Don't Park On The Poodle: Second Edition

By Pat Minnick

Women truck drivers have been hitting the highway for decades, but few embark on a professional driving career at the ripe age of 50, like Pat Minnick. Her memoir, Don't Park on the Poodle, is loaded with humorous snapshots of her 24 years driving a tractor-trailer throughout the United States and Canada. As the miles and years roll by, Minnick unpacks memorable experiences with animals (squirrels, gators, and the mysterious "batfish") and people (friendly French Canadians, Ken and Barbie, and the odd bozo, as she puts it), offering a happy-go-lucky female point of view of the long-distance freight-trucking industry.

Each page of Don't Park on the Poodle is an entertaining ride, packed with Minnick's colorful Georgia vernacular and wry humor. Readers are sure to crack a smile at this lively and vivacious read. They'll also come away with a newfound appreciation for drivers, like Minnick, who haul the goods we rely on in our lives, from food and clothing to pharmaceuticals and yes, batfish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886542554

Book preview

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Don't Park On The Poodle

Second Edition

Pat Minnick

Copyright © 2023 Pat Minnick

All rights reserved

Second Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

Published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-254-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-255-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

Don't Park on the Poodle

Christopher Columbus Must Have Been a Truck Driver

A Million Fine People and One Pervert

So Long, Buddy

Run, Bigfoot, Run

Good Luck, Miss

Hershey Emergency

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Brahma

My Guns Have Guns

Trains, Grapes, and Trains

Bronx Bed and Breakfast

To Chain or Not to Chain

My Dog Got Run Over by an Airplane

Miss Piggie

Rebecca, Put Your Shirt Back On

The Guy with the Yamaha on His Head

They're Probably Still Waving

Animal Management Classes

Camillus Standoff

O. Hi. O.

Am's Club

Guess What's on the Trailer

I Wish I Had a Slower Truck

Goodbye, Adios, and Y'all Come Back

Prime Driver

Oh Crap, Hood's Overboard

I Got Run Off the Road By a House

Left at the Dog and Right at the Cows

I Tipped a Squirrel $3

Freightliners Are Lousy Getaway Cars

Lassie Came Home

Want Fries with That Batfish?

Green Card Cat

White Horses Can Jump

Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover

Back Off, I'm Packing Raid

Ken and Barbie Do Austin

The Fake Fur Cats Have Left the Building

I Love You, Jersey City

I Love You, Jersey City

I Love You, Jersey City

Rock on the Croc

A Village in Georgia Is Missing Its Idiot

Who Bushwhacked Buzz Lightyear?

I Don't Shop at Aldi

Don't Brush Your Teeth in Ohio

Food Bank Reject

I Don't Have Any People

Home Depot Pharmacy

I Hope You Don't Get a Wreath Next Year

Lame Deer

Te Amo, Freightliner

I Must Have Looked Like a Decoy

ASAP

Contoocook

Some Truckers Deserve Everything They Get

Welcome to Texas—or Not

When Amish Men Have a Midlife Crisis

I'm Here! My Truck Is Full of Flies!

You Always Remember Where You Were That Day

About the Author

Foreword

The main reason for this book was to add another dimension to the picture the general public has of the trucking industry. On top of some other misconceptions, I wanted it known that we—the women drivers—have been out there for decades. One of them was my mother, Alice Minnick, who drove up and down the East Coast of the United States, making a living while my father was in the South Pacific during the Second World War. My mother is to who this book is dedicated. I was in trucking for more than twenty-four years and an owner-operator for the last twenty-one. I was never particularly hot, cold, hungry, or unsafe—just careful and prepared. I always said that the coast guard helicopter hovering overhead is not looking for you and that knocking on your door at midnight probably isn't Publishers Clearing House.

On October 25, 2019, I realized that I had overstayed my welcome and I retired. My company of twenty-one years wanted me to buy a new truck. Nearing my seventy-fourth birthday, I knew then that I was tired of doing a twenty-five-year-old man's job.

