You wriggle forward enough to poke your nose out. "No, but it's a stoplight, so we're probably getting close." As you're saying it, the truck starts to move again; you have to scramble for footing for a moment. The next time the truck slows down, there's a quiet 'ticka-ticka' noise that you feel through your paws more than hear -- turn signal! -- and your ride turns onto a narrower, slower road. THUNK -- the hopper opens, and fan-shaped scatters of dry sand begin pattering onto the road. "This is us," you conclude, gather yourself, and leap over the sand spray. You're on a charming small-town residential street, and someone, somewhere, is frying chicken.