The Day I Hit a Little Dog With My Truck

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This week I hit a little dog with my truck.

I braked, but I couldn’t avoid the heart-sickening thump and the ensuing yelp, as I swerved into the oncoming traffic lane.

To be clear, the oncoming lane did not pose a threat to me. Rather, it was an invitation to avoid tragedy.

At 8 in the morning, “traffic” on these two-lane rural highways in Nicaragua consists of repurposed school buses used as local public transport (a.k.a. chicken busses). “Traffic” means there are carts led by duel oxen or single horses; motorbikes piled with families of 4, and rusted-out bicycles ambling along with single, non-hurried riders. School children, untethered pigs, and stray dogs mill about the muddy mid-rainy-season roads.

And trucks like mine. My truck also sports rust. It’s a 2002 diesel 4×4 Toyota Prado, with a solid engine and good brakes. Just maybe not good enough on this dewy, sunshine-y weekday morning.

It was a morning that had started off jovially — I was en route to the airport to pick up a large family group arriving in Nicaragua. We had plans and optimistic expectations for their first-time arrival.