Saki in November
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }
-->
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. I'm sure you know what that means, coming from me. As such, it's pretty much a given that you'll find all kinds of sexual stuff, including zoophilia, fondling, trucking, loneliness, wishful thinking and nostalgia. If this stuff isn't your cup of joe, go to Starbucks and don't worry your pretty little head. If you want to hear a precious memory, keep on reading. But don't forget to paw if you feel the itch! This story was INSPIRED BY real-life events, but it is still fiction. It is up to you to decide what is real and what is not.
Saki in November ©2007, 2008 Whyte Yoté
Do you ever wonder why the most amazing things happen in the most unusual places? Or why some of the most amazing things aren't the earth-shattering revelations the media and society would have us believe? You don't have to be in tune with a god, or gods, or nature, to experience something truly beautiful in the middle of your banal, neutral life. Providence does not favor wealth, or luck, or good deeds. In fact, Providence is often more capricious than the God we purport to know and love and worship. I don't believe in coincidence, but I do believe in fate.
If you look closely, when you're traveling along a certain stretch of road in the Pacific Northwest, you'll see one of my most precious memories. You won't be able to make the connection, of course, because you're not the one who experienced what I did in this out-of-the-way, forgotten corner of rural Washington state.
It is mind-blowing, the way things work these days. Everything is so interconnected and organized, scheduled and rigid. The world of commercial trucking is not so much, really, and any trucker you ask will give you the same answer as I. You can plan as closely as you can, as logically as possible, but Real Life is a bitch about messing up even the best of the best-laid. Big-box stores run on an endless supply of scheduling and close-calling, and their network of transportation and deliveries is nothing short of staggering. I am a part of this machine.
The area around south central Washington is a varied and unforgiving landscape. Just shy of the dense Idaho forests on one side, a vast expanse of irrigated plains on the other, the land south and east of Yakima is a pretty drive. In the summer. When it's sunny summer. But when Winter decides to rear its ugly head, sometimes as early as late August, that pretty route can become a total hell, even for experienced professionals like me.
When you're coming from Spokane, westbound over I-90, you hit a lot of flat fields. And that's good for gas mileage, if you can stand blowing snow and wind so biting you can feel it on your fur through the gap in the door handle. You either keep the heat blowing at full blast or you watch the ice creep up the glass. I'm fighting that wind, have been since I entered the state, but if I'm going to get to my home hub I don't exactly have my pick of routes.
Not the way this weather's working. I've got smooth jazz piping through the stereo, in high definition no less, but when you're in a vehicle almost fourteen feet tall you tend to hear the wind no matter what speed you're at. I've got nothing to watch, because it's been dark since five o'clock, so all I have is the saxophone and bass and soft lead vocals of a woman who sounds absolutely beautiful. Like a mink, maybe. Who am I to judge species, though? I could talk to you, and you wouldn't guess I'm a German shepherd. Voice too smooth, timbre too even, something. But I am. All you have to do is look at me.
My Peterbilt gives a shudder; I look in my mirror in time to see the van trailer swing around between the white lines, one broken, one solid. The wind is switching direction to the north. Toggling on my map lights, which flood the cabin in a darkroom-level red, I check my digital inside/outside thermometer, stationed up in the left corner of the windshield. It's reading seventeen degrees, which means a real temp of fourteen or so. Thing never worked right, and I never should have expected it to for less than twenty bucks. A north wind will get even colder. I'm glad I have to end my day in half an hour; at least it'll be calmer come morning.
"Saddleback, come back to me, this is Trojan Horse, over." The crackling of static and rough grumble of my current caravan buddy replaces the gentle syncopation of the jazz in my ears, startling me to another level of awareness. I wasn't tired, per se, but most certainly not now. He hasn't said a word for two hours; he must either be low on fuel or tired.
"Trojan Horse, this is Saddleback. What's up, over?" I leave the jazz on to fill the silence in between calls. The sound of a Caterpillar diesel and nothing else can be maddening, especially at the end of a long drive.
"Whatchy'all gon' be doin' here the next twunny miles er so?" Heavy accent, Oklahoman. Norman, I think it was. I can picture his puffy equine lips curling around the drawl.
I think, and look at the time again. I'm on fumes, and I won't make it back to my hub by tonight, not by a long shot. Having predicted where I'd end up, I'm pleased to see I'm only twelve miles behind schedule. No matter though, I'll get to my stop with time to spare.
"I'm ending my day here in about that distance, around Ellensburg. I got a fuel stop there, and I'm spending the night, over."
"Aww, damn you fuckin' dogs," Trojan Horse spits. Truckers aren't known for their manners or reticence to complain without justification. "Y'all're always cuttin' off early! Takin' piss breaks ev'ry six hours 'n shit, think yer all that 'cuz you got all that fuckin' winter fur. I'm gon' be drivin' all night, and yer takin' my draft away!" A pause, wherein I can feel his tension through the handset. "Over."
"Well, if I don't stop I'll be over hours, and you can't control that. Second, you have a bladder three times bigger than mine. Third, not all of us have thick winter fur." In fact, I've got a ski coat in the sleeper for when I have to leave the truck. "Fourth, if you're close enough to catch a draft from me, you're lucky we haven't seen a bear yet. Over." Not all state troopers are bears, but that hasn't kept the term from sticking.
"Fuck you, Saddleback. Didn't need yer fat ass keepin' the wind away anyway. Have fun out in the fuckin' Artic, over." He may sound pissed off, but I've had enough CB conversations that I can tell sarcasm, no matter how transparent it may be.
I can't keep the smile from my muzzle, and pity the next driver he sidles up to for company down the road. "You have yourself a good night, Trojan Horse, and drive safe. Over and out."
"Yeah, you too. Fuckin' out."
I turn off that blasted radio for the remainder of my journey, doubting Trojan Horse will care to start another conversation when I'll just be turning off anyway. The next few miles disappear under my swift wheels, and I'm glad when I see the sign for the I-82 crossing, because just on the other side of that is my respite for the night.
Traffic is sparse during the day on this road, but after sundown there is virtually nothing besides other trucks carrying goods where they need to go, because the economy doesn't stop at the end of the business day. 82 comes and goes, and Canyon Road approaches. Double-clutching into ninth gear, the engine blips up for before decelerating the entire rig. It's a soft curve down off the interstate to Canyon Road, and just on the other side of the overpass I see red neon and a field of sleeping trucks, just like mine will be soon.
It occurs to me that the jazz is a most comforting thing right now. The wind howls just outside, the diesel purrs and grinds around the corner, nothing is quiet. But through it all, there is still the saxophone and the bass and another voice...just as feminine, just as beautiful. I really am curious now as to her species.
The truck stop is not one of the main brands, but an independent operation off the grid. Its showers are clean, the fuel pumps are quick, and they have a machine that makes a killer cappuccino for cold mornings. An oasis in the true sense of the word, it sits just off the highway, surrounded by barren crop fields. In the morning I'll backtrack back to I-82 and head south, to Yakima and further on to Hermiston, Oregon, my home hub. From there they could send me as far as Seattle or Denver or Reno. Big-box stores are everywhere, and their distribution centers cover multiple states. I don't mind; the longer the drive the more I get paid. The fewer stops, the better.
