Time to pull the plug?

You try to prepare for these kind of things — hell, it happens to all of us — but in the end, when you’re faced with the demise of a beloved pick-up truck, it just hurts.

My dear Chitty, words can not express my feelings for you. You’ve been like a family member ever since we laid eyes on your sun-bleached, two-toned, dented body. Your sagging bench seat, your knob-less windshield wiper control. Your mangled hubcaps and the second gas tank door, mysteriously sealed shut with rusty screws.

You were a vehicle that could be dinged and bumped without guilt. Something we could overload with a pallet of fence posts and trundle down the road in Dr. Seuss-like fashion.

You deftly handled 28 inches of snow in winter ’02 when we so desperately needed beer and brownie mix.

In springtime you scoffed at flood conditions, digging your wheels in the mud when everyone else needed a tow.

You’ve provided Maisie with a shady place to rest and the kids with a safe outdoor play area. You’ve been our trusty ride to the dump.

And that’s why we’ve been able to overlook the massive brake failure that sent Martin plunging off a road, leaping a curb, and dodging trees to rest at the banks of a river.

We didn’t hold the brake failure against you. We knew it wasn’t personal. And we agreed to pay to replace the brake lines.

And the master cylinder brake pads.
And the brake drums.
And the steel cables.
And the custom-made brake piping since they don’t have parts for classics like you.

But then there were the other failures. Your shocks, the bald tires and some serious engine repairs.

Let’s face it, Chitty, you did sign that Do Not Resuscitate clause in motor oil. We want to honor your wishes.

So if we can’t find a way to save you, I hope that you can look down from that big Ford dealership in the sky and realize that you may be gone, but not forgotten.