The road can wear you down if you let it. After fifteen years of long hauls, I thought I was used to it—the endless asphalt, sleepless nights, and the hum of the engine as my only company. But one midnight stop at a lonely gas station changed everything.
As I filled my tank, I heard a faint whimper near the dumpster. That’s when I saw him—a scruffy, golden dog, ribs showing, eyes wide with fear. I offered half a ham sandwich, and hunger slowly coaxed him closer. His tail flicked once, a fragile sign of hope.
The station attendant told me he’d been dumped, surviving on scraps. Most drivers just kept going. But I couldn’t. I opened my cab door and asked, “Wanna ride?” To my surprise, he climbed in. From that night on, Diesel became my co-pilot.
He grew stronger, his coat shining, his eyes brighter. At rest stops, other truckers adored him, joking he was the real boss of my rig. They weren’t wrong.
I thought I was rescuing him. But the truth is—he rescued me, too.