Looks like I won't have to wait long to fuel, or park. The island's four pumps are deserted, piles of dirty ice and snow the only evidence of their previous occupants. I coast up to number four, the far pump with the most wiggle room, and pull both brake knobs, sending a whoosh of dust and steam out from both sides of the cab and trailer. Killing the engine, which lurches to a stop, I swivel around to the sleeper to retrieve that wonderful warm ski coat. It goes on loosely over the T-shirt and jeans I'm wearing, and over that goes a pair of lambskin gloves.
Still, the chill of the air outside seems just as bitter when I descend the catwalk, fuel card in hand. "Jesus." Not so good to have a cold wet nose when the air is freezing it off. The breath out of my muzzle is cloudy, grey, and whips about before disappearing as fast as it was made. In and out goes the fuel card...in goes the info...and I make quick work of inserting the main pump and the satellite in their respective tanks.
As the diesel flows, I find that the window-washer fluid has miraculously not frozen completely. I wrest the squeegee from its icy prison and use it to clean the road grime from my unit number--34587--and IFTA stickers. Miles of snow and slush have just about obliterated them, and if the police can't see them they have an easy reason to pull me over and get me for something worthy of a ticket. The numbers come clear, but as I wick the water away from them it freezes halfway down. As long as they're there, I don't care. I can wash the truck later, in a warmer state.
The pumps click, and I top off each side before replacing them on their cradles. After all is said and done, I only needed half a tank, but it cost almost five hundred dollars. That's what happens when you carry enough fuel to go halfway across the country without stopping. It's not my money, anyway. I have to take one glove off to tear the receipt from the pump, and by the time I replace it my pads are tingling. I'm not looking forward to walking from the showers to the truck with wet fur, but my need is greater than that fear.
I see her as I open the door to the cab, a moving body in the dark reflection of the black paint...barely seen through the caked-on road grime. She trots right on past the front of my rig, nose and tail down, the specter of her breath preceding her. Paying me no mind, but stopping to sniff at the base of a garbage can, she walks on. I pity her with a sudden weightfulness of my heart, and wish her luck. It's going to be a long, cold, difficult night without shelter.
The truck clatters to life in its loud, diesel way. The radio joins the CB in its silence; I'm too cold and tired to care about much else. In my mind's eye I see her; rather, the ghost of her, and I look up in time to catch her in the passenger-side mirror. She is snuffling along the concrete, trying to catch some scent of food among the fuel and oil stains. Pawing at trash cans out of her reach, digging at ground she can't dig up. I shift into first and roll my rig into the parking lot.
In the wintertime, parking is as precious as water in Africa. Lots fill up early in the afternoon and rarely does a trucker leave until well after sunrise the next day. The whole lot, a mass of ice and snow and plowed piles is abuzz with idling engines and generators. Diesel fuel turns to wax at sixteen degrees Fahrenheit, and I'm sure it's already well below that. I imagine that dog's body steaming as she walks, hunting around the pumps. It's not fair.
When I can't find a spot for myself, I have to make one. Resourcefulness is a trucker's best friend, as is opportunism. Spotting a corner as yet uncleared, I roll alongside the drifts of powder and disembark. My boot sinks four inches but finds more parking lot beneath; I can make room for myself.
It takes a good bit of maneuvering, but once I've pulled far enough ahead to get my trailer straight, it's a clear shot backwards using my mirrors. There's a drift about eight feet short of my rig's length, but it's loosely piled. My suspicions are confirmed when I blip the throttle and see the whole pile give way, decimated by the back of my trailer. That's one good thing about large vehicles. The snow acts as a natural back stop and I pull the brakes to settle in for the night.
The temptation to crawl into the womblike warmth of the sleeper bunk and nod off is all but overwhelming. My air conditioner is very effective, in all kinds of weather. I can choose to either freeze in the Mojave Desert in August or bake in Salt Lake City in January, and I've done both. I don't want to shut the truck off and head outside; even ten minutes can leach the heat from the cab. But it's not really a matter of choice. I've gone long enough without a shower, and unless I want to do laundry very soon I would do well to clean myself up before bed.
"Fuck," I growl, as if it'll do some good. My toiletries are all packed in one place, up in one of the high cubbyholes. Taking them down, I grab a clean towel from the opposite side and root around for some boxers and socks. I'm running low on both; looks like I'll have to do laundry anyway. Maybe I'll get a load to Phoenix so I can at least break out my shorts.
I shiver preemptively as I pull the key out of the ignition, the truck doing the same shortly thereafter. There's that silence again, that heavy, ear-filling silence. Everything gets lugged out and set on the catwalk while I lock up.
Even though my winter coat grew in with the progression of fall into winter, it still offers precious little protection against this kind of chill. My breath comes out in thick, hard puffs. In fact, I can hardly breathe. Wonder how people can stand to live like this the whole season long. Shows you how much of a fair-weather guy I am. It's even creeping into my tail.
Speaking of which...
There's a familiar tail wagging very slowly, just at the tip, around the corner from the entrance to the truck stop. I watch it as I walk closer, the cold temporarily forgotten. The dog, The Coldest And Loneliest Dog In The World, is lying down on the ground beside the trash bin. She isn't begging, but she doesn't seem like one to refuse free food, either. As I approach her from behind, she tilts her head and gives me this look, the look of a dog waiting and hoping for something, anything, even if it's not food, then just companionship.
I find myself bending before I have time to think about it. She stands as I go to my knees, and unabashedly shoves her snout into mine in the age-old greeting. Cold and wet is better than warm and dry, at least in noses, and hers tells me she's at least healthy.
"Hi there," I scratch her forehead between the ears, and she pants a bit, clouding the air between us. "What's your name?" I suppose I'll never know, because my hand searches her neck but finds no collar and no tag. She does belong so somebody, though, because my claws glide through her luxurious coat with ease. Well-groomed and well-behaved, an owner somewhere is missing their pet very badly. No matter how they became separated, no one deserves this, owner or pet.
"What a pretty dog," says a voice, and I look up to see a vixen, around her mid-twenties, about to enter the civilian portion of the truck stop, the one on the gasoline side. She's got on a puffer jacket with fur lining the cuffs and hood, but her legs are bare. I'd like to see her do that in twenty years. "Where'd you get her?"
"She's not mine," I admit, feeling a bit warmer at the thought of having her in my truck, as my driving companion. But she doesn't belong to me. She belongs to no one at the moment, which is frustrating to no end.
The vixen's face turns down. "Oh God, she's out here lost in the cold? Poor thing." And she walks right on by me, fishing a credit card out of her purse to prepay for a tank of gas. I bet she'll have no trouble going to sleep tonight. I envy her; the first time I saw that dog I knew I wouldn't be.
"Who do you belong to, huh?" She tilts her head in a sweet kind of ignorance and pants out steam, seeming to smile a little in that way dogs can do. I realize that we're both wagging in unison, and quell my tail so as not to appear too weird. A dog person at heart, I have a soft spot for German shepherds, for obvious reasons. And this creature is a beautiful specimen. I'm sorry to leave her, starting to shiver, but the showers will close if I don't beat feet. "Maybe I'll see you on my way out?"
No answer, not even a noncommittal "arf." She is surprisingly silent. I pat her head a couple more times and open the door to be met by a wall of warm air. I feel instantly guilty.
Inside, the place is quiet, a kind of anti-truck stop. Then again, this is no Flying J either. That's on the other side of the highway. It's that time of night, too, where the parking lot is full of men and women snoozing the winter night away in warm comfort.
