change that seal, even in this light rain. This apparently causes him a great amount of negative thoughts and dismay. But why the emergency exit from the highway? Is it that weigh station that was coming up? I’m aware we were on the I-75 in Kentucky, which has that notorious “super scale” which is often described in detail with much cussing and condemnation by all OTR drivers. Regardless, as we walk, I expect my driver will cheer up and stop thinking about maintenance on the truck. Why are we going into the truck stop? Why is my driver talking to the lady behind the counter (who smells like delicious meatloaf) so seriously without putting anything on said counter to buy? No ciggys, rollers, or even that awesome meatloaf. Why is she laughing and telling him, “No problem, it’s done all the time!” What’s done all the time? Why is she handing him a receipt when he hasn’t even brought in that nasty, half-gallon thermos to fill? This is all a bit strange. My driver is walking me to the back of the store, where looms a long hallway. The air begins to feel like we’re outside, hot and humid, which permeates my fur – even the walls are dripping moisture. There are numbered doors everywhere as I gaze right and left. We squeeze by a rolling table with a large, yellow bag hanging on it and rolls and rolls of brown paper towels stored underneath. Plastic spray bottles full of green liquid stand on a rack attached to the cart with an enormous set of keys hanging from a rusty hook. My quiet observations are shattered by a man not wearing boots, as he squishes by me in flip-floppy looking shoes that don’t look like they want to stay attached to his feet. His hair is wet, though I have no clue how, as he’s not outside. Pushing past us with a heavy duffel bag swaying 10-4 Magazine / January 2026 61 from his shoulder, my driver seems to not notice this strange man, because he is staring at a small square device with buttons on it by the door we’re standing next to. He keeps punching at it with one finger and looking down at the receipt for not buying anything, when suddenly there’s a loud BEEEEEP. He grabs the handle of the heavy, numbered door, which swings open. Looking inside, I can’t get enough traction on the slippery hallway floor as I attempt to flee from the room. My collar, leash, and driver thwart any attempt I make to get past the rolling cart, and I am surreptitiously pulled into the room by my soon-to-be ex-driver, as loyalty only goes so far when faced with the horrors of this shower dungeon. There’s a sort of impish smile across my driver’s face. The first smile I’ve seen from him all day (probably because I might soon be smelling like scented shampoo, while he still reeks of coffee, diesel, and denim). My fight began instantly as he pulled me, my toenails screeching across the tile floor, towards that dingy shower stall. Reaching over, he turned on a high-pressure gush of warm water (I’ve heard from drivers that truck stop showers never have high pressure, but just my luck). The struggle for my dignity is, alas, a short one. Loss of traction and the presence of collar and leash (which I recently happily let him put on, stupid me), skewed the fight in his favor. Even my grabbing and ripping those thin, grayish, sad towels from his hands could not thwart the inevitable. The tenacity of my driver matched my resolve to leave, but it turns out he was not as out of shape as the public makes all truck drivers to be. I knew I would never leave that room until I succumbed to the warm water, suds, and shampoo. I’m mortified as we walk back to the truck, my clean coat still dripping, that I might be seen by another trucking dog and the shame shall never leave me. I myself have had a glorious time teasing and mocking small trucking dogs who smell like blueberries with hilarious little pink bows cemented to their ears. Am I to end up like them? Unhooking the truck keys that live on the belt loop of his jeans, my driver once again smiles at me. An almost evil grin filled with the look of conquest. The smug satisfaction on his face is basically the same look he got smoking that Peterbilt on Cabbage Hill in Oregon last spring. Merging back onto the freeway with the rain increasing it’s tapping on the windshield, my window remains up, and the truck’s vents blow my sweet-smelling hair all over the cab. This only seems to make my driver happier at my humiliation and discomfort as I sit on my wet, squishy, soggy seat. All I can do is stare in disgust at his treatment of such a loyal driver’s dog. He returns my judgmental look with a beaming smile, then sniffs aloud at the fresh smelling air. He’ll have the air conditioning on high while he sleeps tonight, as Google predicts there will be torrents of rain and stifling heat and humidity. The heavy, gray vertical curtains will be drawn, and my driver will retire in sweet smelling comfort. Asleep, with wonderful long, deep dreams of days before DEF and “rolling coal” down the highway. I, on the other hand, will be rolling down the driver’s side window as he snores, by standing on the arm rest switch, whilst the truck idles through the night. The night’s rainstorm will provide him by tomorrow morning with the same soggy-seat experience throughout the day that I have at this moment. Then I, will smile, too. n
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