You downshift as you come around the bend, letting your jake brake clatter like a jackhammer as you decelerate. You hit the gas again and cut the noise a hundred yards before the speed limit sign ordering you to slow to 55, and pass the cop running radar as you pass the NO ENGINE BRAKING sign triumphantly. Once out of the small town’s city limits, you accelerate again, upshift, and keep driving your load of consumer electronics to its distributor.
You glance over at the passenger seat. Bandit, your green and blue pet fluffy, is staring out the windscreen with fascination, watching the scenery and cars as usual. His little trucker hat with his name on it is perched on his head; you cut out little sections for his ears, which are twitching as he listens to the muffled roar of the engine. His hearing is a little better than yours in certain ranges, and once he noticed a belt starting to come loose before you did. Most of the time his hearing is a little worse than yours though; it’s only on certain frequencies that he enjoys an advantage over you.
You’re a truck driver, and Bandit is your road buddy. He keeps you entertained as you drive long hours on the road, chatting with you, playing road games (he can’t read, but he recognizes which state most of the non-generic license plates are from and plays the license plate game with you, as well as I Spy, Punch Buggy, and others.), and generally just being a good pet and companion. He scratches an itch and you hear his tags jangle; you bought him a collar with tags just in case he got loose and ran away or got lost. They have his name, your address, your cell number, and the promise of a cash reward on one, and the other has your semi-truck’s description and license plate on it and another promise of a cash reward. You don’t want to lose your little trucker buddy.
You glance at the clock on the dash; you’re making good time. You just hope the weather stays clear.
“Hey Bandit, why don’t you ask what the weather’s like?”
“Otay!”
You grab the mike for your CB radio, key it, and hold it near his face.
“Bweakew, wun-nine! Dis am Wed Wocket, uh…”
“Northbound on 95.”
“Nowfboun un ninety-fife. Wat is da weffew wike, ofuh!”
You unkey the mike and wait for a response. You love using the call sign ‘Red Rocket’; Bandit has no idea what it means and you think it’s hilarious.
“Hey there, good buddy! This is Southern Yankee, headed southbound on 95, just past the Hokum exit. Weather’s good, free and clear. No rain.”
You hold the mike in front of Bandit again.
“Otay, gud ta know! Fank yoo, mista! Gots a smokey wepowt?”
The other trucker chuckles into his microphone.
“Not a problem, little guy. Tell the guy driving next to you there’s a bear in the grass on the northbound lane, north side of Hokum.”
You nod and Bandit speaks into the mike, “Wiww du, fanks mista!”
“10-10. Good driving.”
You hang the mike up and give Bandit a scratch on his back.
‘Bear in the grass’ is trucker lingo for a cop running radar on the side of the road. You glance at the speedometer and slow down a little as you approach Hokum.
Aw, crap. There’s a sign that says ALL TRUCKS MUST EXIT AT NEXT WEIGH STATION WHEN LIGHT IS FLASHING. The light on the sign is flashing.
“Looks like we got another weigh station, buddy.”
Bandit lays down on the seat and sighs, resigned to his fate.
“Bandit hate weigh stay-shun, daddeh.”
“I know. Cost of living, and all that. Why don’t you crawl in the back and play with your blocks while we wait?”
Without another word, your fluffy goes into the sleeper section of the cab and pulls his blocks out of the mesh net on the back of his seat and starts stacking them.
You drum your fingers on the wheel as you exit and see the long line of trucks waiting their turn at the weigh station.
“Greeeeaaat.”
You check your GPS and nod. You need the next exit. You already knew that, having planned your route out before you ever hit the road and checking your map every morning before starting the truck up, but you like to keep the GPS handy as a backup; it’s a lot handier than digging out a map and trying to read it and keep your eyes on the road at the same time.
“Daddeh, Bandit nee make poopies.”
“Can’t you use your litter box?”
“Witta bawx fuww.”
Geez, already? You put fresh litter in it last night!
“Ok, we’re gonna pull into a truck stop soon, can you wait until then?”
He nods, but is starting to look a little antsy. You keep a close eye on him in case he has an accident; he usually tries to make it to the litter box, even if it’s full and nasty, but sometimes it sneaks up on him.
You start braking as you take the exit, spot your intended destination, and signal to turn into the truck stop.
Some dumbass in a Prius cuts you off and decides that going 30 in a 55 with a semi-truck still doing highway speeds right behind him is a good idea.
