Part 2 – The Dog by the Pumps
I thought grief was done with me — until I saw him standing there, ribs showing, eyes full of someone else’s memories.
He didn’t bark. Didn’t flinch. Just stared.
Like Buck used to do when he wanted to ride but didn’t want to ask.
I sat frozen behind the wheel of the Kenworth, the engine idling like an old man clearing his throat. The fuel station was dead — boarded up windows, graffiti on the ice machine, a payphone hanging by its cord like a broken arm.
And there he was.
A mutt. Maybe lab, maybe shepherd. Big head, busted ear, coat like old rope. His left hind leg dragged a little when he shifted weight. No collar. No tags. Just dirt, bone, and waiting.
I opened the door slow. The cold hit me like a slap. He didn’t run.
“Hey,” I said, my voice rusty. “You hungry?”
I walked to the side compartment, rummaged past the ratchet straps and oil rags. Found an old pack of jerky wedged under a spare funnel. Tore it open. Held out a piece.
He didn’t move.
“C’mon now. Ain’t poisoned.”
He took two steps. Close enough for me to hear his breathing — shallow, ragged, like he’d run too far with nothing left to run for. He took the jerky gentle, like he knew what trembling hands meant.
And that’s when I saw it.
The scar under his eye.
Not fresh. Healed. But deep. Like a blade or wire had kissed him hard and left its signature.
He chewed slow. Then sat.
Right there beside the pump, like he’d been waiting for me all along.
I named him Diesel.
Not because it was clever. Because it was honest.
That dog smelled like oil and ash, and he didn’t care for frills. Just ate the rest of the jerky, curled by the front wheel, and fell asleep like the world had finally stopped chasing him.
I didn’t mean to let him in the cab. Didn’t plan to.
But when I opened the door to climb in, he stood, looked at the step, then at me. I saw the hesitation in his bones. Same as Buck, near the end. So I reached down, palms aching, and lifted him like a sack of flour with a heartbeat.
He didn’t squirm. Just sighed. That kind of sigh only old dogs and older men make when they’re tired of pretending they’re not hurting.
We drove east.
Not because I had a reason. But because west was already behind me.
The road was empty. 2-lane blacktop with nothing on either side but dead grass and forgotten fences. Somewhere around Amarillo, the sky turned silver and the radio gave up. Static and ghost voices. Preachers from another state. Country songs that used to mean something.
Diesel leaned against the passenger seat like it was always his. Eyes half shut. Breathing even.
I reached across and touched the collar. Buck’s. Still warm somehow.
I didn’t say his name. Didn’t say anything.
Some grief doesn’t want words. It wants movement. It wants the hum of tires on pavement and a dog beside you who doesn’t ask questions.
We pulled into a diner just past Shamrock. Place looked like it hadn’t changed since Reagan. Sign said “Gracie’s.” Still flickered.
Inside smelled like scorched toast and old sorrow.
The waitress looked up, squinted. “You again?”
I didn’t correct her.
“Coffee?”
I nodded.
“Dog okay out there?”
“He’s new.”
She paused, one hand on the pot. “You don’t seem like the type to get a new anything.”
“Me neither.”
Diesel waited on the step, nose to the wind, tail thumping twice when I came back. I handed him a slice of bacon wrapped in a napkin.
“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.”
He ate it like it was holy.
That night, we parked behind a church just off Route 66. I used to sleep there back in the ’80s — pastor let truckers rest if they cleaned up after. No one was around now. Just wind and a cracked sign that said “God Still Listens.”
I left the engine off. Wrapped Diesel in Mary’s quilt and laid beside him in the sleeper.
The cab creaked. My knees ached. My chest felt too small for what it held.
I stared at the roof and thought about the first time Buck jumped in this rig. Rain was coming down in sheets. He’d been just a pup, scared of thunder, but brave enough to climb up anyway.
I whispered without knowing why:
“You got big shoes to fill, boy.”
Diesel stirred, pressed his head to my ribs like he understood.
Next morning, frost laced the windshield. My joints popped like bubble wrap.
Diesel sat up slow, eyes scanning the horizon like he was looking for a past he couldn’t name.
I made instant coffee from the thermos stash. It tasted like old socks but felt like home.
We sat on the step, steam rising from our cups and breath, and watched the sun claw its way over the prairie.
He nudged my elbow.
“You miss someone too?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Somewhere near Oklahoma City, I stopped for fuel. Teen at the register wore earbuds and didn’t make eye contact.
“Cool dog,” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” I said. “He found me.”
The kid blinked. “You mean, like, actually found you?”
“Standing by a pump.”
“No way.”
I smiled — just a crack. “You’d be surprised who shows up when you stop looking.”
That night, we parked at a rest area with picnic tables and a single light buzzing like a tired bee. I opened a can of chili, split it between us.
Diesel ate slow. Licked the bowl clean. Then looked at me.
Not for more food.
But like he was checking if I was still here.
Still me.
I scratched behind his ear. Felt the scar again.
“Whatever they did to you,” I said, “you’re safe now.”
He didn’t blink. Just closed his eyes and leaned in.
The next morning, I found the collar gone.
Not on the seat. Not on the dash.
Not even in the sleeper.
I panicked. Dug through every drawer, every crack in the cab. Nothing.
Then I turned — and there it was.
Around Diesel’s neck.
I hadn’t put it there.
I swear on Mary’s grave — I hadn’t touched it.
But it fit.
Like it belonged.
We didn’t talk much the next stretch. I drove. He rode. Sometimes our ghosts ride quieter than we do.
And sometimes, if you’re real lucky — they ride right beside you again.
ENDING:
Not every dog is sent to stay.
Some are sent to bring you home.
