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Gear Up: Flying the Canine Highway

Dogs can be surprisingly good passengers… usually.

It is always hard to know about dogs and airplanes. I know how I feel about both — I like them — but will a dog like flying in an airplane? This is a chronicle of one airplane and three dogs.

Ubu was a Lab-shepherd mix, not known for loyalty or obedience. I attributed his wanderlust to the fact that he wasn’t “fixed.” He came to riding in the Cheyenne my wife, Cathy, and I owned in his middle age and after several flights in the holds of various airliners while cooped up in a box. I assumed he was such a mellow passenger because his previous experiences had been so unpleasant that he was grateful.

Ubu’s aircraft behavior was impeccable, except for one minor quirk and one slightly embarrassing habit. He would greet each landing, whether soft or less so, with a burst of male-anatomy exuberance. That was the quirk. The more troublesome trait had to do with occasional aggressive behavior upon landing. He would sometimes lunge at a lineman at home base after disembarking. I could never figure out why he chose just one or two guys to threaten. No harm was ever done, but I was chagrinned with this anti-social behavior toward people I liked and relied upon.

He lived until 15 and died of natural ­causes one afternoon while sunning himself in the backyard.

After I wrote a column in a local newspaper about how difficult I found it to “put Ubu down,” a nurse I worked with volunteered to help find us a new dog. Soon enough, she announced that she had met Corbett, a 1-year-old Labrador retriever owned by a friend of a friend. He had gotten so big and her house was so small that either Corbett had to go or she had to win the lottery. One day, Cathy and I drove over for an interview. We found Corbett on a stake in the front yard; a circle of grass had been rendered barren by his paws. He had a black-and-blue tongue, which I thought meant he might be part chow, but it turned out he had ­eaten a ballpoint pen. He strained at the leash on a short walk, pulling us behind him. He weighed 80 pounds.

Corbett’s owner loved him deeply but couldn’t possibly keep him. Still, we had to pass muster before being granted custody. Would we keep his shots up to date? Could we afford a good vet? Were we responsible? We answered each question truthfully and left out the part about the turboprop.

I remember well Corbett’s first flight. A ­visiting airline friend volunteered to sit in the right seat while Cathy had Corbett on a short leash in the back. We barricaded the cockpit with folded ­FedEx boxes, called clearance delivery at KTPA in Tampa, Florida, and announced we’d like to just go around the pattern for a dog run. The controller was amused when apprised of our mission (pattern work doesn’t often happen at an airport like KTPA).

Off we went, communicating in sequence with ground control, the tower, departure control, the arrival controller and, finally, the tower controller again, who said, “I don’t hear any ­barking, so I guess it is going OK.” When we taxied in, shut down and lowered the stairs, several linemen stood there with their hands covering their private parts.

Corbett proved to be a fabulous companion and great aviator. He’d sit in the back and occasionally come forward to put both front paws on the wing spar and check to see if I had the heading bug centered.

canine highway
Majestic Corbett heads to California after thoracic surgery. Dick Karl

He flew back and forth from Florida to New Hampshire with great composure, made ­several trips to the Florida Keys, visited relatives in ­Delaware, and had one memorable journey to New Orleans where he discovered beignets at Café du Monde.

Just about two years ago, Corbett became listless, and an X-ray revealed an enlarged heart. The reason was fluid around the heart sac, or ­pericardium, and the cause was almost ­certainly cancer. A surgical procedure relieved the ­fluid pressure, but Corbett’s illness cast a pall on a planned trip to Carmel, California, for a special ­vacation. “He must be kept quiet,” the vet said, “but he’s OK to fly.”

Not knowing what to expect, we saddled up and headed west. He loved the Pacific Ocean and “flew” down the beach. Have you ever tried to keep a Lab quiet? He would visit California, ­Montana and New Hampshire by private aircraft and live almost another year before multiple metastases in his lung spelled the end.

Bereft, we moped around the house. There would be no replacing Corbett. Two months turned into four. Without Corbett to keep Cathy company while I was indulging myself in the world of Part 135 flying, the fact of my absence 10 nights a month became more problematic. In September last year, I retired after three glorious years of fun. But would we get another dog? If so, what kind?

Since Corbett had been kind of a rescue dog, in that we hadn’t bought him from a breeder but a loving owner had given him to us, we thought to visit dog rescue sites. Over dinner one night, I said to Cathy, “If we get another male dog, I’d like to name him Rocco.”

That night on LuckyLabRescue.com, Cathy found a dog called Rocco. The gods were speaking. We arranged to see a short video. Based on 37 seconds, we agreed to take this boy. This is like online dating, I suppose, except a canine is involved. His provenance was not well-known. He was “1 to 2” years old and looked like a Lab. He was from a kill shelter in Kentucky and had been rescued by an outfit in Indiana. They routinely shipped dogs to Vermont, close to us.

And so, on a Sunday morning, we went to meet Rocco, who had just endured a 17-hour car ride. He’s beautiful, we agreed, but does he like to fly, we wondered.

There would be no circuit around the pattern for Rocco’s first flight. We were heading from New Hampshire to Tampa, with a proposed stop in Wilmington, North Carolina. It would be trial by turboprop.

On a cool fall day, we coaxed a wary dog up the steps. He was anxious on start-up. He was alert on takeoff. Then he fell asleep. Once we were over ­Norfolk, Virginia, he came forward and put both front paws on the wing spar. It became clear that we could make the 1,100 nm trip nonstop with a little help from uncharacteristic tailwinds. ­Rocco’s first flight was four hours and 20 minutes. He was a good boy all the way.

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