Diesel Dog
Troubleshooter said we needed a dog. Troubleshooter was his CB handle. I called him Trouble for short and for other reasons. My husband and I were cross-country truck drivers and I didn’t want to share the cab of our Kenworth with anything else that breathed and had bodily functions.
One of our many trips took us to Miami, Florida, not a fun place to be in July, but thankfully, we had air-conditioning. We unloaded in the morning and headed north to Georgia on Highway 27 to pick up a load of carpet bound for the great Northwest.
Trouble was at the wheel and I relaxed to enjoy the ride. We didn’t get down this way often and there were so many changes. I was contemplating the plight of the poor ‘gators losing swampland when Trouble’s heavy foot on the brakes and his exclamation, “I’m going to hit it,” interrupted my thoughts and my eyes turned back to the highway.
There in the road in front of us was a small black dog running as hard as its short little legs could go. Traffic was heavy and there was no way it could outrun any of it. Trouble pulled into the passing lane and the dog did too, then disappeared.
when the truck came to a halt, we knew it was too late, but Trouble got out to check anyway. All northbound traffic had stopped. I felt so sad as I sat there waiting. Why was a dog in the road, anyway? There were no houses around this section of roadway.
Trouble returned and tucked in his arms was a very frightened puppy. The look on his face told me that it was love at first sight. It took only one glance and my reluctance to share was out the window. He handed her up to my welcoming arms. For the next fifty miles I held her trembling little body, stroking her, assuring her that everything would be all right.
There was never any question that she had flagged down the right truck. By the end of the day the sparkle had returned to her frightened eyes and puppy playfulness replaced her fear.
We were not prepared to adopt a pet and had no food with us. When we stopped to eat, we shared our hamburger with her. We broke it up in tiny bites to keep the mess in the truck at a minimum. By the time we got to where we could get her some official dog food, she let us know that she would rather have a share of our “daily special” served in dainty bites.
We made her a bed between the seats using our T-shirts. She ignored it and made herself right at home in the sleeper. It was obvious now that she shared her truck with us. Of course we were reminded that puppies like to chew. Once we returned to the truck to find the little dog sitting in the middle of a brand new roll of paper towels she’d torn into a million pieces. My address book went, too. A thousand miles later I was finding street addresses without names and little doggy teeth marks instead of zip codes.
Whenever we got out of the truck we had to put everything out of her reach. We never did figure out how she got to the pouch that held the paperwork for our load. She chewed: we glued. We only shrugged when the consignee asked, “”Why is this bill of lading full of holes?” Somewhere in Idaho she chewed up my hairbrush.
For twenty thousand miles of so, we referred to her as the diesel dog until we could come up with exactly the right name for the short-legged, mostly Dachshund that had taken over our hearts and our truck. All the names we thought of belonged to other dogs or just did not fit her.
Someone I Kentucky suggested “Jaws” after being greeted by dangerous looking teeth. Another helpful soul surmised, “I figure she’ll be a big dog and should have a name to match. Don’t give her no sissy name.” And another, “Don’t burden the cute little thing with a big dog’s name.” Folks at loading docks and truck stops were more than willing to help but nothing seemed to fit.
One day we realized she had a name and it fit her very well. Little Diesel Dog came bouncing when she heard us say, “C’mon, Diesel Dog. Let’s go trailer truckin’.”
Diesel Dog was our friend for seventeen years, four months and four days. She died two days after Thanksgiving. We buried her in the local pet cemetery.
One day after work, two other drivers and myself were driving by the cemetery. I told them I had to give Diesel Dog a toot with the air horn.
That day, accompanied by my fellow truck drivers, Diesel Dog got an official twenty-one-toot salute. It was a fitting tribute to a very special friend.
-Mary Blei Vandever