In Part 1, we narrowly avoided a debate about the best bullets for dispatching a neighbour’s pesky cats. Nine mm vs 22’s, you pick. We escaped into the truck bling on display at the World’s Largest Truckstop, but then this strange encounter actually happened.
A large, 60-ish lady materialized beside the rack of sheepskin covers for truck seats. She bore a scary resemblance to Large Marge of Pee Wee Herman fame.
“You like them sheepskins?” she asked me.
“Um, sure,” I replied.
“My little doggie had one of her own. Just threw ‘er in the washing machine and she come out real nice.”
Dog or sheepskin?
“And you know what?” The lady stroked the sheepskin fondly. “The day she died, her sheepskin fell apart. Put it in the washing machine and it turned into this big lump of fuzz.”
“Interesting,” I said, edging away.
“She was a good dog. A Pomeranian. A real good dog. Cute, too. Except when she didn’t get her beer. When I come home off the road after driving my rig, she’d be right there waiting for me. And if I didn’t give her that pint of beer right away, she’d be on my leg, growling, biting till she got it. Man, she loved her beer.”
“That’s nice,” I said, edging away further, but the lady stuck with us.
“She was a good dog. Why when she died, I just laid her out in the back of my truck. Hadda leave her there for three days but she never smelled. Not one bit. She was a good dog.”
“Probably pickled,” Ed whispered. By now we’d worked our way past the chrome exhaust pipes.
“That’s, um, sad you lost your dog,” I said. “But we’ve really got to get back on the road. We’re doing another two hundred miles today”
“Hadda funeral for her,” the trucker continued, undeterred. “Buried her in the back yard. My son helped and you know, while he was digging her grave, all the cats and dogs round our place turned up. Stood there watching, paying their respects.”
“Imagine.” We’d reached the shelves full of Doulton figurines.
“I couldn’t just leave her. Had to do right by my little doggie. So I buried a 6-pack of beer with her. My son was real mad, thought it was a waste a’ beer, but she was a good dog. Least I could do for her.”
“Of course, best thing.” We neared the ceramic eagles and John Wayne memorabilia.
“Got me a new dog now. Another Pom. Keeps my husbint in line.”
“That’s nice. We really have to go. We’re Canadian. Bye.” We fled into the parking lot.
“Well, that was weird,” Ed said, starting the Miata. “Care to bet how long that 6-pack of beer stayed buried.”
No I wouldn’t.
To quote Max Bialystock in The Producers: They all come here. How do they find me?