As the mustard and ketchup paddles are pushed, I’m sure all is well and begin to jump back into the bunk when I’m suddenly slammed into the quilted back wall, upside down with my tail cocked above my head! The sheer force of the lurch seems to have put my driver in a fantastic mood, so I’m willing to not get my nose out of joint for plastering me up against the back of the cab. “Whoops, I accidentally popped the clutch getting off the scale,” he shouts with a maniacal laughter and grin that stretches ear to ear. I wonder what that means as we peel off the scale at such a speed it’s hopeless I will ever recover from the crumpled position I’m in. My driver is old school, a Billy Big Rigger, not a steering wheel holder, a professional driver that never misses a gear or pops the clutch! Has the stress of the day got to him? Was it the fumes from the adhesive? He then exclaims, “Good Boy! Come on up here!” So, I untangle myself and jump to the front seat, happy my driver is almost catatonic with laughter. It’s contagious and I dance on the seat with my tail thumping the dash. I listen with great enthusiasm as he grabs my muzzle playfully, turns it towards him, and says, “Dog! Can you say R-E-C-A-L-I-B-R-A-T-I-O-N?” Um... no, and why would I care? Sticking my head out the window, my lips flapping in the wind, we fly back onto the highway. My driver hangs his arm out the window, bangs out another smoke stick from the box in his shirt and laughs as he snaps the Zippo and lights it up. His joy is contagious. The entire mood has turned – a day that began with mounting stress from torn tarps, high winds, broken bungees, glue stench, four-wheeler brake checks, and the full Butt Bucket, ended with a uniformed man lecturing my driver on how to be a driver. However, all is forgotten now as we roar down the highway, his laughter and fresh smoke filling the cab. The urge to howl at the siren that is behind us is too great. My melodious howl breaks up the mood in the truck and dampens the howling laughter of my driver. When I finish my required howl, it’s apparent that the cloud of smoke in the cab has instantly been filled by a cloud of aggravation yet again. As my driver pulls off the freeway on to a wide turnout, it’s apparent that not only the siren seems to have followed us, but the blue and white four-wheeled vehicles parked at the weigh station have, as well. 10-4 Magazine / October 2026 17 The urge to bark is unbearable as yet another badged man wearing a wide brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes exits his car and begins walking towards our truck from the back of the trailer. The attempt to cover his face with the blue hat definitely means he’s up to something shifty, no doubt, and I prepare myself to frighten him off with the most hellraising bark my lungs can manage. I suddenly feel my driver’s rough hands on the scruff of my neck. His eyes are dark and with a ferocious undertone tells me to get in the bunk and be quiet. Failure to do so will cause all my toys to be dumped at the next truck stop, my plush pig made into bacon, and finally I will be dumped at the doggie pound. He points to the bunk and reminds me to stay there and be quiet until they de-regulate trucking! I weigh the pros and cons of the glorious reward of roaring at hat man versus the dumping of my red ball and impending slaughter of my dear pink pig should I not comply with the bunk order. I choose the latter as protecting my pig outweighs the protection of the truck. In what seemed like hours I lay there watching the uniform walk around our truck and trailer, leaning over, under and up and down. Pulling on straps, examining the tires, in addition to having my driver open the hood so the hat man can examine how a diesel engine works, I assume? He talks to my driver briefly and I prick my ears to hear the hat give my driver commands much like the box on the dash gives him, and he follows them just as quickly. After what seems like hours we are back on the highway and the silence in the cab is deafening. I feel a thigh cramp coming on as I’ve been waiting so long to be released from the bunk. He doesn’t say anything between sucking on yet another smoke stick... the Butt Bucket has tipped onto the floor spilling cold butts under my passenger chair, but this doesn’t seem to bother him. There’s a new ream of paper sitting on my seat, gifted to him by the uniform in the hat. He glances at it with a darkness on his face I’ve only seen on him when all his tarps froze to the catwalk last winter. Suddenly he tosses them back on the bunk, not so much as to give them to me, per say, but to get them out of his sight. He’s sinking down in his seat with one hand on the wheel, blowing smoke out the window, as the sky is painted red by the setting sun. He’s got that “drive all night regardless of HOS” look on his face. I arrange the papers neatly between my paws and figure I’ll chew on these instead of my ball (as I have not been released yet from the confines of the bunk). Previously my driver asked me if I could spell “recalibration” as we tore off the scale. Glancing at the pages between my paws I notice many other words I can’t spell... the top one says, “Indiana State Police - CMV Violations” and the rest I attempt to make sense of as I gently shred the first page. Tarp Straps Used to Secure Dunnage 49CFR 393.104/106; Interference With Driver-Clutter in Bunk 49CFR 398.4b; Trash on Dash-Obstruction of Vision 49CFR 393.60C; Improperly Located TV Receiver 49CFR 393.88; Inadequate Floor Condition 49CFR 393.84; ELD Cord Too Short 49CFR 395.20b; No Reviewing Driver’s Signature on DVIR 49CFR 393.13c; Company Name Not 2” Tall 49CFR 390.21; Windshield Fluid Not Spraying Adequate Area 49CFR 393.78; then on to the next page... n
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