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 10-4 Magazine / April 2025 27 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! n
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