🔹 Part 5 – When the Leaves Fall
Autumn crept in slow, the way it does in Oklahoma—first a whisper in the wind, then a rustle underfoot.
Diesel’s coat started graying more around his muzzle, blending into the silver that now painted my beard.
We were both slowing down, but there was something graceful about it.
Like watching the last miles of a sunset fade—knowing it had burned bright and full before slipping below the line.
Every morning, Diesel still made his way to the fence.
Some days he stood. Some days he just lay there and stared.
I pulled a blanket from the truck cab—his favorite from back when we used to sleep roadside under Montana skies—and folded it by his post.
Neighbors noticed.
Harold from next door stopped bringing jerky and started bringing soft-cooked eggs.
A little girl named Emma began reading books beside him on Sundays, her tiny voice drifting through the yard like a hymn.
No one said it out loud, but we all felt it—time was rounding a bend we couldn’t see past.
One evening, I heard Diesel whimper in his sleep.
Not the scared kind. Just soft, mournful, like he was dreaming of somewhere far away.
I reached down, laid my hand on his ribs, felt them rise and fall like slow waves on a quiet shore.
“You miss it, don’t you?” I whispered.
His tail gave a single thump.
That week, I did something I hadn’t done in months—I took out the rig keys.
I didn’t own the Peterbilt anymore, but I kept the keys hung on a nail in the shed, right beside my trucker’s cross and a photo of the two of us parked by the Grand Canyon.
I carried those keys to the backyard, sat beside Diesel, and placed them between us on the table.
He looked at them.
Sniffed once.
Then rested his head on the hubcap full of water, his eyes half-lidded in peace.
“I’m not going back out there,” I told him.
“But I want you to know… if we could, I’d go one more round.”
That night, a wind came hard from the north, shaking the branches and sending a flurry of leaves tumbling like gold coins.
Diesel struggled to stand, so I wrapped him in that Montana blanket and carried him to the porch.
We sat under the old swing, just like always.
And he watched the wind scatter leaves like forgotten memories, chasing each other into corners of the yard we rarely looked at.
“I ever tell you about that blizzard outside Missoula?” I asked.
He sighed. That slow, knowing exhale of a dog who’s heard it a hundred times and still wants to hear it once more.
And so I told him.
Every mile of it.
As the night grew colder, and the stars came out over Stillwater like headlights on a distant ridge.
🔹 Part 6– One More Ride
The first frost came early that year.
Crisped the grass and painted the porch rail silver by dawn.
Diesel didn’t get up that morning—not until I knelt beside him with a piece of bacon and a whisper: “C’mon, boy. Sunrise is waiting.”
He tried. Lord, he tried.
Pushed himself up slow, legs trembling like worn shocks, but that tail—
It wagged once, weak but determined. That was Diesel. All heart, even when the wheels were coming off.
I made a decision that day.
Called my buddy Mack out in Muskogee. He still ran a parts delivery route with his old rig, “Big Sadie.”
Told him I needed a favor.
“You need freight moved?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Just a memory.”
By the following Saturday, Mack pulled up in front of my place with the cab idling and a grin wider than the Red River.
We fitted a ramp, laid down Diesel’s Montana blanket in the passenger footwell, and with a little help and a lot of love, got him inside.
I climbed in beside him—me, Ray Harlan, back in a rig for the first time since my stroke.
Didn’t need to go far. Just around Stillwater. A loop. Enough to let the engine sing one last song.
As Mack drove, I looked at Diesel.
His head was up. His ears, alert. His eyes followed the power lines like he was tracking our course.
And when the wheels hit a bump and the whole cab hummed—he closed his eyes and smiled, just slightly, like he was finally home.
We passed the grain silos near Main Street, then the diner where old drivers still swap tall tales.
A couple waved at us, and Diesel gave a soft bark—more breath than sound, but it was there.
Mack didn’t ask questions. He just circled back, slow and gentle, as if hauling something fragile.
When we stopped, I reached over and scratched that familiar patch behind Diesel’s ear.
“That’s it, partner,” I whispered. “Last haul. We done good.”
We left the cab open for a bit, just sitting there in the driveway with the motor ticking warm.
The sun was setting behind the oaks, casting gold across the windshield.
And Diesel—he looked out at it like he’d finally caught up to something he’d been chasing all year.
That night, he slept sounder than he had in weeks.
