Found this gem on FB. (Things that make you think)
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I buried my wife on a Monday and hit the highway on Tuesday with nothing but a worn logbook and an older dog who still waited for her voice.
The rig smelled like old leather, spilled coffee, and diesel ghosts. I’d driven that Kenworth W900 since ’91 — back when country music still had twang and you could light up a smoke in a diner without getting stares. The seats molded to my back like they remembered my shape. Every switch had a story. Every rattle had a reason.
Buck climbed in slow that morning, his hind legs stiff like mine. He used to leap into the cab like he was chasing rabbits. Now he waited for the small wooden ramp I made from the broken porch steps.
“Up you go, old man,” I muttered, patting the passenger seat.
His cloudy eyes searched mine. Not for commands — just for company. That dog was never much for tricks. But he’d sat beside me for twelve years of freight, storms, breakdowns, and layovers in truck stops that smelled like burnt bacon and regret.
The dispatcher tried to talk me out of it. “Just take the payout, Red,” he’d said. “You’re done. Retire. Florida. Shuffleboard. Whatever.”
But I needed one more haul. Not for the paycheck — (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman), the money would go to nobody now. Just one more stretch of road to remember who I was before everything went quiet.
So I chose the I-40 route west. Nashville to Flagstaff. I knew every mile marker, every stretch of pine, every trucker diner with a good ham steak and a waitress who’d call you “hon” with the right amount of tired.
And Buck — well, Buck knew it too.
We rolled through Tennessee as the sun broke past the trees. It lit up the dash, dancing off the cracks in the plastic, the little faded photo of Mary I kept clipped above the CB radio.
Mary. (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman), she hated the truck at first. Called it “the other woman.” But she’d grown to love the hum of it, the way I always came back to her smelling like sweat and asphalt and diner grease. She used to send me off with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and a thermos full of strong coffee and stronger advice.
Now there were no sandwiches. No coffee. Just silence and the thrum of wheels on blacktop.
In Arkansas, I stopped at a truck stop we used to hit back in the ’90s. The sign was faded. The pie was dry. The jukebox didn’t play anymore. But the stools were the same — those red vinyl ones that squeaked when you shifted your weight — and the waitress still wore that same tired smile.
“You still drivin’, Red?” she asked, filling a mug like no time had passed.
“Just one more,” I said. “Last haul.”
She looked at Buck. “Dog looks older than you.”
“He’s got more miles too.”
We both chuckled, but her eyes softened like she knew — like all the people in our generation know — that the road eventually runs out, and we don’t always get to choose where it ends.
At night, I pulled over at a rest area in New Mexico. Stars spilled out above like they used to when I was a kid sleeping in the bed of my dad’s old Ford after a fishing trip. Back then, everything felt big. Now it all felt hollow.
Buck lay curled on the passenger seat, breathing shallow. I reached over, fingers in his fur. “You remember this place, buddy? You chased a tumbleweed here once.”
He didn’t move, but his ear twitched.
I thought about the times Mary came with me, before her knees gave out, before the cancer came creeping. She’d read maps, pass me jerky, laugh at trucker jokes. Once, she kissed me while we were hauling hay through Kansas — said it felt like freedom, even if it smelled like cow crap.
When she got sick, I parked the truck for six months. Didn’t drive. Didn’t sleep. Just watched her fade, like headlights disappearing into fog.
After she passed, Buck stopped eating. Just stared at the door, waiting. I didn’t know if he was waiting for her or for the sound of the engine. Maybe both.
Arizona rolled in dry and wide. The red rocks welcomed us like old friends. My knees ached from the clutch. Buck wheezed in his sleep, legs twitching like he was running in dreams. I envied that.
We passed a convoy of new rigs — electric, silent, chrome and soulless. Kids in polos driving them. No CBs, no grease under their fingernails. They didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Didn’t know the code.
I pulled into a gravel lot just outside Flagstaff. It was the end of the line. Literally. My last drop.
The freight guy didn’t even shake my hand. Just scanned the load, nodded, and walked off like I was another ghost in an industry that forgot the people who built it.
I sat in the cab with Buck and stared at the sunset bleeding across the desert. I thought I’d feel something — relief, closure, maybe even joy.
But all I felt was tired.
That night, Buck didn’t eat. Just laid his head on my thigh and let out a sound I hadn’t heard before. Not a growl. Not a whimper. Just something in between — like goodbye.
I wrapped him in Mary’s old quilt and carried him to the back of the cab. Laid there with him, listening to the wind press against the steel walls.
I must’ve dozed off.
When I woke, he was gone.
I buried him under a lone cottonwood by the highway. Used the tire iron to break the ground, knees in the dirt, hands shaking.
I didn’t cry. Not then.
I scratched his name into the bark with my old pocketknife: Buck – Good dog. Good friend.
Then I sat in the cab, staring at the empty seat. The world felt too quiet without the sound of his breath, the soft click of his nails when he shifted, the way he’d lean against me at red lights.
That was two months ago.
I keep the keys on the hook by the door. The rig’s parked out back, covered in dust, waiting for someone who won’t come.
Sometimes I go out and sit in the driver’s seat, run my hands over the wheel, smell the leather, feel the ghost of him beside me.
I don’t talk much these days. But if someone asks — the mailman, the neighbor kid — I just say, “Retired trucker. Used to ride with a good dog.”
They nod. They don’t understand.
But maybe you do.
Some roads don’t circle back. Some rides you only get to take once. But if you’re lucky — if you’re real lucky — you don’t ride them alone
And when the engine finally stops, you pray there’s still a stretch of highway out there, just past the stars, where good dogs wait by the door and the seat beside you is never empty.

