This is a story about a dog and an airplane. The dog is Ubu, a 14-year-old lab-shepherd mix, color black. The airplane is a 1980 Cheyenne I, color white with a brown stripe. The two met just after my wife, Cathy, and I acquired the Cheyenne about five years ago. Ubu had developed a love of flight in a wonderful Cessna 340 we owned before the Cheyenne. We had taken a seat out of the 340 to accommodate him on the floor. He could not manage the steps, though, and you had to pretty much throw him into the cabin, while all four of his walking appendages windmilled against the fuselage or pummeled the cargo hand assigned to get him boarded (me).
The Cheyenne proved more to his liking and refined tastes. He could bound up the steps and found plenty of room to sleep without requiring any furniture removal. The dog proved so eager that he would begin whining and wagging his tail when we drove anywhere near our home FBO in Tampa. All landings provoked noisy commentary from the pooch. He would often leap forward between the passenger seats to congratulate the pilots and indicate his overall satisfaction with this pleasurable way for a dog to travel. When we arrived back home from a flight, he would stand at the doorway as the airstairs were lowered, surveying his empire with a distant and dismissive gaze. Familiar linemen would approach with some caution.
