There can’t be any doubt but that Mike was a “Truck Dog.” A West Virginian would know this right off the bat. But some of us had to learn and adapt to his behavior. For example, did you know Mike was most comfortable stretched out under a greasy engine? It is true and I can tell you that I personally observed his Nirvana in my own back yard on multiple occasions. Mike adapted to his surroundings by sliding under the Volkswagen Vanagon, where he had dug a hole in the dirt for sleeping. This is exhibit “A” behavior, and more reliable than a DNA test. If and when he chose to crawl out from his dog-cave, Mike exhibited positive proof of his Truck Dog roots in the form of engine grease across the top of his ears and head. In West Virginia, this is known as a tattoo. Mike’s affinity for trucks could also be witnessed at the Congressional Cemetery. Here, he learned that the cab of a pickup truck often carries a sack lunch. No doubt, thousands of generations of dogs before Mike have been hard-wired to pilfer lunches from their human hosts. For Mike, this was confirmed by the roofers who were hired to put new slate shingles on the old chapel. Like many working stiffs, the roofers brought sack lunches to the cemetery. And like many who came before them, they left truck windows open so their lunches would not bake. Natural as can be. Equally natural was the 5-foot jump Mike made to get through these open truck windows where a sack lunch could be consumed in seconds. This went on for some time, as a slate roof is not a one-day job.
After enough bags were ripped open and sack lunches consumed… the workmen started closing their cab windows. One might think this would be the end of things. But a true West Virginia Porch Dog is not so easily deterred. Mike learned that many of these trucks also had sliding windows at the back of the cab, open to the truck bed. Eventually…our visiting roofers learned to close these windows, too.
Such was the standoff one morning when I encountered Mike in the bed of a Ford F-150 parked under the eaves of the old chapel. A roofer in suspenders and steel-toed shoes was up on the roof above the truck, working on some flashing. A disappointed Mike looked up from the truck bed at the roofer…and then at the truck cab with all windows shut tight. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Mike was thinking. I think the roofer saw that too. But I also sensed the roofer had something akin to respect for this dog of, shall we say, unique capabilities. The roofer looked down at mike and said: “Why don’t you grab a tool belt and get to work!?” Mike wagged his tail and smiled with big black lips.
There can’t be any doubt but that Mike was a “Truck Dog.” A West Virginian would know this right off the bat. But some of us had to learn and adapt to his behavior. For example, did you know Mike was most comfortable stretched out under a greasy engine? It is true and I can tell you that I personally observed his Nirvana in my own back yard on multiple occasions. Mike adapted to his surroundings by sliding under the Volkswagen Vanagon, where he had dug a hole in the dirt for sleeping. This is exhibit “A” behavior, and more reliable than a DNA test. If and when he chose to crawl out from his dog-cave, Mike exhibited positive proof of his Truck Dog roots in the form of engine grease across the top of his ears and head. In West Virginia, this is known as a tattoo. Mike’s affinity for trucks could also be witnessed at the Congressional Cemetery. Here, he learned that the cab of a pickup truck often carries a sack lunch. No doubt, thousands of generations of dogs before Mike have been hard-wired to pilfer lunches from their human hosts. For Mike, this was confirmed by the roofers who were hired to put new slate shingles on the old chapel. Like many working stiffs, the roofers brought sack lunches to the cemetery. And like many who came before them, they left truck windows open so their lunches would not bake. Natural as can be. Equally natural was the 5-foot jump Mike made to get through these open truck windows where a sack lunch could be consumed in seconds. This went on for some time, as a slate roof is not a one-day job.
After enough bags were ripped open and sack lunches consumed… the workmen started closing their cab windows. One might think this would be the end of things. But a true West Virginia Porch Dog is not so easily deterred. Mike learned that many of these trucks also had sliding windows at the back of the cab, open to the truck bed. Eventually…our visiting roofers learned to close these windows, too.
Such was the standoff one morning when I encountered Mike in the bed of a Ford F-150 parked under the eaves of the old chapel. A roofer in suspenders and steel-toed shoes was up on the roof above the truck, working on some flashing. A disappointed Mike looked up from the truck bed at the roofer…and then at the truck cab with all windows shut tight. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Mike was thinking. I think the roofer saw that too. But I also sensed the roofer had something akin to respect for this dog of, shall we say, unique capabilities. The roofer looked down at mike and said: “Why don’t you grab a tool belt and get to work!?” Mike wagged his tail and smiled with big black lips.