10-4 Magazine January 2025

A Trucking Dog’s Blog: By K.M. Stanfield ‘big dog’ confidence on his face when he drives, and he always wears a faded black baseball hat during his waking hours. I never see him without this sacred hat, except when he sleeps, and it’s always the first thing he puts on when he wakes up. I’m not sure if this hat has something to do with his survival, but I think it does. The red and white striped patch on the front with the letters “KW” on it must give him protection from the letters “DOT” or “FMCSA” – but I’m not completely sure. Looking around the truck stop, the shadows cast by the intense lights dancing about makes me wonder why my driver believes parking here is as dangerous as a level one inspection done by an officer in a bad mood. He always parks in the back row alongside the other long-nosed trucks, as if gathering with those lacking stacks is unthinkable. From what I glean from drivers, trucks with long noses are better somehow than short, a statement I just happen to agree with as I have a terrifically big snout. These trucks often sport monstrous, and I shudder to say the word, steel “muzzles” on the front. My driver calls them elk eliminators, deer destroyers and moose maimers. We have one mounted on our truck too, a sort of dystopian looking rack of bars that curve around the bumper with an “I dare you to get in front of me” look to them. My driver, however, seems to use this bull bumper as a creative threat, telling me if I don’t stop barking some nights or get off the bunk in time, he will tie me to it and leave me there. As I sit here in my driver’s seat, with my nose resting on the steering wheel, I see that same white tractor, driven by the same stressed driver, roll by again and then pause in front of our truck. My desire to sleep is extremely intense as the past day involved a great deal of barking at shippers and receivers, with a dash My driver just kicked me in the head. Although I sit on the bunk most of the day sleeping, shedding, and playing with my toys, my driver’s mumbling at me to get my fleabag self off the bunk. His bare feet keep kicking and shoving me with the intent of convincing me to get off the bed (which is typical on a nightly basis when he’s feeling I take up too much of the mattress). The concept of sharing never enters his mind once he is sound asleep. As I attempt to scrunch up under the emergency door, the whack of a pillow upside my head has convinced me, yet again, to concede the bunk to my snoring driver. Jumping off and pushing through the heavy curtains that split the cab (blocking out the bright lights from the busy truck stop), I’m reminded that my driver always complains when we park at one of the “big four” as he calls them. He dislikes truck stops, says they are full of drivers that can’t slow down, can’t back up, aren’t trained enough, and don’t listen to advice. I wonder if he’s actually referring to me and not the other drivers, except for the inability to back up, I do that with no problem at all. Climbing on his worn-out seat, that he keeps as low as possible, and resting my snout on the steering wheel, I watch the few ghostly figures walking to and from the building emblazoned with a “Welcome Drivers” sign in bright neon colors over the entrance. It’s the time of night when the hustle of the fuel island and four-wheeler traffic has stopped, the early hours owned by the truck drivers who sleep here. Gradually, a white, snubby nosed truck creeps along in front of our tractor and I get a minute to observe the concerned driver inside the cab. His head swivels back and forth, eyes wide open with worry and a sort of grimace on his face, much like my driver had after eating that roadside curry meal the other day. This driver looked like so many I see as we pass them on the highway. Sitting as high as possible in their seats and grasping the steering wheel with white knuckled hands, they have a sort of intense, panicked look on their faces, mixed with a bit of foreboding (much like me when I lose my red rubber ball). They never look right or left, their window is always rolled up, they are often wearing a bright safety vest, and as they look straight ahead, they have a glassy-eyed look, as though disaster will occur the next time they change lanes. I’m convinced it’s because they might be frightened of receiving my intimidating bark should they look my way. This is completely contrary to my driver. He sits with his seat to the rear, lowered to the floor, with his left elbow perpetually hanging out the window. He’s always very relaxed with a sort of confident sly look on his face, right hand drooping over the top of the wooden steering wheel or shifter knob, and fully in control of every situation. There’s a 56 10-4 Magazine / January 2025 PARKING PANDEMONIUM