Shotgun

Not too many folks want to ride in my pickup. It runs pretty well, and for the most part, is clean and respectable.

The problem is the nearly impenetrable layer of mud/dirt/bug/dog drool coating the passenger side of the vehicle. You see, my dog Snorp is lapping up Nirvana when, with ears flapping in the wind, he’s riding shotgun with his head out of the window.

When he was a puppy, standing on his hind legs, he could barely get his tiny paws to the window, and strained mightily to get the tip of his nose into the wind. The seat still bears the stains of those strains, and on hot, humid summer mornings, it’s obvious that there is still some lingering aromatic evidence.

These days, Snorp needs a little boost to make inside the cab, and has learned to press the button to lower the window. He’s not bad working the air conditioning, and has mastered the CD player and GPS. His musical taste tends to run pretty fast in the Hip Hop lane, and he needs the tunes cranked up as loud as possible.

So, there we are, cruisin’ the back roads of South Benton County, just a dog and his nearly deaf chauffeur, livin’ large and trawlin’ for Snorp’s ladies.

Snorp employs a drool ration in direct proportion to the pickup’s speed. Normally, I like to keep it under the speed limit, but have been known to power up on occasion. Last summer, in an attempt to pass a log truck, we hit 75 mph. Things were going well until I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the log truck sliding, the logs tumbling and a thick, enormous, gelatinous strands of dog drool pouring off the back of my pickup.

Someone should put warning stickers on dogs who drool enough
to make a log truck lose traction.

Once we passed the truck, I turned onto the first side road available. I needed to put some distance between us and what was to be later termed the “Highway 99 West Drool Pool.”

 Unrepentant and unaware as ever, Snorp pulled his head in long enough to say, “Getting’ a little dry over here, Boss. What say we hit the Alpine Tavern for a cold one?”

I had to remind Snorp that he was no longer welcome at the Tavern, due to the unfortunate and unwarranted pepperoni pizza incident, and the ensuing eye-watering, gas attack/evacuation it generated.

He said the nearest mud puddle or toilet would suffice to quench his sudden and unexplained thirst.

Did I mention how much Snorp sheds?

Bales.

I can no longer use the vacuum cleaners at Delbert’s All-Day Car Wash. I guess excessive amounts of dog hair tend to wreak havoc on vacuum motors. I’ve come to believe that Snorp sheds enough hair each month to knit a new dog. I explored the options of selling everything he sheds, and was shocked to find how truly weak the dog hair market is in this country.

Not long ago, I felt the vague and unfamiliar stirrings common to the urge of buying a new pickup. The good folks down at the Chevy dealership said they weren’t interested in my rig as a trade-in. Surprisingly, the Ford folks and Marv, of Marvin’s Quality Imports, steered away from any interest in a trade-in. Both Good Will and St. Vinny's also opted out.

Marv took me aside and told me that the passenger side crust was a little scary, and suggested I tidy it up a bit and bring it back.

The hose didn’t work.

The brush didn’t work.

The putty knife didn’t work.

The chisel broke.

The pressure washer didn’t work.

The media blaster didn’t work.

Finally, after burning up my new Home Depot Belt Sander and going through 11 belts, I came to understand I was keeping the truck.

Snorp still cruises, looking for the ladies. I still chauffeur him, and a new layer of gel coats the side of the pickup daily.

I’m rethinking my anti-cat stand.