Shredded tire treads can cause both driver and dog to be thrown violently into the dash when the useless automatic emergency braking system mistakes these “gator tails” for a school bus full of children. He tells me gluing a tread to a semi’s steer tire is as intelligent as these ridiculous Idle Shutdown Timers (which can boil a bulldog and his driver in the summer should the APU fail), as some companies will always put the survival of the driver and dog below saving a few bucks on fuel. It makes me love my driver’s pre-emissions truck, as he calls it, but he apparently hasn’t noticed the previous “release” from my emission system just moments ago. Without a word, my driver pours out of his seat into the soupy fog, shaking his flickering flashlight, which makes the batteries work better, while he walks over to what is left of the right steer tire. I can hear the occasional semi-truck whisk by in the hammer lane which gives me a sigh of relief that they can see our murky hazard lights flashing. Poking my head out of the window I see him, flashlight slowly following the lines of the hood, the wheel well, and the mangled rim which is still hanging on to what’s left of our right steer tire. He stands back, folds his arms across his barrel chest and stares at the one thing discovered by the flickering flashlight’s beam. 10-4 Magazine / April 2026 57 It’s that same comatose stare I get when expecting my red ball to somehow re-animate itself and go hurling across the grass so I can chase it. It’s not the bent rim that draws his attention, not the pieces of tire that are causing his frozen face, but one thing only. The dangling, partially painted red hook, jammed into the rim (which once lived as a binder), responsible for the murder of his newer Michelin X-line steer tire. He stares intently at the item that has caused this morning’s terror of exploding rubber, then strolls back to the driver’s seat, pulling himself up with ease, and then gazes over my way. I can’t help but shift uncomfortably as, with a low, guttural growl he very calmly says to me… “Why in the flying **!#@** was there a ratchet binder in the middle of the highway at *!#@* three in the morning? Some *!#@* hick driver, who couldn’t drive a *!#@* Tonka truck, couldn’t manage to keep a *!#@* binder in his headache rack or tighten it enough to keep it off the *!#@* highway?? And of all places, it’s gotta be Dead Man’s Pass on a switchback with *!#@* fog as thick as their brain!!!” That was it. He didn’t yell or fling his arms about, didn’t point or light up another cigarette, he just sat there and looked at me. This made me strangely nervous, enough to abstain from even asking him to let me relieve myself so as to avoid him making me look like that twisted-up binder. However, his face softened quickly, and he began stroking my head as I put my grizzled muzzle in his lap. His look is not of frustration, irritation, expectation or amusement – he looks unconcerned about pre-trips, DOT, brokers, oil leaks, ELDs or Google maps. Looking up I can’t help but notice my driver’s soft eyes, surrounded by years of honorable wrinkles about the edges, with his rough, reddish-blonde beard needing a trim and ever-loyal Kenworth baseball hat attached to his head. He’s speaking softly to me, not of trucking, not how frustrated I make him or my shedding six tons of hair per day, but how thankful he is. That after that 15 seconds of bowel-bursting shock and chaos we were now sitting in the cab, my home, warm and safe, just waiting on the “tire guy” that will show up in ten hours or so. I see how happy he is that nothing was damaged – our hood is intact and all he hears is the slight wind outside the cab and not the turbulent whooshing sounds of damaged air lines. He mentions how lonely it is for so many drivers on the road today, those without families or devoted dogs (wait, I’m devoted?). Believe me, I know truck driving can be a thankless job for the most part, but it runs in my driver’s blood, maybe even mine, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. He thanks me for just being a dog, a companion to listen to his chaotic complaints and hours of off-key singing. Then, patting his thigh, I crawl gently up into his lap as he wraps his large arms around me, squeezing me tight with a power that makes me sound as though I have an air leak myself. But, in this case, it’s a sound we both welcome and love to hear. n
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