I buried my wife on a Monday and hit the highway on Tuesday with nothing but a worn logbook and an older dog who still waited for her voice.
The rig smelled like old leather, spilled coffee, and diesel ghosts. I’d driven that Kenworth W900 since ’91 — back when country music still had twang and you could light up a smoke in a diner without getting stares. The seats molded to my back like they remembered my shape. Every switch had a story. Every rattle had a reason.
Buck climbed in slow that morning, his hind legs stiff like mine. He used to leap into the cab like he was chasing rabbits. Now he waited for the small wooden ramp I made from the broken porch steps.
“Up you go, old man,” I muttered, patting the passenger seat.
His cloudy eyes searched mine. Not for commands — just for company. That dog was never much for tricks. But he’d sat beside me for twelve years of freight, storms, breakdowns, and layovers in truck stops that smelled like burnt bacon and regret.
The dispatcher tried to talk me out of it. “Just take the payout, Red,” he’d said. “You’re done. Retire. Florida. Shuffleboard. Whatever.”
But I needed one more haul. Not for the paycheck — (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman), the money would go to nobody now. Just one more stretch of road to remember who I was before everything went quiet.
So I chose the I-40 route west. Nashville to Flagstaff. I knew every mile marker, every stretch of pine, every trucker diner with a good ham steak and a waitress who’d call you “hon” with the right amount of tired.
And Buck — well, Buck knew it too.
We rolled through Tennessee as the sun broke past the trees. It lit up the dash, dancing off the cracks in the plastic, the little faded photo of Mary I kept clipped above the CB radio.
Mary. (This word is unacceptable on Trapperman), she hated the truck at first. Called it “the other woman.” But she’d grown to love the hum of it, the way I always came back to her smelling like sweat and asphalt and diner grease. She used to send me off with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and a thermos full of strong coffee and stronger advice.
Now there were no sandwiches. No coffee. Just silence and the thrum of wheels on blacktop.
In Arkansas, I stopped at a truck stop we used to hit back in the ’90s. The sign was faded. The pie was dry. The jukebox didn’t play anymore. But the stools were the same — those red vinyl ones that squeaked when you shifted your weight — and the waitress still wore that same tired smile.
“You still drivin’, Red?” she asked, filling a mug like no time had passed.
“Just one more,” I said. “Last haul.”
She looked at Buck. “Dog looks older than you.”
“He’s got more miles too.”
We both chuckled, but her eyes softened like she knew — like all the people in our generation know — that the road eventually runs out, and we don’t always get to choose where it ends.
At night, I pulled over at a rest area in New Mexico. Stars spilled out above like they used to when I was a kid sleeping in the bed of my dad’s old Ford after a fishing trip. Back then, everything felt big. Now it all felt hollow.
Buck lay curled on the passenger seat, breathing shallow. I reached over, fingers in his fur. “You remember this place, buddy? You chased a tumbleweed here once.”
He didn’t move, but his ear twitched.
I thought about the times Mary came with me, before her knees gave out, before the cancer came creeping. She’d read maps, pass me jerky, laugh at trucker jokes. Once, she kissed me while we were hauling hay through Kansas — said it felt like freedom, even if it smelled like cow crap.
When she got sick, I parked the truck for six months. Didn’t drive. Didn’t sleep. Just watched her fade, like headlights disappearing into fog.
After she passed, Buck stopped eating. Just stared at the door, waiting. I didn’t know if he was waiting for her or for the sound of the engine. Maybe both.
Arizona rolled in dry and wide. The red rocks welcomed us like old friends. My knees ached from the clutch. Buck wheezed in his sleep, legs twitching like he was running in dreams. I envied that.
We passed a convoy of new rigs — electric, silent, chrome and soulless. Kids in polos driving them. No CBs, no grease under their fingernails. They didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Didn’t know the code.
I pulled into a gravel lot just outside Flagstaff. It was the end of the line. Literally. My last drop.
The freight guy didn’t even shake my hand. Just scanned the load, nodded, and walked off like I was another ghost in an industry that forgot the people who built it.
I sat in the cab with Buck and stared at the sunset bleeding across the desert. I thought I’d feel something — relief, closure, maybe even joy.
But all I felt was tired.
That night, Buck didn’t eat. Just laid his head on my thigh and let out a sound I hadn’t heard before. Not a growl. Not a whimper. Just something in between — like goodbye.
I wrapped him in Mary’s old quilt and carried him to the back of the cab. Laid there with him, listening to the wind press against the steel walls.
I must’ve dozed off.
When I woke, he was gone.
I buried him under a lone cottonwood by the highway. Used the tire iron to break the ground, knees in the dirt, hands shaking.
I didn’t cry. Not then.
I scratched his name into the bark with my old pocketknife: Buck – Good dog. Good friend.
Then I sat in the cab, staring at the empty seat. The world felt too quiet without the sound of his breath, the soft click of his nails when he shifted, the way he’d lean against me at red lights.
That was two months ago.
I keep the keys on the hook by the door. The rig’s parked out back, covered in dust, waiting for someone who won’t come.
Sometimes I go out and sit in the driver’s seat, run my hands over the wheel, smell the leather, feel the ghost of him beside me.
I don’t talk much these days. But if someone asks — the mailman, the neighbor kid — I just say, “Retired trucker. Used to ride with a good dog.”
They nod. They don’t understand.
But maybe you do.
Some roads don’t circle back. Some rides you only get to take once. But if you’re lucky — if you’re real lucky — you don’t ride them alone
And when the engine finally stops, you pray there’s still a stretch of highway out there, just past the stars, where good dogs wait by the door and the seat beside you is never empty.

Wow, that hit close to home. My dad was a trucker, and was never the same after mom died of cancer. And he had an old dog that also died of cancer - named Buck.

trapdog1 - I can only guess your emotions after reading this when it mirrors your Dad's life! Almost the same circumstances and the same dog's name. Wow!