Apparently I got my Commercial Driver’s License (CDL) today. Though an immigrant from Germany at a young age, I was still able to prove both my experience and knowledge over the road, to convince the powers that be that I had obtained a CDL in the Fatherland. So, I guess issuing me a CDL just on that, was not a problem by our state of residence. I am not a non-domiciled individual, as I live in America with my driver in a semi-truck, so that’s a good thing. Even the fact that I don’t speak English at all apparently doesn’t prevent me from driving a big rig, either.
No one even asked me if I had opposable thumbs, which I do not, but the devil is in the details, eh? As being “grandfathered in” is no longer accepted, I wasn’t going to gain the notoriety as the first canine long-haul driver through riding teams with my driver the last four years. Nonetheless, apparently I was able to use the current system to have my abilities and hard work recognized, which lets me drive a CMV.
My driver recently was in a political frame of mind and decided to prove a point. Could I, his somewhat loyal German Shepherd dog, get a CDL? This idea came to him the night after driving in a sleet storm, sliding through ice coated switchbacks, all while hauling a 42-thousand-pound coil. In the wee hours that followed, I found out about my achievement listening to my driver in the lounge of a dank little mom and pop truck stop. Two other tired, rankish smelling, bored drivers with bloodshot, exhausted eyes agreed with him that it was too easy for anyone to get a CDL and the FMCSA would give a CDL to a dog, should said dog apply.
Of course, my driver, having the ability to shovel a story or two, could probably even convince drivers that he was actually the driver “Big Joe” of Phantom 309. So, he decided to inform these drivers that I actually had obtained my CDL no problem! He colorfully explained that the issue of not being able to read nor understand the state’s DOT CDL handbook didn’t apply, as his dog understood about the same amount of that bastion of instructional material as some professional drivers do today. Had he attempted to give me said handbook, I simply would have chewed it up, and that would have been the end of it.
Overall, it made no difference to me laying up against the overstuffed, musty, vibrating recliner my driver was sitting in, its hypnotic whirr lulling me to sleep. I’m oblivious to the droning voice announcing what number shower is now clean and ready for yet another driver.
You must understand that my driver has not always been vocal about the government’s lack of regulating those who should not be behind the wheel of a big rig. Nor would he have attempted to convince two burned out drivers that the FMCSA was so inept that they would issue a CDL to an unqualified dog. I have no objection that he thinks I would be a terrible truck driver – not only can I not double clutch (being unable to reach the pedals), but I lack a middle digit on my paw (a necessity for communication with 4-wheelers in New York traffic).
The catalyst for his political rampage occurred a week before the night of the switchbacks, lounge and shower, when we were “invited” into a weigh station by North Dakota’s finest (the uniformed and hat-wearing folks my driver tells me to put a bit more effort into ferociously barking at should they attempt to take a peek at our truck). He must understand that I do not discriminate. Everyone deserves to die, should they try to enter our rig without permission. However, being told to wait patiently is not me, and I must admit that calmly laying down in “stealth mode” waiting for the uniform-hat to take a look at our fire extinguisher is nirvana. Surprising him with my best ear-splitting roar just might cause him to take early retirement. It’s just good clean fun for my driver and delicious enjoyment for me, regardless of whether they are uniformed, or not.
My driver dislikes all levels of inspections when citations are given for easily fixed issues. Those who don’t blow by chicken coops or avoid them on back roads are often penalized for their honesty. It aggravates him seeing trucks that are literally falling apart roll down the highway un-fettered, as he knows the safety of everyone on the road is crucial. He calls this an old-school belief, which I admire him for. Another pet peeve of his lately is the blank looks he gets when he asks imported drivers where the Flex-Tape is at a TA. As mentioned before, I am imported, too, and I also could care less where the Flex-Tape is!
Perhaps because of my bone chilling surprise, the North Dakota trooper, once recovered, wanted to give my driver a “warning” about the slightly rubbed casing on one air line. This seemed to aggravate my driver, which is confusing to me. In a dog’s world, we would prefer to be warned by our drivers about any malicious behavior we might have done or want to repeat. Warnings, to a dog, provide an opening for us to go ahead and commit the act, or do it again. Truck drivers, on the other hand, immediately demand a citation from law enforcement as it gives them a chance to “fight it” later on and come out victorious. Here again, though fighting can be exciting for us dogs, we’d rather be warned not to, than fight anyway. But I digress…
Because of this ticket my driver fought so valiantly to get, then losing his appeal on what he calls “The DataQ Joke,” he now gets to fulfill his desire to fight said citation. This began his revengeful quest to inform every driver and cashier at the last three truck stops he went into that the FMSCA doesn’t know their arse from a hole in the ground. Hence his creative testimony to these tired, shower-deprived drivers, about my legally driving a rig. Somehow, this proves his point about the slight rubbing on an air line being more criminal to an officer than a dog obtaining a CDL. This garners unanimous support at 0300 in a Montana truck stop lounge.
As the money is eaten up by the vibrating chair, I look up at my driver, still conversing with the other sleepy but attentive drivers. He does tell a great story, I think to myself, early in the morning, when dog-less truck drivers lurk in tiny lounges, craving some sort of conversation. They stare at ancient, wall-mounted televisions, that seem to only play re-runs of shows meant for teenage girls. This, I’m told, is a passive aggressive way the staff at truck stops assure themselves drivers will not spend too much time sleeping and drooling on their uncomfortable chairs.
My driver almost has convinced me that anyone can legally drive a big rig these days. Regardless of my being from Germany and can only bark when told to “speak”, it’s obvious English is completely lacking in the equation to be a long-haul trucker. He does have them convinced that I do have a license (though omits it’s a county dog license, but one must have some semblance of truth I suppose) and I am able to haul a RGN lowboy with a detach. Drivers will believe almost anything if enough flair is put into it, and it would seem like a communal dislike for the FMCSA and DOT never hurts, either.
My driver then deposits another thirty-six quarters into the chair, and I cuddle up for more vibrating ecstasy on the floor. Once again, I hear the shower counting voice come over the speaker and already the subject has changed to nasty stories of bathrooms, towels and surprises found in toilets, both past and hopefully not soon to be encountered.
But seriously, I hope that the next time we’re at a shipper and my driver is checking in, should I freak out about someone doing anything around our truck and my demented barking and flailing buttocks “accidentally” pushes in both paddles while parked on a steep hill, that he understands. Though I’m a fellow professional CDL holder and should know better, I’d prefer him to give me a warning, as opposed to anything else, upon discovery of any potentially catastrophic results.