“BASTARD MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT ASSHOLE SON OF A BITCH COCK SUCKING CHILD MOLESTING DOG RAPING ANAL FISTING SEMEN SWILLING SPOOGE SLURPING DEMOCRATIC VOTING IGNORANT PISS DRINKING THUNDER CUNT!”
You lock the wheels and somehow, by the grace of God, manage not to rearend the dipshit and turn him into road pizza. Your trailer jack-knifes as it tries to keep going, decelerating slower than the cab, and nearly takes out a pickup truck in the other lane. You get it under control and pull into the truck stop, sweating and heart racing. The stupid son of a bitch in the Prius is still going down the access road at 30, completely oblivious to his near brush with death and the fatal collision you barely avoided.
“BUDDHA FUCKING MOHAMMED ON A POGO STICK!”
You pull into a space and stare out the windscreen, panting, trying to will your heart to slow down. Bandit is staring at you with huge eyes, whispering, “Daddeh say bad wowds…”
You finally release your death grip on the steering wheel, shut off the engine, and lean back. Geez, that was close!
Then the smell hits you.
“Uh…”
“Bandit nu nee go poopies nu mowe.”
“Shit.”
“Sowwy, daddeh. Bandit scawed.”
You ruffle his mane reassuringly.
“It’s ok, little guy. It’s not your fault.”
“Daddeh otay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, daddy’s ok. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
It takes a bunch of spray cleaner and paper towels to clean up the mess on the vinyl seat, and half a box of baby wipes to clean Bandit’s rear end and hind legs, but you manage to get the mess cleaned up and toss the whole thing in Bandit’s reeking litter box, the contents of which are dumped into a trash can near the gas pump. Hmmm. You’re gonna need to buy new litter after you drop off the trailer and start heading back with whatever they need you to ship home. And an air freshener for the cab.
You set the litter box back in the cab and let Bandit out to stretch his legs for a minute before setting him back in the cab.
“Be a good fluffy and wait, ok? Daddy’s gonna get us some nummies.”
“Yaaaay!”
You shut the door and start walking across the parking lot to the glowing convenience store. Distracted by your cell phone as you text your boss letting him know you’ve stopped for the night and where you’re at, you’re startled by a high pitched voice coming from your left.
“Nice mista gif nummies? Fwuffy su hungwy!”
You look over by the dumpster and there’s an orange feral peeking around the corner, ready to run if you come after it.
“Hey there! What’s your name?”
“Fwuffy… fwuffy dun haf name.”
Yup. Feral. You could tell just by looking at it, but you want to make sure it isn’t somebody’s pet before you do what you’re about to do.
“So you’re hungry?”
“Yus! Fwuffy su hungwy! Dewe nummies in big gween bawx, but fwuffy nu can weach!”
You bend down to its level and gently pat your leg. It waffles for a moment, then trots over, hoping you’ll feed it. You scratch its ears and get a peek at its rear end; it’s a mare. Good.
“Tell you what, sweetie, I’ll make you a deal.”
“Deaw?”
“Right. I’ll do something for you, if you do something for me.”
“Whu du?”
“I have a fluffy in my truck. If you give him special huggies, I’ll give you nummies and other nice things. How does that sound?”
“Nummies?!” She gets excited and nods enthusiastically. You want to make sure she understands what you expect of her and isn’t just agreeing to something without paying attention, too focused on food.
“Right. I’ll give you nummies, but only if you give special huggies to my fluffy. Ok?”
You can see the gears grinding in her little head, but she finally agrees.
“Otay. Fwuffy gif speshow huggies if nice mista gif nummies!”
“Great. Come with me then.”
You grab some stuff from the cab, then walk over to the men’s room, feral fluffy trailing you the whole way. She’s hesitant to enter the small room with you, but follows you in anyway.
She screams and cries the whole time you bathe her in the sink with the flea-and-tick shampoo, but once she’s rinsed off and you’ve got her mostly dry (her fluff was thick enough you had to use the blow dryer on the wall AND the small towel you grabbed), she’s calmed down and is just sniffling.
“There, see? Isn’t that better? Now you’re all clean and smell pretty.”
She sniffles, raises a hoof so she can sniff it, then nods, reluctantly replying, “Fwuffy smeww pwetty.”
She raises another fuss when you put a disposable flea collar around her neck, but settles down when you tell her it’s magic and will keep the ‘itchies’ away for her. Then you set her down and lead her back to the truck.
“Haf nummies nao?”
“Not yet. You still have to give special huggies, remember?”
