You see it every now and then; you’re bound to. Especially on those pretty open roads with no stops to speak of. Sometimes, it’s the twisted metal from some terrible occurrence or the newly dead showing unmistakable evidence of prolonged suffering. It puts thoughts in your head that make you miss your own four walls, wherever they may be.
This mess is a little different, though. I’m doing about forty behind a blue pickup truck, and I’m getting irritated. He’s looking for something, and I’m thinking at first it might be the right plot for a homestead or maybe a lost hat. It isn’t. This guy thinks he’s getting away with murder, but you never can do that when it comes to a dog.
I think the pup’s a goner when the blue truck slows and one beefy, plaid pit-stained arm pulls him across the cab and hurls him dead-center into the road. I’m far enough back to slow and give the guy a well-deserved hand gesture while I’m watching the gleaming black projectile hit the road and roll. He’s laying there, head up and struggling to stand so he can chase his master and give him one last chance to keep him. His hips won’t cooperate. It’s broken, maybe.
I’m partial to labs, and I’m too close to say that this scene isn’t meant for my eyes, so I stop. He’s whipping his head back and forth from me to his truck. It’s getting farther and farther away. I approach him with an old blanket.
I know he’ll try to bite me because he’s singing like Sister Irene on the high note that always cleared the choir loft. The blanket is my old wool standard issue, and you can’t run a chain saw through it so I know I’m safe. I lay it flat on the road first and kneel down to have a look. Nothing’s sticking out, and that’s good. He’s not bleeding either. Another plus. I drag the blanket slowly over him. He’s still rubbernecking, but only panting now and looking at me because the truck is well on its way. His eyes ask, “What are we going to do now?”
I’ve got to scoop him up and get. I’m due in Anna at 3:00 tomorrow afternoon, and if I hang here, I’ll be late. So I slide my arms under him, and he’s singing again. He’s about sixty pounds, and I gain more respect for my buddy, Pete, the firefighter, as I try to one-arm it in the Mack with Sister Irene doing the bicycle and trying to take my manhood away. Two scrambling gouges, one from the left and the other from the right painfully inform me that his legs are not broken. I have to squeeze his very bruised middle to keep him from flipping back onto the road. One more step, and we’re in the cab.
And I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.
Left and right brain are working against one another here, and that inner clock’s telling me my load of frozen chickens has to be on time. Always, always, that schedule. No wonder I chain smoke.
First thing he does is head for the side of the bunk and curl up with his tail between his legs, head craning toward me as it did toward the truck. Since my behind is planted firmly in the seat and we’re rolling now, he figures it’s okay to relax and help himself to the second Twinkie from a package I opened earlier. Ten minutes later, he’s snoring, and I start thinking.