To my right sits the counter, littered here and there with outdated cassette tapes, novelty lighters, and cigarillos. Shelves of snacks and over-the-road essentials fill out the floor to my left, with cold cases and a slushie machine along the far wall. Showers down a central hallway, all three of them. Two lotto machines around a corner to the right, presumably bingo or digital poker or some such. A big, garish neon sign says "Saks Restaurant" behind a fat, lonely-looking raccoon seated at the near machine. It's closed for the night.
I shoulder my bag, its weight ponderous and saggy, and sidle up to the counter. "I remember you," says the lady (Carla, her name tag tells me) porcupine behind the counter, with all the charm and grace of a runaway Mack. "Seattle to Cheyenne, about three weeks ago."
"Good memory," I reply. That had been a long run, an emergency run. Driver goes postal, drops trailer halfway to Wyoming. Pick it up and get it there, bar none. Double pay. Sure thing; I don't mind.
"That, and you got that mark on yer face." Carla's smile is full of smoke stains but smells of vanilla, and I'm glad for it. I put a finger to my muzzle, tracing the black streak on the right side. My fox-mark, I call it. I shrug. "You in for the night?"
My shoulder barks out a protest, and I lean the bag over the counter's edge to give myself a break. "In for it, and good. Too damn cold to drive overnight. Plus I'm at my eleven."
Carla nods. "Good a reason as any."
"You got a shower you can give me?"
"You got a card?"
I answer by digging out my wallet from a back pocket and presenting my membership card, a flimsy piece of stock I laminated for its own good way back when I first got it.
"Fancy," the porcupine takes it in her thick fingers.
"I should have a gimme on that."
"Yup, that ya do." My number goes into the system, and out comes a receipt with a code. Carla matches the shower number on the receipt to a key with the same. "Have fun," she says, and winks at me. This is by no means a dive, but she's cleaned up the showers often enough to know what goes on when lonely truckers get private time with a bar of soap. Do it too often in your truck and you get to smelling something fierce. I've also had my share. I return the wink with full honesty, and she doesn't hold it against me.
I can't help but ask the obvious question: "Does that dog out there belong to anybody?"
Carla turns around and looks out the window as if she hasn't noticed the dog until now, just ten feet behind her on the other side of the plate glass. "Dunno, hun. Been there for a little bit before you came in. No collar, huh?"
"Nope."
"She belongs to somebody. Coat's too nice for a stray." I nod my agreement and thank the woman. It pains me to walk away.
* * *
I don't see the practicality of a door-lock system for which I have to press a four-digit code into a pad and insert a key, but I smile every time. It's one of those things that makes you want to come back to a certain place, because that place has something different from all the others and it stands out in your mind. It's like a mild homecoming, a little taste of the familiar that makes an otherwise long trip seem that much shorter.
The scent of chlorine and lemon fills my nose, yet another unmistakable homecoming. Freshly-cleaned bathroom, not a speck of dirt anywhere. Much better than my company's terminals, where a cleaning crew of immigrants who don't know the first thing about the English language sweep through once a day with Windex and urinal cakes.
The bathroom reeks of generic Seventies, but without the taint of stagnation. Plain white tile with plain white grout lines the walls and floor without a trace of calcium. White sink, white toilet, white changing bench, with incidental hooks and shelves in random yet convenient places. There's even a card on the sink (THIS BATHROOM CLEANED BY STEVE HOW'D I DO?) with a little Hershey's Kiss. The candy is new. I like it. It's gone immediately.
I yawn while I bend to start the shower warming; it's most likely fed by an ancient water heater. Such a feeling of freedom to get out of my road-weary clothes and stretch, naked, in the middle of a room rapidly filling with steam.
Swiping my hand across the fogged mirror, I see a tired dog looking back at me. Not tired as in weary-tired, just fatigued. I'll be the first to admit life on the road isn't kind to the body, whether you're a rail or a lardass. They say you can tell a successful trucker by the size of his crows' feet. I've got plenty of those, but the majority are from smiling, not from squinting into one too many sunrises or sunsets. That fox mark is just as dark as it's always been, but I got some grey creeping in just behind my nosepad. And some extra bulk around the middle. I don't mind it, though, when I can put that weight behind me while pulling on a stubborn fifth-wheel pin.
I idly scratch my sheath, like a smoker would mimick his two-finger carry to his mouth. Got one of those itches from sitting too long, nothing more, but it reminds me of a hitchhiker I picked up years ago in Missouri. Young kid, said he was running away from a broken home. Needed to get to KC. Managed to give me fleas along the way, just sitting in the passenger seat for four hours. That was a bitch and a half to get rid of.
Rubbing my temples, I see her in my own face, and it is so sudden it startles me. It's a matter of coloration and species only, but it's enough to remind me. She's probably still sitting out there, watching the empty pumps. It takes a bit of doing to shake off the guilt as I step into the water, soaking and warming me from head to toe. I let out something between a whimper and a moan, but not too loud. Tile or not, walls are thinner than you think.
Shower times for truckers are a most prized privilege. Why else would truck stops charge ten bucks for one, if demand wasn't high? It's a time of personal reflection, of private pleasure, of homesickness and renewal. That the floor of this space has seen thousands of emptied testicles doesn't bother me in the least. The principal applies to construction workers and portable toilets: you paw off, knowing you're sharing a camaraderie with your fellow men. Kind of a high-school locker room bonding, without your teammates ogling your junk.
But the best part, by far, is the unlimited hot water. To feel that heat soaking through a thick winter coat, is better than hot chocolate. Almost better than sex...but not quite. Emptying my bladder is almost an afterthought.
For a while I do sit there, paused in the middle of the world, devoid of thought. It's a blissful experience. But water alone will not wash the filth out of fur. I take my time with the shampoo, applying it liberally and scrubbing everywhere. I do it twice, with a thorough rinse in between. Nice scent of bergamot and cedar wood, complements my natural musk without overpowering it. Conditioner stays in for a few minutes, during which I stroke myself to a half-erection. Not many people invest in sheath cleaners, but just because I ride the roads doesn't mean I can't be clean. A nice alkaline solution over my length and inside my sheath does wonders, and I get a few enjoyable moments out of the cleaning.
The trip from shower to towel rack isn't so bad, thanks to a liberal amount of residual steam, but even the hottest of water can't stay that way very long. I try to towel dry quickly and brush even quicker before the shivers take over. Shortly I'm fully dressed again, and feeling almost like I never took a shower at all. Except for some incredibly soft fur; that's always a pleasant side effect. I make quick work of my teeth, resisting the occasional shiver.
Coming out of the room is like the end of an afterglow. The rest of the heat is sucked from my fur by the dry air in the hallway, and by the time I drop the key back in Carla's box I'm...well...normal again. It's much too soon for me.
"Feel better?" The question seems designed to antagonize me, but I know I can't take it that way.
"I was, until I had to get out."
"That's how it goes." I grunt back and make my way to the door.
She's right there. Just a few feet behind the newspaper bin, lying down with her chin over her paws, eyes open, puffs of breath coming out her nose in twin geysers. I'm starting to get pissed off seeing her like this.
"Hey there," I say, kneeling down beside her again, just as automatic as before. She lifts her head to meet my hand, and seems to enjoy the skritches behind her ears. They're dangerously cold. Her nose has dried some.
Suddenly Carla's head appears above the newspaper bin. "I meant to tell ya, I paged for the owner of that dog while you were in the shower. Nobody came." My heart sinks a little further at this, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. This beautiful bitch wouldn't be sitting out here this long without good reason.
"Thanks, I appreciate that."