Be safe out there, no matter how many wheels your vehicle has.

Don't Park on the Poodle

The load was delivered in Montreal. Everyone knows that beautiful and historic city is in the French Canadian province of Quebec. Even though all public servants (police, fire, customs, etc.) speak perfect English, most of the citizens either speak English with a wonderful heavy French accent or only speak French. I was born and raised in Georgia, so what could go wrong?

The road signs are all in French. Since this was before Google (or Le Google), I sometimes had to ask a local to help me with directions. These directions would usually be in French. Exasperated with me, many would resort to pointing in French. If you can figure out what they're pointing to, consider yourself bilingual.

This particular customer had people working in the receiving area who not only was fluent in English but also pointed their fingers in English. I might add that some finger-pointing is pretty much international. Anyway, this was a congenial, laid-back customer, so when I checked in, I was slightly offended when the guy who took my bill of lading said, Back into any dock, just don't park on the poodle.

I climbed back into my truck and scanned the dock area for the poodle. I assumed she was a stray and had made herself a dog bed near one of the five docks. I looked and looked but no poodle. A local driver then arrived and went inside with his bills. At this facility, whoever gets there first backs into a dock first. When he came back out, I motioned for him to go ahead of me, but he smiled and, with a grand sweep of his arm toward the docks, said, Madame. That's French for Go ahead, lady. You were here first.

I said, I don't want to park on the poodle, but I don't see it.

Again, he graciously said, Madame, there are five docks. The mud poodle is only at the last one.

Oh.

There it was, a big mud puddle at dock five. The drain had become clogged the day before, and the plumber was due that morning to clean it out. His job would be easier if an eighty-thousand-pound tractor trailer wasn't parked on the poodle.

I had delivered to this customer several times a year for a while. We had become friendly enough that they teased me about my Southern accent, and I could usually understand what they said the first time. After this trip, I was moving over to another lane, one that would take me to Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, for a while. When I was handed my signed bills, I told the associate this and he said they would miss me. After pulling away from the dock, I walked back to close my trailer doors. Two of their guys appeared in the doorway and said Au revoir, y'all and waved. I miss you, Merck.

Christopher Columbus Must Have Been a Truck Driver

He was supposed to pick up his load in India. I've missed a turn here and there over the years, but I always ended up on the same continent as my customer. That trip has to be the Mother of all Service Failures. A close second would be in 1962 when the United States launched Ranger 3 to land on the moon, missing that target by twenty-two thousand miles give or take a few city blocks. Then there was, of course, Moses—no GPS then, so he just wandered in the desert for forty years.

Trucking is full of jokes about lost truck drivers. Have you heard the one about the depressed driver who wanted to end it all and drove off the Empire State Building? Took him three days to hit the sidewalk 'cause he kept having to stop and ask for directions.

The worst case of lost trucker story I ever heard of was when I was at my second company. I have to admit that sometimes state abbreviations can be confusing. Jumping ahead, at my fourth (and last) company, I decided I wanted to become an owner-operator. As a practice, I leased a truck from my company, which was headquartered in Missouri. The company's name and Springfield, MO, were on the door.

I was asked countless times, How was the weather in Montana?

Absolutely tropical, thanks for asking.

Back to lost truckers. Anywhere in the US, the abbreviation for Canada is CN, and the abbreviation for California is CA. However, in Canada, the abbreviation for the country itself is CA. Don't know what the Canadian abbreviation is for California. My guess is LOL.

Here's where it got really confusing.

Ontario is a huge Canadian province. Ontario is home to Canada's largest city (Toronto), Canada's busiest border crossing (Windsor–Detroit), and the best weather channel TV show (Heavy Rescue 401). Ontario, Canada, is called CN or CA depending on which side of the Ambassador Bridge you're stuck on. If you've hauled much freight in or to California, then you're familiar with the city of Ontario, CA. (Or if you are Canadian, Ontario, LOL.) Among other things, it's home to several truck stops, an industrial area with street after street of warehouses, and 943 lot lizards (another story).