She sniffles again and nods. You have to admit, she’s one of the nicest lot lizards you’ve ever encountered.
Opening the door, you interrupt Bandit as he stacks his blocks and gesture for him to come to you. Smiling, you tell him, “Hey Bandit! There’s somebody out here who wants to see you!”
He knocks his trucker hat off and topples his blocks by flailing his hooves excitedly and climbs over the seat to get to you. He knows what that means. You lift him up, then gently set him on the asphalt where the orange mare is waiting.
“Pwetty mawe. Smeww pwetty too. Mawe wan speshow huggies wif Bandit?”
“O-otay.”
She turns around and lifts her tail. Bandit immediately mounts her and starts making those weird “enf” grunts as he thrusts. The mare isn’t as into it as he is, but she eventually relaxes and goes with it, mewing in pleasure.
You smile and give your buddy some privacy, pulling out your tire thumper and checking all your tires. You do this for him at least once on every trip, sometimes twice, coming and going (heh, coming.). Considering the fact that you drive loads all over the US, plus a couple trips to Canada and one to Mexico, Bandit has probably spread his genes over a broader geographic area than any fluffy pony alive.
“Enf enf enf GUD FEEEEEEWS! Eh!”
You come back around the truck to find the two fluffies hugging each other and panting for breath. The feral mare looks up at you, clearly expecting you to cheat her now, and asks, “Nummies, pwease? Fwuffy du wat nice mista say.”
“Yup! Nummies for everyone!”
You set Bandit back in the cab so nobody messes with him and tell the orange feral to wait under the trailer while you go inside the truck stop. You return a few minutes later with some cheap canned spaghetti in paper bowls and give one to each fluffy. The mare devours it hungrily, only stopping to thank you afterward. Hmmm. If she’s that hungry… What the hell. You go back inside and nuke another bowl of spaghetti for her, then give her one of Bandit’s chewy fluffy vitamins; he thinks they’re treats. She does too. Can’t let the mother of your buddy’s children starve, can you?
You activate a disposable hand warmer and stick in the fluff on her back and she moans in pleasure at the warmth oozing from it.
“There you go, little girl. That’ll help you stay warm tonight.”
“N-nice mista?”
“Yes?”
“Wiww… wiww yoo be nyu daddeh fow fwuffy?”
Damn. You hate this question. A lot of the ferals you let Bandit hump couldn’t give a shit less and just want food, vacating the premises as soon as they’ve been fed (you learned quickly to never pay them before they did the deed), but others are like this one.
“Sorry sweetie, I don’t have room for two fluffies in my truck.” Especially fluffies with foals.
She wilts in disappointment and nods, trudging wearily into the darkness beyond the parking lot, headed for whatever den or cardboard box she was living in. You call after her.
“Hey! Come back in the morning as soon as it’s light and I’ll give you some more nummies, ok?”
“Otay. Fank yoo, nice mista.”
You climb into the cab, lay down in the sleeper section, and snuggle up with Bandit. The two of you watch Smokie and the Bandit on your laptop (it’s your favorite movie, and the source of Bandit’s name) and then turn the light off and go to sleep, listening to the rumble of trucks on the highway.
The next morning, the orange feral doesn’t return. Not wanting to ask yourself why, you and Bandit eat breakfast, you let him pop a squat in the grass next to the parking lot and get some exercise rolling a ball around under your close supervision, then pop him back in the cab and perch his trucker hat on his head.
The engine roars into life, Bandit’s ears twitching, and you ease up to the pumps so you can top off. You should arrive at your destination early tomorrow morning. Maybe the orange mare will be there when you stop here again on your way back. You’ll give her some more spaghetti and a fluffy vitamin if she is.
Fuel tanks filled, oil checked, and engine running smoothly, you put the truck into gear.
“Ok, let’s hit the road!”
“Pway moosic, daddeh?”
“10-4, good buddy!”
You hit play on the ancient cassette deck and the speaker system in the cab roars to life.
“Sorry trucker, but you can’t go back! They just hit Chicago with a sneak attack! L.A. and ‘frisco are nothin’ but great big holes! I don’t know about you, but I can take it, my rig’s wound up and I’m gonna make it, to the truck stop! At the end of the world!”
Commander Cody rules.
Checking traffic, you ease out onto the road and head for the highway onramp.
Another beautiful day, watching the road pass under your wheels. Bandit watches the world go by out the window, and you gently lean over and stroke his back.
Yeah. You love the road.
