Riding Shotgun — No. 03 A Day in the Cab: Honey's Version
We leave before the sun most days. Honey's position on this is complicated.
If Honey could write this, she would.
She has opinions.
Strong ones.
About most things.
Since she cannot type, I'll do my best to represent her perspective accurately.
She's looking over my shoulder, so I'll try to get it right.
Pre-Dawn: The Suspicious Hour
We leave before the sun most days.
Honey's position on this is complicated.
On one hand, dark means quiet and quiet means she can monitor all ambient sounds with full concentration.
This is satisfying work for a Heeler.
On the other hand, the pre-dawn truck stop is full of trucks starting their engines, which she has categorized as Potentially Threatening and logs accordingly — each one, individually, with a low sound that does not quite rise to a bark but makes her position clear.
We ease out of the lot.
She watches the mirrors until she's satisfied we are not being followed.
She is never fully satisfied.
Highway Hours: The Good Part
Once we're moving steadily, Honey enters what I think of as her professional mode.
Alert but calm.
Watching the road with the focused attention of someone who takes their job seriously.
She tracks passing trucks — each one assessed, filed, dismissed or noted.
She monitors wildlife along the shoulder with the intensity of someone who has a very specific plan if we ever stop and she gets the opportunity.
We will never stop for that opportunity.
She remains optimistic.
Around mile 100 she usually settles into the passenger seat with the air of someone who has verified that things are, for now, under control.
This is the Honey version of relaxed.
Still watchful. Just watchful at a lower intensity.
Rest Stops: Peak Experience
Rest stops are, without question, the highlight of Honey's professional day.
The smells alone.
Every rest stop is a detailed record of every dog who has ever passed through.
A complete sensory archive.
She reads it with the thoroughness of someone reviewing an important document.
She adds her own entry.
She considers her contribution carefully.
She would stay longer.
We have miles to make.
She accepts this with visible reluctance every single time, as though it has never happened before.
Evening: Wind-Down Protocol
As the day gets long, Honey's monitoring posture shifts.
She moves from the passenger seat to the space behind me.
She circles twice.
She settles.
This is her version of punching out.
Shift is done. The next one will begin when I move again and she decides it warrants her attention.
The truck hums.
She breathes.
The miles accumulate.
We are, by any measure, a working team.
And she is, by any measure, the better half of it.
One Safe Mile — Renae Savage
one-safe-mile.com
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