"No problem." Carla shivers and disappears again, back into her comfortable, temperature-controlled world. I'm getting one of those ugly feelings, one of those that makes clear how horrible and ironic and unfortunate life can be sometimes. It's the kind of feeling you're supposed to ignore after a few pitiful seconds, and then forget as you walk away from whatever or whomever was giving you the feeling in the first place. There are moments when I envy those who can turn a callous blind eye to that feeling, because it would save me the trouble of caring for things out of my control.
But I can't. I can't turn this off. This dog is looking up at me, glad for a warm touch on her frozen ears, her eyes still full of life but squinted against the cold air. Compared to her, I must seem warm and toasty; in fact, I don't feel much of the cold at all while kneeling down next to her. She angles her head against my palm as I pet her with broad strokes.
"What do you want?" I whisper, her ears perking though I doubt she understands what I'm saying. Scent and tone are universal, but language is not. It's clear what she needs, but she can no more communicate what she wants than I can tap dance in steel-toed boots. She raises her nose, beckoning me to bend to her, and as we touch pads an electric shock rips through me...albeit brief. Her nose is now hot and dry, so unnaturally hot and dry. She can't stay out here.
"Don't go away, girl," I assure her with pats on her back. "I'll think of something. God dammit." It's not just about this poor dog left out here in the cold; it's the inadvertent injustice of the whole damn system. However she got here, whoever left her or forgot her, doesn't matter. They are all part of a flawed structure, one that does not take care of its weakest members but leaves them to rot in their financial, mental and physical poverty. This might be an overstatement, but from a broad societal perspective it's a rather accurate description.
I have to take care not to shove the door into the magazine rack as I reenter the truck stop. Carla looks up as I turn away from her; I can feel her eyes on me as I make a beeline for the refrigerated case at the rear of the store. Beer on the left, then wine coolers, soft drinks, dairy, tea, and then the sandwiches and lunch meat. When I spot the package I want--a mix of bologna, turkey and roast beef--a wash of relief comes over me so strongly that I didn't realize I had been almost panicked up until this point. Self-conscious now, I open the case and take out two of the packages.
Carla doesn't feign disinterest when I come up to the counter. She stares and she knows it. "Take it those aren't for you, hon?" she says as she's ringing me up before I even get there.
"What do you think?" I hear myself growl, catch it and whine a retraction. "Somebody's gotta feed her; she's prob'ly starved out there. You have any water?"
"Right back there in the case, next to the--"
"No, not cold water. Stuff in storage, room temperature stuff. Easier to drink." Carla starts to give me a look of mild derision, but something she sees in my face makes her think again.
"How many bottles?"
"Three."
"Gimme a minute." She's back with the water, and a freshly washed-out bowl from the employee break room, in no time. The bowl is something I had not thought about, and I thank her for the help. She rings me up with either humility or passivity, and for whatever reason, is pretty quiet about it. I think there's a mutual understanding between the two of us regarding the dog. No need for further words.
After thanking Carla once again, my arms full, I go back out to her. Same place, same position, curious eyes. For a dog without a leash, she is surprisingly still; the worry in my gut intensifies at the prospect of a more serious problem than mere hunger and thirst. If it is such, it's out of my control, but I can do what I'm able to in the moment.
She sniffs at the bowl when I set it down, and starts to quiver when I pull out one, then two, bottles of relatively warm water. For the first time I hear a whine, very small but not insubstantial, come from somewhere within her torso. It's a good sign, and one that she knows what's going on. Her tongue darts out and flicks at bits of the flow, splashing some of it outside the bowl. Those small droplets freeze shortly after hitting the ground.
One bottle, then two, and the bowl is brimming with liquid. Still lying down, neck extended, she drinks greedily but controlledly, as if she herself knows overdoing it will make her sick. I stroke along her back, claws extended, encouraging her to get her fill, there's more if she wants it. Before the bowl goes dry, however, she slows and eventually stops, licking her lips and panting, looking more like a real dog than I've seen yet. By the way she ravaged that water, I'm a bit hesitant to bring out the meat. But if I don't, no one else will, and I'll have spent good money on meat I'm not really hungry for at the moment.
So out it comes, its bright red and yellow packaging a stark contrast to the rest of this drab night in middle Washington. Once again she's curious, following the package with those dark, intelligent eyes of hers. I tear off the seal strip, and use my claws to peel the resealable tabs from one another. The thing rips open along its entire length, and the smell hits me immediately. Having just brushed my teeth, it's not the most welcome of smells, but the dog seems to think differently. She shakes her head, snorts twice, and smiles a broad doggy smile, drooling as if she were taught by Pavlov himself. There's no question about whether she knows what I have in my hand.
"I know you're hungry, but you can't gorge yourself, okay?" I caution, as if she would heed my advice if she understood. Her tail is beating a metronomic fury on the trash bin behind her, and she looks to be a moment or two from standing and tackling me. "Settle down, um..." And just now it occurs to me that she is still nameless, at least to me. Far be it from me to name her, when she might belong to someone else. But what do I do, keep calling her "you" and "girl?" Even a name that isn't hers, if spoken in the right tone, is more respectable than some impersonal monosyllabic temporary moniker.
What does she look like, though? Johnny On The Spot I'm not; I can grab chow for a hungry dog at a moment's notice, but ask me to name that dog and I draw a total blank. One hand in the package of meat, a tantalizing tease to even the most patient canine, I look around frantically for inspiration. Truck names are out; nobody names their dog Kenworth...unless they have no life. But there's literally nothing here, besides the truck stop and the restaurant, and nobody would....
I look up toward the restaurant and its awful, vomitous neon color. SAKS, it says, though there should most likely be an apostrophe in there somewhere. Saks, Saks...
"Saki." It's more of a statement than a question. "How about Saki, at least for now? Huh?" She looks at me (or is it the meat she's focused on?), much happier than she was, and cocks her head to one side. "Saki?" She cocks it to the other side. It's too precious not to give her the name. "Alright then, Saki it is." And I pull out a piece of bologna and toss it to her.
Saki snaps it up in her jaws before it reaches zenith, and in less than a second it's down her throat and she's watching me, silently asking for more. I can see the gratefulness in her eyes, though, despite her eager appearance. She doesn't know why a stranger who looks like her, only bipedal, is suddenly feeding and watering her out here in this godforsaken weather, but the fact remains that she's being fed and watered period.
Next comes a slice of roast beef, which disappears just as quickly. "Oh hell, you win," I half-grumble, half laugh as I tear open the package and set it down in front of her, a treat too tempting to resist. She somehow manages to stand up without taking a breath from her meal, and that tail is keeping time stiffly behind her. Watching her like that, I feel a blush creep into my face because I can feel a matching beat behind me, the mark of a lovestruck kid more than an old trucker helping out a defenseless dog on a cold night.
Saki does slow down before the whole shebang goes into her belly, but not by much. I consider feeding her the other package, and decide against it for the sake of avoiding a stomach ache. That much processed meat can't be good for anyone. Saki licks every bit she can off the wrapper, and when she's out of flavor she starts licking on me. After a couple meat-flavored kisses, I've had enough and push her back, petting and skritching the whole way to let her know her gratitude is appreciated. It may be my imagination, but even her coat is looking better. She's awake now, with bright eyes and plenty of energy. It might have been just what she needed...though she's still shivering.
I take the bowl and trash and dispose of the latter, giving the former to Carla and thanking her. One water bottle left, but it would just freeze if I poured it for Saki.
