On 2/26/2020 10:54 AM, danlj wrote:
On Tuesday, February 25, 2020 at 1:11:06 PM UTC-6, John Cochrane wrote:
Soaring magazine had an article a while ago summarizing a crash involving
a dog in flight. Basically the dog was such a distraction that the pilot
didn't notice spoilers open on tow, or off tow, or at all until impacting
the ground. It was 1 pilot 1 dog in a 2 place glider. Maybe dog on lap of
passenger might work.

John Cochrane BB

It took about 45 seconds to bring up the NTSB aircraft-accident database
and search for all reports containing " dog " -- 203 items in 21 pages.
No, I've not read them all.

Basically, even a normally well-behaved dog may panic in the strange
environment of an aircraft, so dogs, cattle, mice, snakes, spiders, etc.
need to be secured in a way that prevents interference with any control or
operation of the canopy release or BRS...

Dan Johnson

And further in the head-shakingly, gobsmacked, I can't believe what I'm
seeing, temporarily-speechless vein, here's my dog meets glider story. Names
'redacted' to protect the innocent (dogs, I mean, mostly, ha ha!)

So there we wuz at a glider camp in the rural wilds of the Texas panhandle, an
annually-favored location for a bunch of Boulder/Front Range (CO) glider/club
types to kick back from the locationally/situationally/traffically driven
rigors imposed on those Joe Glider Pilots flying from Boulder's municipal A/P.
We were in the home of the brave and the land of the free, where the buffalo
used to roam, and - if the peach fuzz on Joe Landed-Out Glider Pilot's cheeks
was still fresh - a local might even be so kind as to quietly advise JL-OGP
that farmers and cowboys are different species, instead of pulling their
hogleg for the ignorant insult of incorrect categorization. In Texas, a
prudent man chooses his insults wisely.

We effete Front Range city-boy weenies loved it not only for its
XC-friendliness for wannabe XC types (no gliders harmed in in 20 years of
OFLs; 1 gear-up - at the A/P - way back 1990-ish; uncounted XC careers
launched), but - hell, boys! - we were in *Texas* where men are men and the 3
most common lies uttered by many of those men a 1) I won this belt buckle
in the rodeo; 2) I made this snakeskin belt all by myself; and 3) I was just
helpin' this here heifer across that bob-warh fence. And if he offered you a
beer while making those claims, even better, cuz there ain't much future in
calling a Texican a liar, nor ain't there no worse insult than refusing a
freely-offered drink!

While it's true you can pretty easily tell a Texican, it's also true you can't
tell him much, so best not to waste your breath. So the locals tolerated us
and our strange lies, while we pretended to like Lone Star Beer and maintained
Coloradans and Texicans got along fine together in Colorado - no hard feelings
on either side. Hell...we were on vacation, strangers in a strange land, whose
biggest problems all week were figgerin' out how to fill in the few
non-soaring hours that occasionally drearified our carefree existences. Sleep,
breakfast, rig, wait for the day to pop, soar until we wanted to puke, land,
eat dinner; rinse and repeat...

Life was good.

Once the club's 2-seaters began to put in regular appearances at the camp,
even the problem of throwing a sniffer aloft vanished...instruction and such,
you know. Life was now GREAT!!!

Every morning the airport routine was the same..hang around in the only
air-conditioned, tired, melting-slowly-into-the-WW-II concrete, pilot's lounge
while keeping our beady eyes out for the day's first victim. Unvarnished
self-interest always saw someone wandering out onto the ramp once it appeared
Joe Guinea Pig self-identified and the protocol was to pretend to be only
trying to help out (like that heifer!) outta the concerned goodness in one's
heart. On the day in question, Mr. Just(-offering help if you want any, take
your time, no rush) was me.

Apparently someone was going to take the twin solo...no student or passenger
in sight, just the presumed-pilot's boisterous, large, Weimaraner bouncing
around. Apparently as one final act of kindness to ye mutt before being
banishing it to a piece of string near a water bowl in the shade while JGP
went off and did his thing, ye mutt is given what I presumed to be a few
moments of rear seat time...sort of a doggy glider camp treat sort of thing I
guessed. My wife is a dog lover; I've seen stranger indulgences granted many a
mutt...

Further bemused ponderation witnessed ye mutt being buckled in. So far JGP
hasn't said a word to me about his intentions, nor have I asked; if you need
my help, here I am sort of thing. Gradually it dawns on me that JGP
almost-certainly intends to take aloft ye mutt, leaving me even more
speechless than I already had been. Words like "Surely you jest!" begin
forming in my skull, as my internal dynamic morphed to include the
curiosity-killed-the cat wait-n-see possibility.

Boys, we seemed to have a developing situation. We're at a low-key,
expand-your-personal-boundaries, throw off your Boulder-imposed rigorosities,
camp. Friends among friends, where greater experience is freely shared with
any seeking to increase their own - safely of course. As the greater
experienced glider pilot (at that time), I suppose you could argue it was my
responsibility to speak up...once I was 100% certain that the bounds or
reasonably-prudent silliness were abut to be exceeded, but - it's my story and
I'm sticking to it - I WASN'T 100% certain, and not a word had been said
between us. It seemed a shame to possibly harsh the morning buzz by jumping
the gun, so to speak.

In a deus-ex-machina moment, the tuggie broke the spell; he'd been watching
from the air-conditioned lounge. A take charge kind of guy, he marches out and
sez, "If you think I'm towing you with that dog in the back seat, it ain't
gonna happen!" JGP, still silent, straightens up and - still without a word
being uttered - gazes briefly at the tuggie with a look of, "Really?!?"...then
proceeds - still silently - to undo doggie's straps. The tuggie and I exchange
silent glances; I'm pretty sure we're gonna have a private "WTF were you
allowing to happen out there?" conversation; no sense gratuitously publicly
embarrassing someone. Dick - the tuggie - shakes his head once and returns to
wait some more in the air-conned lounge; I remained a silent witness as ye
mutt was banished to his string and the day's first tow was soon-enough made,
with my hookup/wing-tip-running help. I'm still gobsmacked by the entire weird
experience - it's almost an out-of-body, did this actually happen? fading
memory by the time we launched JGP.

I launched soon after and returned as usual around sunset; except for the few
cheap (rhymes with 'dastard') glider pilots like myself who preferred to camp
at the airport 7 miles outside of town, Dick had closed up shop and gone into
town for the night. Next morning he buttonholes me. We have our "WTF was THAT
all about?!?" conversation. I explained my perspective of events. ("Honest to
God, Dick, no way was I going to help launch a dog...but until you 'broke the
spell' the issue of 'does he really mean to?' was still in doubt!") We laughed
about it for years. The JGP in question - so as I'm aware - never broached the
situation topically with either of us, or anyone else, ever. Ye mutt was
likely mollified with a few doggie treats. I have no idea if any other camp
participants were even aware of that morning's curiouser-and-curioser situation.

But the best part of the entire weird scenarios was that particular JGP
subsequently grew (and continues to grow) his soaring skills to where he's one
of Boulder's farthest-flying sailplane pilots each year, obtained his CFIG,
and has created (and continues to support) some nationally-known and
near-universally-used soaring software. He survived his decade of youthful
foolishness with no life-threatening injuries.

Man! Some of the really foolish things most of us have done and survived!!!
(They're hilarious...except for those times they ain't.)

Bob W.