Fang, the Tire-Eating Dog
A few months, I decided to drop off one of my favorite books for a friend to read. She lives way out in the country, and as I pulled into her driveway, I couldn’t help but notice that the house itself was being guarded by a huge, obviously over-protective dog who looked to be a mix between a skinny-legged Great Dane and a dull-colored palomino pony. As the barking animal, who appeared to be foaming from the mouth (although I later learned that he always looks that way) began to lope towards my truck, I put on my brakes and quickly checked to make sure that my window was tightly rolled up.
“Nice doggie,” I said, cracking the window just enough to make sure his massive head couldn’t inside the car. “Now go away before I run over you.”
The dog, who I’ll call Fang, growled and barked even louder, energetically slimed the side of my just washed truck, and then decided to turn his attention to my front left tire. I rolled my window down far enough to see exactly what he was up to, and sure enough, he seemed to be intent on eating my tire. Positive that no dog, not even one the size of Fang, could actually harm a truck tire, I put the car in gear and carefully began to make my way to where another vehicle was parked.
That’s actually kind of cute, I thought to myself as I looked out my window and watched Fang, who apparently wasn’t very bright, continue to try to take a bite out of my slowly rolling tire.
“Stop that!” yelled my friend at her dog as she stepped off her porch and began to make her way towards my truck. “He’s never done that before,” she assured me as she grabbed a handful of Fang’s ample neck skin and yanked him away from my tire. “Sit down there and behave yourself!” she ordered the suddenly meek dog. “Daryl’s going to think that you have no manners at all!”
“Oh, he didn’t hurt anything, Sally,” I said as I waved hello and worked up my courage to get out of the truck.
“What’s that funny noise I hear?” she suddenly asked me, looking all around.
We both strained our ears for a few seconds and then at the exact same moment realized that what we were hearing was the unmistakable whistling sound of air escaping from a punctured tire.
“I’m so very sorry!” she apologized as we both examined the deep puncture wound in my tire. “I’ll call Triple A. They can be out here in about thirty minutes.”
“Are you kidding? I said with a manly chuckle. “No problem. I can change it.”
“But everybody always says, well, you know, that you’re not very mechanical, Daryl.”
“Oh, everyone exaggerates all that stuff,” I assured her, waving away her concerns with my hand. “Any guy can fix a tire.”
About thirty minutes later, after I had, in this order, finally found the key to open the lock on my spare tire; figured out how to make the jack that came with the truck actually work; given myself a hernia loosening the lug nuts; unsuccessfully attempted to jack up my front door instead of the axle connected to my tire; and silently cussed out the idiots in Detroit who decided to hide and secure spare tires underneath trucks in such a way that no mortal man can get them out, Sally bent down next to me and very politely asked, “Do you happen to have a driver’s manual?”
“It’s in the glove box,” I finally said as Fang plopped down beside me on the dusty driveway and began drooling all over one of my shoes.
“Okay,” said Sally cheerfully, “here it is, page 190, how to change your Ford Ranger tire.”
“What does it say?” I mumbled as I swallowed my pride and attempted to swat away another dozen or so killer mosquitoes who had taken up residence on my perspiring body.
“This is going to be real easy,” she announced with a confident smile. “The steps are numbered, so here we go. Step number one, finding your Ford Ranger spare tire.”
“I’ve done that,” I snapped.
“Okay, number two. Remove bolt with lug wrench, then swing hinge away and lower the channel, remove retaining bolt by inserting the lug wrench through the top of the bolt and turning. Then to replace the tire, reverse the procedure and install tire with the valve stem pointing down. Tighten the retaining bolt snugly and test for tire movement by pressing or kicking. Now, have you done any of that?” she asked me.
“Yes, I’ve done the kicking the tire part,” I said.
“Here,” she said, “obviously taking pity on me and lowering her voice as she often does when she’s talking to one of her children. “I think I know what they’re talking about. I tell you what, why don’t you hold the manual, which is, you know, really the important part anyway, and let me get down under the truck and see what I can do.”
Another twenty or so humiliating minutes later, with my tire finally changed and Fang in tow, I stepped back into my truck, knowing full-well that I’d still be sprawled out on the pavement if it hadn’t been for Sally’s help.
“Thanks for dropping by with the book,” she said, forcing back a smile by putting a grease-covered hand over her mouth.
“Real funny,” I said as the laughter she had been choking down for almost an hour finally exploded. “And don’t you dare tell anybody about this!” I yelled at her as she and Fang, who seemed to be having a pretty good doggie chuckle himself, turned and hurried back towards the house.
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