She's still out there, of course. Except now she's not lying down, but sitting on her haunches, attentive and very much awake. I feel warm all over, glad to have done my good deed for the day, and to have made a positive impact on something in this world. I kneel, and she's right there, nuzzling me with a nose both wetter and colder. I nuzzle back, happy to have helped, give her a few parting pats and turn to leave. It's harder than I thought it would be.
That biting wind is directly in my face, putting a chill on my whiskers that feels literally like icicles are forming as my muzzle cuts through my own breath. The roar of combusting diesel fuel and the crunch of superfrozen snow underfoot fill my ears, flat as they are against my head. I can feel her eyes, deep brown and thankful, watching my tail flick her a goodbye between my knees.
I have to give myself credit for making it halfway to the truck before I feel the tears. They are unforgivably, bitingly harsh as they pool, then break away to stream twin trails down each side of my face.
"God dammit..." I hawk back and spit the rest of my emotion into the snow, wiping my gloves across my eyes. And when I turn, she's still looking. Doesn't want anything, doesn't have anything to say. Just looking. Fuck.
This can't happen.
You know, you go through your life, getting old, and you watch shit happen to you almost every day. I'll be the first to admit that people are essentially assholes when it really comes down to it, and even I can't escape that paradigm. From the road to the mall to walking down the sidewalk, the days of good will and chivalry are long gone. You look out for number one and then maybe your family, but it doesn't go much farther than that.
And then you leave a fucking dog out in the cold to freeze to death. But that's not entirely fair, because I don't know how Saki ended up here. I only know that she is here, over there, on the edge of that concrete slab with wet lips and a full belly and a look that's begging and coy and dull and gleaming all at the same time, and it makes you wish you didn't have a heart to make you feel the way that dog was making me feel at that moment.
Fuck. She could wait forever, couldn't she?
I don't have her kind of time. I pat my leg once, lightly, and her ears go up, along with the edges of her mouth. I feel myself mimicking the gesture, and she comes when I pat my leg again. Even in the cold, her fur bounces with her trot, miniature golden-brown waves all up and down. Lowering to her height, I hold out my palm for her. She licks over my pads as if I had the other package of lunch meat there.
"Gooh--" The words stick in my throat like so much peanut butter thickened by reserved emotion.. "Good girl." Patting her between the ears, I turn around and start back to the truck, startled when she paces me evenly. Normally, one would think she was only looking for another handout, but I can tell by her easy moves she already suspects what her bipedal companion is up to. And, in a way, it is a handout, but one that I choose to give. Two can share a commercial-grade A/C system just fine.
It's only been half an hour since I left, so my fuel isn't in danger of freezing just yet. Even so, I'm going to have to idle the truck all night to keep the juices flowing. To my bosses, though, forty dollars in diesel fuel is a small chip off their bottom line. Besides, it costs more to install fuel heaters than not. Some companies encourage their drivers to save fuel by burying themselves in extra blankets and using those heat packets you squeeze to activate. In my opinion, the only way to get through winter in some parts of this country, besides being a polar bear or arctic fox, is running the goddamned heater at night.
Saki follows me all the way to the door, and obediently stops and stays standing. She looks up at me as if to say, "What are you waiting for, doofus?" I don't know what I'm waiting for, but I become aware that I'm stalling for some reason.
I pull the keys from my pocket and get muzzle-to-muzzle with her. "Do you want to warm up? Nobody but me's gonna offer." The question is stupid, redundant and patronizing, though a dog wouldn't recognize it as any of those things. Saki only hears the volume and tone of my voice, and senses something in it that appeals to her. One hand on the back of her head, the other under her chin, it doesn't occur to me that I'm setting myself up for a kiss until it happens. One second she's sniffing at my breath as I speak, the next her tongue flits into my open mouth, curving up and behind my teeth, caressing my palate and leaving just as quickly as it came. Tingling electricity supersedes my sense of balance and I collapse against the unforgivingly cold fuel tank.
Saki sits down now...and smiles. I'm getting cold over here, you dork.
"Yeah, yeah. Just a second." I know she wants up into the comfort of my sleeper, but if she can sit there on the ice and be fine, she can afford another moment for me to collect myself. How could my throat get so dry, so fast? There's that peanut butter again, filmy and thick, tasting of phlegm. And her breath, not of lunch meat at all but purely clean, nothing but warm air. My tongue wears it like a rain slicker. The dog approaches me, a little more urgently, the conception of a whine just behind her lips.
"I know, but it's your fault," I murmur as I rub my muzzle alongside hers, scratching behind one ear. And then my nosepad lifts up her jowl, and my tongue finds entrance between her premolars, and--just briefly--I feel against the roof of her mouth before remembering I'm outside, and we're both very cold. And I feel vulnerable, cornered by this dog. But I enjoy her kind of claustrophobia.
My hand shakes as I turn the key and open the door, and Saki blows past me, scrambling with the agility of a four-legger up the sidesteps, around the captain's chair, squeezing by the gearshift and poofing out the curtains to the sleeper. "You're welcome." I hoist myself up into the seat and fire the engine into its clattering rumble. The familiar sound brings my mind back into focus, but also makes me aware of a distracting tension below the belt. Fuck. Have I really gotten that bad ver a slip of the tongue?
You know you have. "Fuck."
Sitting there, looking at the stark landscape through the windshield, I can only shake my head at the past hour. Part of me wants it to have never happened. It's the curse of a big heart, one that's too big, sometimes, for the emotions it creates. My life has been filled with memories, and plenty of people left behind...some crying. I wonder if it's my purpose to do good wherever I go and leave while I'm on top. One thing I do know is that there is far more in my past than in my future, including two wives married, divorced and deceased. I miss everything but regret nothing. And there's a dog just behind that curtain, grateful for the chance to have a warm place to sleep for one night, and I've got butterflies like you wouldn't believe.
After locking the door and setting the heat for a pleasant, instead of roasting, temperature, I wheel around and bend down into the curtain. Saki is curled up in the right corner of my bed, hogging all the pillows and my purple Vellux blanket that makes waking up such a disappointment some days. She's got her head on her paws, perking up when she sees I've finally come to join her.
"Is the heat okay?" I ask, wondering for the fourth time or so why I'm asking questions she can't answer. Well, she's stopped shivering, and as far as I can tell everything else seems normal. I suppose if it's comfortable for me it will be the same for her, being as our coats are so similar in length. As cold as it is outside, I'm already starting to sweat from my overdressed state. Everything goes in a floor-to-ceiling cubby with the rest of my meager wardrobe. I'm not comfortable until I'm down to boxers and a black tank top I refuse to call a "wife-beater" because I bought it at an actual clothier for its moisture-wicking abilities. And it's black; compliments the saddle coloration on my back.
Saki watches with mild interest, the kind of attention all dogs pay to those who wear clothes. I can almost imagine her rolling her eyes, muttering something about how stupid and unnecessary they are. Stupid and unnecessary until you wind up in Washington in the middle of the freakin' winter and...
"You going to scoot over so I can join you? Huh?" Without waiting for an answer, I bend low and insert myself between her and the wall, reaching over her chest and switching the overhead lights off in favor of the single reading lamp. It bathes our faces in fluorescence, fading away quickly and leaving the rest of the berth in shadow. The whole time she makes no sound whatsoever.
