A Trucking Dog’s Blog: By K.M. Stanfield leaning slowly back in his seat, he calmly reached to the floor for the tragically flung Zippo lighter. With commanding presence, he decisively lights up a well-deserved cigarette. He has an almost James Bond coolness about him as he strokes his beard to calm any wayward hairs, then draws on his cigarette slowly, watching the ribbon of smoke dissipate in the cab. I’m intrigued by his silence, so I don’t think I’ll inform him just yet that the stress my backside suffered has made me want to go outside. My driver is usually chatty, telling me what he thinks about everything, what he wants and doesn’t want, and how he would solve all the problems in the trucking industry if only he was “king for a day.” I’ve been stumped by why his ideas are not taken more seriously as most drivers, scattered about truck stop lounges, emphatically agree with him. He knows how to fix broker fraud, enforce broker transparency, educate the public that there is no driver shortage, establish free truck parking (punishing those companies who desire to make everything a paid spot), and remove fly-by-night trucking companies run by overseas bosses. I agree with it all, of course, which is a requirement for a dog. This extends to his decision to give me leftovers from Piggy-Pork’s Barbecue last night (though my terrified intestines disagree with that at the moment). We sit in silence as my driver closes his eyes and drags out the last ember and I wait patiently for words of wisdom about why his newer tire detonated in the early morning, interrupting Johnny Cash. He’s always preached of pocket gauges, rock drilling, and avoiding recaps at all costs on tires, regardless of perceived savings. Rubber pieces from recaps on the highway are a nuisance to all CMVs. One reason is that once encountered, they must be avoided by an alert driver behind said truck with recaps. “YIKE-YIKE-YIKE-YIKE!!!!!!” We arc off the highway at Mach one, bouncing about violently at first, which is followed by the horrible sound of metal dragging on the highway for what seemed like a millennium. The truck is listing towards my side, and that sound of rubber being torn asunder when the steer tire exploded is still ringing in my somewhat superior ears. The truck shudders with an almost death-like rattle after surviving the sheer velocity we attained before skidding to a halt on the steer’s rim, in a blurry, quiet cloud of dust and gravel. It’s the wee hours of the morning and the heavy fog slowly envelopes our rig, but I’m happy there’s enough of a shoulder on Emigrant Hill in Oregon to keep us out of the right lane. Even with the shock of our rim encountering the asphalt with no warning (which happens apparently when steer tires explode), I am stunned that I am still in my seat and in one piece. The poor GPS flew across the cab (no longer attached to its mount), narrowly missing the dash cam (which has been recording fog the last hour). Joining the GPS was my driver’s headset, his Zippo, and a 10’ long colorful “truck stop brand” charging cord which now hangs like a purple snake on the back of my seat. I look over at my silent driver. He’s illuminated by the soft array of coolant, turbo and exhaust temperature lights in front of him. The speedometer and oil pressure cluster bathe his face in a bright green glow. I expect him to be looking over at me, scowling with disgust at the ear splitting, almost pre-pubescent, girly scream that uttered from my mouth when the tire’s explosion happened under, what felt like, my butt. My shriek mimicked that truck driver’s screech last week who forgot to do a tug test and dropped his loaded trailer on ill-prepared landing gear while pulling out of the truck stop for all the world to see and put on social media. My driver respects Cabbage Hill and drives with caution and confidence, especially when there is fog. The LAST thing I remembered before blowing my anal glands, swallowing my tongue, and screaming in girlish terror was dozing off, listening to my driver attempt to, for the hundredth time on Bluetooth repeat, and with no mistakes, sing the entire song “I’ve Been Everywhere” by the Man in Black himself, Johnny Cash. Listening to my driver rattle through cities and hearing the seductive sound of our jake brakes as we lazily cruised down the mountain was mesmerizing... until suddenly, it wasn’t. I wonder why my driver doesn’t have that look on his face from every last bit of his adrenaline dumping into his system in 1.36 seconds? He looks calm, as though had he had anal glands, he would certainly have kept them intact. He is just sitting there, serenely staring at each gauge, listening intently to the truck, gazing at his mirrors. Then, 56 10-4 Magazine / April 2026 STEER SCREAMING
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