that. But I’m so thrilled that perhaps he’s going to throw my ball, that when he reaches behind the seat for my collar and leash, I quickly push my head into the collar, ignoring his repugnant stare. I’m certain there must be a park to play fetch in close by and he’s taking me there so I can run until my tongue falls out of my head.
With some concern I realize my driver is pulling me towards the truck stop, which does not resemble a dog park. He’s still quiet, almost secretive, as his continuing look of disgust in my direction is mixed with determination. Certain that there’s nothing I did, I’m thinking perhaps he’s going to finally change that seal, even in this light rain. This apparently causes him a great amount of negative thoughts and dismay. But why the emergency exit from the highway? Is it that weigh station that was coming up? I’m aware we were on the I-75 in Kentucky, which has that notorious “super scale” which is often described in detail with much cussing and condemnation by all OTR drivers. Regardless, as we walk, I expect my driver will cheer up and stop thinking about maintenance on the truck.
Why are we going into the truck stop? Why is my driver talking to the lady behind the counter (who smells like delicious meatloaf) so seriously without putting anything on said counter to buy? No ciggys, rollers, or even that awesome meatloaf. Why is she laughing and telling him, “No problem, it’s done all the time!” What’s done all the time? Why is she handing him a receipt when he hasn’t even brought in that nasty, half-gallon thermos to fill?
This is all a bit strange. My driver is walking me to the back of the store, where looms a long hallway. The air begins to feel like we’re outside, hot and humid, which permeates my fur – even the walls are dripping moisture. There are numbered doors everywhere as I gaze right and left. We squeeze by a rolling table with a large, yellow bag hanging on it and rolls and rolls of brown paper towels stored underneath. Plastic spray bottles full of green liquid stand on a rack attached to the cart with an enormous set of keys hanging from a rusty hook.
My quiet observations are shattered by a man not wearing boots, as he squishes by me in flip-floppy looking shoes that don’t look like they want to stay attached to his feet. His hair is wet, though I have no clue how, as he’s not outside. Pushing past us with a heavy duffel bag swaying from his shoulder, my driver seems to not notice this strange man, because he is staring at a small square device with buttons on it by the door we’re standing next to. He keeps punching at it with one finger and looking down at the receipt for not buying anything, when suddenly there’s a loud BEEEEEP. He grabs the handle of the heavy, numbered door, which swings open.
Looking inside, I can’t get enough traction on the slippery hallway floor as I attempt to flee from the room. My collar, leash, and driver thwart any attempt I make to get past the rolling cart, and I am surreptitiously pulled into the room by my soon-to-be ex-driver, as loyalty only goes so far when faced with the horrors of this shower dungeon.
There’s a sort of impish smile across my driver’s face. The first smile I’ve seen from him all day (probably because I might soon be smelling like scented shampoo, while he still reeks of coffee, diesel, and denim). My fight began instantly as he pulled me, my toenails screeching across the tile floor, towards that dingy shower stall. Reaching over, he turned on a high-pressure gush of warm water (I’ve heard from drivers that truck stop showers never have high pressure, but just my luck).
The struggle for my dignity is, alas, a short one. Loss of traction and the presence of collar and leash (which I recently happily let him put on, stupid me), skewed the fight in his favor. Even my grabbing and ripping those thin, grayish, sad towels from his hands could not thwart the inevitable. The tenacity of my driver matched my resolve to leave, but it turns out he was not as out of shape as the public makes all truck drivers to be. I knew I would never leave that room until I succumbed to the warm water, suds, and shampoo.
I’m mortified as we walk back to the truck, my clean coat still dripping, that I might be seen by another trucking dog and the shame shall never leave me. I myself have had a glorious time teasing and mocking small trucking dogs who smell like blueberries with hilarious little pink bows cemented to their ears. Am I to end up like them? Unhooking the truck keys that live on the belt loop of his jeans, my driver once again smiles at me. An almost evil grin filled with the look of conquest. The smug satisfaction on his face is basically the same look he got smoking that Peterbilt on Cabbage Hill in Oregon last spring.
Merging back onto the freeway with the rain increasing it’s tapping on the windshield, my window remains up, and the truck’s vents blow my sweet-smelling hair all over the cab. This only seems to make my driver happier at my humiliation and discomfort as I sit on my wet, squishy, soggy seat. All I can do is stare in disgust at his treatment of such a loyal driver’s dog. He returns my judgmental look with a beaming smile, then sniffs aloud at the fresh smelling air.
He’ll have the air conditioning on high while he sleeps tonight, as Google predicts there will be torrents of rain and stifling heat and humidity. The heavy, gray vertical curtains will be drawn, and my driver will retire in sweet smelling comfort. Asleep, with wonderful long, deep dreams of days before DEF and “rolling coal” down the highway.
I, on the other hand, will be rolling down the driver’s side window as he snores, by standing on the arm rest switch, whilst the truck idles through the night. The night’s rainstorm will provide him by tomorrow morning with the same soggy-seat experience throughout the day that I have at this moment. Then I will smile, too.