For the first time in a long time, I can hear myself breathe. Nothing but the steady sound of Caterpillar's finest, a low light, and an almost unbearable warm softness against my belly and chest. As I slide my arm under Saki's head, she squirms back and up against me, fitting the contours of my body perfectly. My muzzle rests on the back of her cheek, lightly enough so that my teeth don't dig into her skin. I can hear her breathing through the pillow. Slowly, I bring my right arm up and around, settle my hand squarely against her ribcage, and feel her heart. It beats with a regular, steady rhythm, one free of stress and worry for the moment. She lives in the present. I live in the past more than anything.
I think of Joanie and Tallulah, and begin to cry.
I'm surprised by the force of it, but I let it come anyway. I am not a man of many emotions. I have my concentration, my giddiness, my chuckling good nature and my bellowing angry attack-dog voice, but they're all mainly put on for the appropriate situation. Most of the time I am mellow, laid back, accepting of nearly all situations and intolerant of very little. I even picked up this effete raccoon kid--Tain, I think it was--and brought him from Nashville to East St. Louis. Wanted to repay me in that way you hear about in those stories. Had to let him down, it wasn't my thing, nothing personal. But we were good for the trip; I don't hold bad feelings for anyone unless he crosses me something fierce.
But those two ladies...well, when you're married, divorced, married, widowed, engaged to the first wife again, then widowed again...takes a lot out of a guy. I don't talk about my wives much--it's a lot of boring emotional baggage--but I'm good about hiding it inside. My father told me that's what men are supposed to do, let the women do the crying as long as you bring home the bread. He was old-fashioned, a textile worker from back in the old times when a hard day's work meant something. I've since learned he was wrong about the emotion thing, the result of a heart attack and a prescription for chronic hypertension.
But sometimes, in that personal space between when the lights go out and when sleep comes, Joanie and Tallulah come into my sleeper, sit there beside me and I talk to them, tell them I miss them, do things nobody would suspect of a man my age. But it makes me feel better. It helps me sleep, and if I want to talk to my dead ex-wives then God dammit, I'll do it.
But I don't cry. Not like this. Not clutching Saki so close and so tight to me that she pedals her legs a bit to make me relent. Instead I prop myself with that arm, clutching the edge of the mattress as it vibrates with me. Maybe I needed someone to show it to...maybe I needed a sympathetic ear who could understand but didn't need to talk me down. I know I'm making her uncomfortable, not to mention the tears falling into her ear and the runnels of drool matting her cheek fur. In any other situation I would be embarrassed to the point of mortification...but, any other situation and I wouldn't be thinking like this.
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." It's all I can do to form the words, and Saki rears back and swipes her tongue across the side of my face, taking tears and stray hairs away with it. A small whimper begins deep in her chest, and it further distresses me that she can smell the despair on me. Pictures of them flash over my closed eyelids, just long enough to register: that day she spilled paint on the car, scaring the bats at Carlsbad Caverns, trying pottery and absolutely sucking at it. I press back against the wall, bring both hands up to my face and bury myself in them, a sniveling, broken-down shell of a German shepherd. Dad wouldn't have approved.
I feel rustling, and an abrupt shifting of weight as Saki jumps down. For a moment, I think I've ruined the whole thing, freaked her out so much she would rather freeze than be here for this bullshit drama. But the mind in grief likes to overreact, which is why I'm puzzled at first when Saki jumps back beside me, carefully paws her way even with my chest, and flops down...this time facing towards me, legs folded up close. It's such a disarming gesture that in the time it takes me to peek through my soaked hands, she's up in my face, licking away, and it's so cool and cleansing for both my body and soul.
Whether she genuinely wants to help, or if she just wants me to stop, in this moment I couldn't care less. I clutch at my chest, claws digging deep into the fabric and fur there, as the unbearable heat I was radiating now is stripped away with Saki's skilled, loving tongue. The tears are wiped right from my eyes; nose and mouth get the same treatment. If I try to push her away, she comes on stronger, licks faster. There is nothing to do but relent in the face of her altruistic, innocent act, and I do so with abandon. Joanie and Tallulah disappear as I start to respond, cool and refreshed and almost meditative.
Having cleaned my face, she concentrates on my muzzle, where most of the fluid seems to remain. There must be something interesting on my breath--the smell of toothpaste?--that's attractive, because she concentrates on getting in between my teeth. I can't deny what she's doing to me, not with the roller coaster I just rode around in a full circle. When I finally find the strength to open my eyes, she's looking directly into them while her tongue goes every which way. She never takes her gaze from mine. There's a beauty in there, something so much deeper than I could even begin to describe; something soul-deep that makes me want to break down all over again. But I instead take that energy and pull her into me fully, and we kiss.
Lying there on my side, I have only to tilt my neck up just slightly to angle into her muzzle, sealing my lips over her tongue the next time it flicks out. Her whole body jerks once, she pulls away, and pants, scrutinizing. She can't understand my submissive posturing.
"Please," I ask quietly, trying not to make it sound like begging. My whole body is shaking, electrified, and I can feel a dull throb where it shouldn't be but it's there and wonderfully full. "Please, don't stop." My hands go to either side of her head, right behind the ears, and this time it's me who goes in, tilts, and presses my lips to hers, as soft as I can while shivering. I don't expect her to know what I'm doing, but she doesn't pull away. Breath puffs out her nostrils in short bursts, flaring and receding, trying to gauge my scent. I'm so engaged as it is, I can't even smell my own musk to determine what it is I'm giving off.
It's not offensive, in any case, judging by Saki's tentative licks at my tongue. The texture is rougher than my own, and clean. So very, incredibly clean. I could go to sleep without washing my face, she did such a good job. Saki puts a paw to my chest and kneads gently, giving way when I want to shift closer to her, go deeper, behind her teeth, all around. For every stroke of mine, she doubles it, and I can't fault her for wanting to do what she's used to doing. Sometimes we meet halfway, in play battle. She knows this is different from doggy kisses.
This is what I need, I think to myself, but that isn't entirely true. It's what I want, surely, but I don't believe, at this point, I know what I need. A connection, maybe. Validation for my good deeds, not so much. But I'm taking advantage, I'm crossing the line. If I'm crossing the line, why did Saki follow me to the truck? Why did Saki change position so she could comfort me? Why is Saki matching me, kiss for kiss, and starting to initiate more of them? And why...oh God why...are her hind paws grinding into my crotch?
I don't know what's going on...it's everything all at once, whirling by my brain at half past the speed of light, and that means nothing to me but it's what I'm thinking anyway. But it feels good, it feels great, and I'm not going to make her stop for anything unless she wants to. I have a feeling she's much smarter than I, or anyone for that matter, gave her credit for. The helpless stray, the grateful companion, now the seductress? It sounds silly any way you present it. But as I break away from her muzzle, push back her neck and clamp down with my jaws, she gives out what can only be described as a moan and nearly crushes my sheath with her legs. I hump freely against her through the boxers for a short while before peeling them off using one hand and my own feet, never breaking my hold on Saki's beautiful, supple neck.
Saki is masturbating me with her footpads, using my own sheath against me. It's evil, she knows what she's doing to me, and she won't quit. I love it.
She is what I need.
I leave her neck, grooming it back into place before returning to her mouth. Like coming home, I'm already used to the texture, the temperature, the smooth ridges in front and the sharper ones in back. If I time it right, I can get her to slow down and share one long, loving tongue stroke up and down, around and retreating, my muffled voice mingling with hers, neither one of us able to tell them apart. As my hand pets down the length of her side, I keep wanting to take those last few inches past her thigh, just cover them and feel...just once...
