Bowser
Delivering food, beer, and Amazon boxes to native Alaskan villages can be somewhat chaotic; many villagers have spent more time with the airplanes than the pilots, so unloading tends to be a free-for-all at times. It was just such an occasion on one of the first icy days of the year.
By the time I had landed on the snow, taxied to the ice, jotted down the time, and unbuckled, the locals had both of my cargo doors open. I walked around to help unload and manage the movement of cargo to the extent possible. Within four minutes, 800 pounds of chips and pop were off the plane and the villagers were loading them onto various trucks, four-wheelers, and sleds.
After securing a handful of outbound packages, I turned back to the airplane and began my pre-flight walkaround. As I approached the nose I noticed a burst-open can of soda lying on the ice. I picked up what remained and moved it to the nearby cargo shed.
On my next trip, Craig, the chief pilot, was also flying. Minutes after I parked, he pulled up in his airplane behind me. We offloaded an afternoon's worth of groceries and, after a preflight, I hopped into my airplane. I started the engine and was reaching for the radios when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A dark streak shot by my landing gear heading forward.
A dog. It's a dog. A dog is heading for my prop.
I reached for the mixture control and ignition, simultaneously starving the engine of fuel and fire. Unlike in cars, airplane engines sporting 300 horsepower and a three-blade propellor spanning 72" take several seconds to stop. There was nothing I could do but wait. Agonizing seconds dripped by. I waited with my hand on the door. The engine seemed bent on staying alive.
The moment my engine stopped, I was out. Craig was running toward my plane, along with the dog's owner.
I could see the dog running away.
However, my moment of relief came to an abrupt halt when I looked down. Just below my prop, on otherwise clear ice, was a massive red stain. I was heartbroken. We were going to have to put the dog down, now.
Craig got to me first and grabbed me by the shoulders, hard.
"Are you ok?" he asked. "I'll fly you home and get someone else to take your plane," he said.
The dog's owner passed us at a full sprint.
Bowser. His name was Bowser.
I knew this dog. I had flown him, given him treats, and cuddled him in cruise. He was a gorgeous black and brown animal of the ubiquitous "Village Mutt" breed. Kind-hearted and loving.
I had killed a dog. Not just a random animal. A dog that I knew and loved. Unable to look Craig in the eye, I stared at the ground, stunned. The pool of red burned into my heart like acid.
Red. Red blood. This couldn't be blood. This couldn't be Bowser's blood. Slowly, like the first
fingers of daylight breaking through a thick forest, the thoughts came.
Then, the realization of what had just happened hit me so fast that it brought with it no poise or professionalism.
I looked up at Craig. "It's cherry soda!" I said with a massive smile of relief.