that are literally falling apart roll down the highway un-fettered, as he knows the safety of everyone on the road is crucial. He calls this an old-school belief, which I admire him for. Another pet peeve of his lately is the blank looks he gets when he asks imported drivers where the Flex-Tape is at a TA. As mentioned before, I am imported, too, and I also could care less where the Flex-Tape is! Perhaps because of my bone chilling surprise, the North Dakota trooper, once recovered, wanted to give my driver a “warning” about the slightly rubbed casing on one air line. This seemed to aggravate my driver, which is confusing to me. In a dog’s world, we would prefer to be warned by our drivers about any malicious behavior we might have done or want to repeat. Warnings, to a dog, provide an opening for us to go ahead and commit the act, or do it again. Truck drivers, on the other hand, immediately demand a citation from law enforcement as it gives them a chance to “fight it” later on and come out victorious. Here again, though fighting can be exciting for us dogs, we’d rather be warned not to, than fight anyway. But I digress... Because of this ticket my driver fought so valiantly to get, then losing his appeal on what he calls “The DataQ Joke,” he now gets to fulfill his desire to fight said citation. This began his revengeful quest to inform every driver and cashier at the last three truck stops he went into that the FMSCA doesn’t know their arse from a hole in the ground. Hence his creative testimony to these tired, shower-deprived drivers, about my legally driving a rig. Somehow, this proves his point about the slight rubbing on an air line being more criminal to an officer than a dog obtaining a CDL. This garners unanimous support at 0300 in a Montana truck stop lounge. 10-4 Magazine / October 2025 63 As the money is eaten up by the vibrating chair, I look up at my driver, still conversing with the other sleepy but attentive drivers. He does tell a great story, I think to myself, early in the morning, when dog-less truck drivers lurk in tiny lounges, craving some sort of conversation. They stare at ancient, wall-mounted televisions, that seem to only play re-runs of shows meant for teenage girls. This, I’m told, is a passive aggressive way the staff at truck stops assure themselves drivers will not spend too much time sleeping and drooling on their uncomfortable chairs. My driver almost has convinced me that anyone can legally drive a big rig these days. Regardless of my being from Germany and can only bark when told to “speak”, it’s obvious English is completely lacking in the equation to be a long-haul trucker. He does have them convinced that I do have a license (though omits it’s a county dog license, but one must have some semblance of truth I suppose) and I am able to haul a RGN lowboy with a detach. Drivers will believe almost anything if enough flair is put into it, and it would seem like a communal dislike for the FMCSA and DOT never hurts, either. My driver then deposits another thirty-six quarters into the chair, and I cuddle up for more vibrating ecstasy on the floor. Once again, I hear the shower counting voice come over the speaker and already the subject has changed to nasty stories of bathrooms, towels and surprises found in toilets, both past and hopefully not soon to be encountered. But seriously, I hope that the next time we’re at a shipper and my driver is checking in, should I freak out about someone doing anything around our truck and my demented barking and flailing buttocks “accidentally” pushes in both paddles while parked on a steep hill, that he understands. Though I’m a fellow professional CDL holder and should know better, I’d prefer him to give me a warning, as opposed to anything else, upon discovery of any potentially catastrophic results. n
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