So now you know where this story is going.

Yup, after sitting in the usual long line of trucks on the Ambassador Bridge, this young driver, fresh off the training truck, was escorted back across the bridge to the US. As he sat at the Customs booth, some alert Canadian official informed him that he had no paperwork for a border crossing and just as soon as he was back in Detroit, he probably needed to call his dispatcher and maybe start rolling toward Ontario, LOL. In his defense, almost everyone has heard of Ontario, Canada, but not everyone knows about the one in California—the LOL one. He did make it to California, two thousand miles out of route.

I asked if he was fired.

Nope.

He made excellent time.

A Million Fine People and One Pervert

For several years, I went once a week to Nova Scotia for Pittsburgh Paint and Glass out of Dover, Delaware. I loved every minute of this trip. The only nonfun part was since paint shouldn't be allowed to freeze, I only went during the winter months. In the northeast, winter is generally from October to the end of April. We all know by now the trailers I pulled were reefers.

My most direct route took me through Philadelphia, New York City, Hartford, Boston, and my last major US city—Bangor, Maine. My load was always picked up on Friday for delivery on Monday in Nova Scotia at 7:00 a.m., Atlantic Time.

Spoiler alert! Canada is not the fifty-first state and does not share every holiday with the US. Canada did however originate Labor Day, and they also have the usual holidays like Christmas and Easter. No Groundhog Day or Fourth of July. There are several non-US holidays—Canada Day, Queen Somebody Day, and of course, Bastille Day (Quebec). When they run outa names, Canada also celebrates Civic Holiday; I call it Civil Holiday. I'm sure it helps keep them civil, as our big sister to the north is proud of that. Apparently, by law, Canada has to have a paid holiday at least once a month. So Civic Holiday it is.

My Missouri-based company never seemed to get the hang of this; I quit arguing about it. If Missouri didn't think it was a holiday, then it wasn't. The reason I found this annoying is that I had a set-in-concrete appointment on Mondays except for holidays when the customer would be closed and delivery would be on Tuesdays. I would have loved hanging out in Bangor on those long weekends but was told that if I did not show my location on Monday morning in Nova Scotia, holiday or no holiday, I would have what the industry fondly calls a service failure.

So I discovered Halifax. I delivered to an industrial park in Dartmouth, just across the MacDonald Bridge from that fascinating and historic city. I'd park the rig at the dock on Sunday evening, then head for the Best Western two blocks away. The next morning, it was a short hop by cab across what is called the Narrows to downtown Halifax. It had great shopping, great food, great museums, great people, and great walking.

A couple of trips that stood out was when I decided to take the massive ferry from St. John's, New Brunswick, across the Bay of Fundy to Nova Scotia. I deducted one hundred miles from my trip. The three-hour ferry ride on the Princess of Acadia was $430 for a tractor trailer. I did it once. After that, I stayed on the land route and sucked up the extra hundred miles.

On another trip, I drove from Delaware to my receiving dock—1,200 miles—in a blizzard the whole way. It was slow going definitely, but late Sunday night, I eased into the dock and was too tired to bother gathering my overnight stuff up for the hotel. I just crawled into my cozy, warm sleeper and conked out. At 6:00 a.m., I looked out; the snow had let up, but the day was cloudy and dismal. At 7:00 a.m., I finished breakfast and brushed my teeth. No sign of life. At 8:00 a.m., I slogged through the snow and checked the front door to the warehouse. The only sign of life was me and a lone pickup truck with a snow plow attachment scraping around the empty parking lot. At 9:00 a.m., still nothing. At 10:00 a.m., my customer showed up. He said he couldn't get out of his driveway. Me too. (The driver from the deep south.) I made a note to give Pittsburgh Paint and Glass a service failure.

Here's the little adventure that really stands out. On a beautiful sunny day about fifteen minutes