"Will you...*kiss*...let me..." It's nothing more than a whisper, as I break the embrace and mouth the words into her flat-faced ear. She looks at me, pupils dilated, panting up a storm right into my snout. I'm making it up, I know I am because I'm not all that good at judging nonverbal communication, but out of the corner of her eye it looks like Why aren't you already? "No...you wouldn't...*sniff*...Saki?"
My hand is almost there, almost down to that heat, that flesh...but I detour to my own instead. It's painfully hard, but leaking and still mostly sheathed. I dip two fingers into the prepuce and bring them to Saki's nose. At once she's licked them clean with unfathomable voracity. There can't be room for doubt. I dip into my prepuce again, slicken them up, and move those three inches until I feel her softness, her heat...and push.
She goes stiff, and for one horrific moment I lay there in a mixture of intense arousal and blind panic, fearing I've hurt her, a picture of my claws returning bloody filling my head. I'm in past the first knuckle and it's so incredibly hot, so ironic on this night, that I wonder how she could ever have been as cold as she was when I first petted her. The only sound is that of our ragged breathing, disjointed and washing over twin muzzles. Her gaze is blank, her face neutral, and it only adds to my distress because for a dog to show no emotion at all is a thing rare and unseen.
I can't move. Saki shows no pain, though, and after some seconds tells me exactly how she feels. My fingers slide against each other as she squeezes down in quick, rhythmic fashion, and when she relaxes my second knuckles find their way in. Fresh tears adding to the mess of my face, I fight back the racking sobs that have been hiding under the surface since she started tongue-bathing me. To have gone through an emotional spectrum like that in so short a time leaves me too drained to make the effort. I am happy, though, with her unambiguous response. She may not understand English, but pleasure is universal.
"Okay, okay, okay..." I coo into the side of her jaw as I begin a slow withdrawal, only half an inch or so, followed by a reinsertion. Head down, back stiff, rump vibrating on my fingers...I've never seen anything like it. An exhibition of raw animal passion in reaction to me, something that I'm doing, something neither of my wives ever showed...not with such honesty.
A fine sheen of sweat breaks out all over me at once, sending a chilling wave from hackles to tail. My whole body twitches once, violently, and I bark out, shooting a streamer of pre up over my belly, some of it landing on Saki. My fingers are buried to the webbing. When I force my head down, my member glares a fiery red, unsheathed and wanton. It's the last step.
Saki whines long and high against my ear as she feels herself emptied. She tastes like the wild to me, slick and soft with the tang of need.
My knot barely makes it out, but its exposure is such a relief. I make quick, awkward work positioning my tip under her tail, grateful there is no need to worry about my moderate size. Saki gives some space between her nose and mine, asking for my eyes, and I give them to her. She can feel the pressure and heat, knows it's more than a finger, and I am absolutely certain she is aware of my actions.
I can't read her. I have to take the chance. I push.
Her hind legs stiffen forward, hocks flush against my belly, and she begins to lick the indent below my snout, catching the gum and teeth with it. I can only let her do as she pleases, so concentrated am I on giving myself to her. She surrounds my head--even against my cock she is so hot--and once inside, movement is easier than I thought it would be. The fur between her legs is sticky and dark with my emissions, and the addition of her own keeps friction to a delightful minimum.
"Saki...I can't...whoo..." All the way down to the knot, on the first stroke, and it's a feeling I haven't experienced in too long, a feeling my right hand can't even begin to replicate. Neither tight nor loose, I am buried in a sleeve that yields to my length with just the right amount of resistance. She is quiet now, her tail curled like a pipe cleaner between my legs, her furry metronome stroking up my thighs and against my scrotum. How can I feel such a surge of power, when she is the one controlling my every emotion, the ebb and flow of my blood as it circulates to my groin, to the place where we are joined?
She is used to submitting, and seeing her partner face to face is doubtlessly confusing. Despite this, she doesn't have a problem looking straight on into my face. God, what she must be seeing in my bloodshot eyes, my laid-back ears, and that lip-curl of lust and abandon. I pull her head against me once more and engulf her neck with my teeth. Her back spasms, thrusting down to meet my knot, and I cry out, snarling into her fur. I think I just broke the language barrier.
My hips settle into a slow but forceful thrust, as toe-curling waves radiate from my member and set my fur on end. I can't keep my thoughts in one place, don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling. A little bit of gratitude, a little bit of profound sadness and pity, a lot of lust and a lot of pleasure too. Saki's wheezing pants in my ear are a clear signal that she's enjoying my body as much as I'm enjoying hers, and there is a point just a few minutes in when her spasms grow strong enough to indicate a climax. I'm not in the way of knowing the difference between a woman and a dog, but it's pretty damn close. I feel a coolness on my shoulder, saliva soaking to the skin while she writhes against me.
Normally, I'm quiet while making love. I like to concentrate on my technique, and the feeling, and adjusting this or that to get the most out of myself and my partner. You wouldn't think of me as the kind of man who, sensing the inevitability of his climax, is unable to suppress a nasal whine that sounds like something a child would make who has been told to stand in a corner. My mouth is wide open and full of Saki's throat, clenching just hard enough to produce a reaction around my length; I can feel her pulse against my tongue as I mindlessly groom one spot over and over. The noise is high, wheezy and plaintive; I want to speak to her, to tell her so much...but I haven't the means nor the skill to do it on a level she could understand. All I can do is hold her side, shift on my thigh and press forward, stretching her around the bulging lump of my knot, praying for the tie I want so much. My intention is clear, and Saki responds by spreading her legs wider. I fight against the ancient wolf inside me to keep my claws hidden.
My pulse creeps up into my head, flooding my ears with the thrum of rushing blood. For a moment I'm deaf, and the world explodes into multicolored stars behind my closed eyelids, ending in a dull pain. I can't breathe. A squeak brings my eyes open, the taste of iron warm on my tongue. Before my higher brain can register guilt, my lower brain takes immense pleasure from the dominating act. Licking at the two small puncture wounds, I attempt an apologetic whine while pressing up into her body, going for the final stretch. Saki writhes about but bears down against me until, taking me completely off-guard, I pop into her and I can't move.
"Oh, fuck..." It's over. Unbelievable. There is a moment when I push back from her to look down between us, as if by some capricious twist of fate I had been imagining it all along. But my sheath butts up against her swollen rear, and my balls contract. Saki clenches behind my knot once, twice, and I'm over the edge. I roll onto my back, taking her with me, holding that small body on top of mine while I stare past her neck at the upper bunk, my hips quivering as I exhaust myself into her. The whole thing lasts about half a minute before the peak starts to fade away, leaving me limp and spent and mindfucked beyond belief.
It takes about ten minutes of silence, during which I begin to doze, before Saki becomes restless. With a fatigue I can only associate with both of my ex-wives' funerals, I manage to roll back onto my side, testing our coupling as I go. Still a long way from slipping out. I can tell she's as tired as I am.
Stroking the side of her face, I say, "Looks like we're stuck for a bit. Are you okay?" Saki lays her head on my outstretched arm, and gives me a toothful yawn. I can see I didn't bite her as hard as I feared; the fang wounds are superficial and Saki doesn't seem to mind them at all. That's good; the last thing I would want to do is hurt her. Scooting a bit closer, I snuggle up for a bit.
