pretty poppies in my neighbor's yard

The Good, the Bad, and the Pup

No one would ever assume that my father is a man who loves his truck, especially because 9 times out of 10 when you see the man he is grinning in his spandex with a glob of sunscreen on his nose, either beginning or ending one of his lengthy bike rides.  Yes, that truck is the one variance from his usual “I don’t care about cars” mantra. Is it because it makes him feel manly and Ford Tough? An accompaniment to his proverbial shot gun and flannel? Maybe he takes it off road to traipse around in the mud? Or is it because he can haul huge loads of rocks, timber and steel planks in the back?

I cannot say definitively, because I have never asked him, but I am going to go with No.

Why? Because it is a 1989 Isuzu. It is small, powdery beige, and completely the opposite of Macho. It cannot make it safely over 45 miles an hour.  The first gear is practically non-existent.  You can literally hear it coming from a half mile away; it is so very, very loud (evidenced by heads turning in concern). Inside the car, there is a cacophony of noises coming from various parts of the engine and odometer—seemingly   all over (A recent confusing addition is the sound of swishing water?). Oh, and a very important defining detail: the trucks name is “the Pup.”

We continually get offers from people (via messages written on scrap paper left on the windshield) trying to by it, presumably for parts. My father takes each and every proposition as a compliment, and would never consider selling it.

“The whole neighborhood uses it!”

Well, the last time a neighbor tried to put it to use, pulling out a tree stump, the Pup huffed, puffed, roared and squealed, trying to get it to budge. Not long after it began its battle, the Pup relented, lurching backwards at the stump, causing a scene of great concern. We have not gotten too many requests since.

Currently, the Pup has a pale blue license plate from the Bahamas on the front. That very same license plate used to be on the wall in my room. I bought off a woman on the side of the road when my family visited the Bahamas on a cruise several years ago. One day, literally out of nowhere, I saw it attached to the front of the Pup. When asked about it, my Dad simply responded, “Oh, yes! Sort of fun, huh?”

We never lock the car, knowing that if somebody did have the gall to try and steal the Pup, they would soon figure out they would not be able to drive it. You simply have to have the touch. It requires a sort of seasoned sensitivity to a very hard to please clutch. Incidentally, once the keys got locked in the car. My mother prayed to the “Good Thief” as I easily jimmied the lock with a bent hanger. 

The good times in the Pup are unquestionable; it would have one hell of a memoir. I used to play in it as a kid, seeing how long I could tolerate standing bare foot on the black lining of the bed that had been baking in the Arizona sun all afternoon.  My nieces and nephews now play in it, taking advantage of its old and poorly inflated tires, jouncing the car like it was a trampoline. Legend has it my oldest sister Sarah accidentally took out a tree in front of Ted’s Hotdogs in the Pup.  I also have heard it has driven over a few parking blocks. There are telltale signs  that it has had a few unsavory encounters with foreign objects, its body is riddled with dents. I personally once backed it into a wall.  There is no mirror on the passenger side (it’s just not there), and I have never gotten a clear story as to why. 

All six of the VB kids have learned to drive stick in the Pup, (I can clearly recall the horror of my own experience) and yet somehow it has managed to be one of our only cars to escape some disastrous fate. The Pup is a landmark to the VB house, and I daresay, our whole neighborhood. It’s been working hard for 20+ years at bringing down the property value. 

The Pup even makes a cameo on Google Earth.  Count it.