"I know it doesn't mean much, but thank you." When I get no response, I pry my eyes open to see her face, peaceful and asleep, just an inch from my own. The trust she has in me is overwhelming. I don't understand it. I'm probably not meant to. I manage to keep myself awake until I can slip free without waking her, and after that I'm dead to the world. It's a much deeper sleep than I'm used to.
The morning comes quietly and unassumingly, sun creeping in through the edges of the curtains to prick at the corners of my eyes. I awake refreshed and, for once, not alone. There isn't a lot to say, especially since Saki can't understand much except my expression. I know she can smell my sadness. Even as she scratches on the window while I dress, she doesn't seem like she wants to leave. It's much warmer this morning, and thank God for that.
I can't cry in front of Carla.
Saki trots next to me on our walk to the fuel desk, and when I tell her to sit outside she does so obediently. She's definitely not a stray, which is why I have to betray my feelings and judgment and leave her here. She belongs to someone, and I am a man of my word and my deed.
Carla's just finishing up her shift when I ask her if anyone came for Saki last night. No, no one's been by, gee you had her in yer truck the whole night, that's awful nice of you. She has no idea how much I feel as if I'm sticking a corkscrew in my own heart and yanking away nice and hard. I feel like throwing up.
I ask her if she'll take Saki and make some calls or something, sure she will, she'll get on it after she punches out, just put her in the truck, it's unlocked.
After a small breakfast of a ham salad sandwich, which Saki gulps down with doggy vigor, I lead her to a beat-up Chevy in the handicapped stall. Just as quiet as I am, she senses what's happening, but she doesn't seem upset. The more I look at her, the more I come to think she can understand more than I give her credit for. It's an underestimation for which I apologize, and to which Saki licks me up one side and down the other. I burst out laughing like a crazy person, and it eases the tension.
I am grateful for Saki's upbeat demeanor, and as I give her one more kiss goodbye it comes to me that she might be doing it to preserve my emotions. Could she not want me to be upset? Based on the events of the past twelve hours, anything is possible. On one level, I can't believe what happened, but that's too elementary a way of thinking about it. It did. It all did. I remember every last detail, and I shouldn't discount that by saying I can't believe. I find myself wishing I had Saki's simplistic, concrete point of view. In some ways, her life is easier than mine.
My cell phone takes a pretty decent picture, and I click a few off before turning away, and even though the sky is overcast, color seems to be coming back into the world. I'm almost to the truck when I hear it:
Woof!
Turning around, I see a beautiful German shepherd, paws on the windowsill, looking at me, panting and smiling. Yeah, dogs can smile pretty well. It's contagious.
Woof! It swells from within and it's out before I know what to do with it. A single syllable, loud and crude and universal. It's identical to Saki's, and I don't know what it means. I've never made that sound before. It makes me giggle all the way into the cab.
I'm not even halfway to Yakima when I have to pull over. I can't see past the tears.
* * *
It just doesn't feel right. The Pacific Northwest without snow has an uncharacteristic pallor to it that is unsettling to the point of putting your whole day off balance. I've been in a mood since I got up this morning, hooked up in Bellingham and took off for my home hub. Of course, I knew as soon as I got my load information where I'd be stopping. The place I have been skirting around for two weeks, but never quite getting to. It's been irksome to say the least.
A heat wave, if you can call forty degrees a heat wave, has a way of decimating the mid-winter landscape and turning it into something brown and soulless and foreboding. Nothing to look at, no beauty to it. Winters are getting more and more like this as the years pass. Whether it's the earth's fault or ours, it's not pretty to drive through. At least the Snoqualmie Pass had a decent white blanket.
The CB's been too quiet today, but this part of the state has a strong public radio station, and I've kept myself informed via NPR all the way into Ellensburg. When I see the sign welcoming me into the city limits, my heart does that thing where it drops and I have to white-knuckle the steering wheel to keep it on the road. I dare not think too much about the question I have to ask, the answer I need to have for me to sleep soundly tonight.
When I pull into the parking lot, I almost want to turn around. I feel sickly nervous, shifting around in the seat because my innards don't like me. Not even here for fuel...just for Carla and that one answer. Sometimes you're better off not knowing, but if I have to spend the rest of my life avoiding this truck stop because I can't bear asking a simple question, then I'm a total and complete coward.
Inconvenient, but necessary. Even if it's bad news, I'd rather know than wonder and worry.
The truck goes into the first row; in the middle of the day the only ones here are showering or buying junk food for the rest of their hauls. Midday's absence of shadows is disorienting. So is the empty curb outside the door next to the newspaper box. I almost wish she were still sitting there. Let's be honest, though: if she were, she would come with me and I wouldn't look back. I've cried too much in the past two weeks to not have thought about that.
"You come in from Arizona or somethin'?" asks Carla as I near the counter. I hadn't even noticed, the weather is so nice. It's so comfortable walking around in shorts for a change.
"You grow up in the Great White North and it doesn't make much of a difference," I reply as casually as I can. "I've got a question for you." I motion her closer, all confidential-like, and she leans over as far as her hefty figure will allow.
"What's the word, driver?"
Maintaining an air of nonchalance is exceedingly difficult. "Whatever happened to that dog I warmed up in my truck that one night, a couple of weeks ago?"
Carla straightens, her pudgy face scrunched up, thinking. The quills on her head spike out in every direction as her brow furrows. For a second, I think she's forgotten it completely, but her eyes light up and she smiles. I'm already relieved.
"Good thing you fed her and such. She was so much better when I took her home, all energetic and antsy to run around. So I let her play, and called around to the shelters in town. The pound didn't have nothin', but the ASPCA had got a notice from a local guy looking for his lost dog. Turned out she was his. Nice guy, middle class, really happy to see her after a few days runnin' stray. You believe a hare can have a dog like that as a pet? If anything, you would be better."
"Well, we have that whole species thing going on." I laugh a little, and she lets out a few good, loud barks of her own. Yes, we would have been great together. But I don't have much to complain about. Saki's alive. She's healthy, and she's got a home. And, I admit, she's got my heart, too. At least a piece of it.
"Glad to hear she got back home okay," I say, turning around so Carla can't see my wet eyes, and making my way back to the cold cases. There's one thing I've been craving off and on for a while now.
The motions are easy and natural, from the cold case to the register and back to the truck. The specter of Saki's fate has washed away, and I'm glad for the knowledge and the relief. Still can't stop thinking how we would have been together. She could have filled in for Wife Number 3. I feel the bulge of my wallet in my back pocket: Joanie and Tallulah are in there, right next to three small glossies of Saki. The images are blurry and harsh, but I can still see the eyes that held mine and gave me permission to love her.
I won't soon forget what we did, just four feet behind where I sit, to keep out the cold. The sheets may be clean, but my memory smells of Saki.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me of the other reason I stopped off in the middle of my run. I reach into the bag beside me, pull out a Dr Pepper, and take a good swig right off the top. After pulling out the next item, I rip one corner with my teeth and claw open the rest of the packaging. A familiar smell wafts through the cab, drowning out the Yankee Candle air freshener I keep hanging behind me. Like a student of Pavlov, I have to lick the drool off my lips before I can fit the first piece of bologna into my mouth. The taste is unremarkable but familiar. It tastes of unconditional love. In that moment, I know she is thinking of me.
Reclining to watch the clouds crawl across the winter sky, I shove the next piece between my teeth, to savoring it for what it is. I intend to eat the whole package.
Saki would be proud.
FIN
11/14/07-9/3/08