A Tiny Tale

Diana holds Tiny, the canine cannon ball, during the little gaffer's "Welcome to Canada" party.

Back in 2000, I was in Florida on business and ended up rescuing a little ragamuffin toy poodle puppy named Tiny. Because I was traveling on business, I flew there and back in uniform. This was before we transitioned to the black field uniforms. At the time, we used a navy blue tactical uniform for field operations with "Whynacht Security & Survival" shoulder flashes and mine also had a bright yellow "Dog Handler" patch on the right sleeve.

Boarding my Air Canada flight out of Miami for the first leg back to Nova Scotia, I was carrying Tiny in a small standard crate of the approved dimensions. Because of her young age and small size, she was prone to sudden onsets of hypoglycemia that would cause her to lose consciousness and could be life threatening. To combat this, I was equipped with a tube of Nutrical to quickly administer a blood sugar boost as soon as the symptoms presented.

This was an early flight so breakfast was served. I was sitting six rows back from the front on the left hand side of the aircraft. With no one sitting next to me, I sat in the aisle seat with Tiny's crate stowed under the window seat in the row ahead. When my breakfast arrived, I noticed that Tiny had moved to the front of her crate where I could no longer see her. In case she lapsed into hypoglycemia, I decided to fish her out for inspection. She was fine, and I ended up putting her in my lap while I ate, periodically feeding her pieces of scrambled egg. Only the little girl peeking over the back of the seat in front of me and the elderly couple sitting across the aisle were aware that she was there, and kept smiling approvingly.

I was nearly finished with my breakfast when the flight attendants came through to clear away any empty plates. The one who gave the impression of being in charge, an attractive Asian woman, came down the aisle checking trays right and left. When she looked at mine, her eyes flicked to Tiny who quietly looked back at her. Staring at my lap, her eyes widened in delight, she exclaimed in a loud voice, "Oh my GOD, if that isn't the CUTEST thing I've ever seen in my life!" Since only a few people knew what was going on, I can only guess what everyone else in earshot thought she was talking about.

The flight attendant looked at me and said, "Wait here," which, under the circumstances, I thought was good advice. About a minute later, she came back to say, "The Captain is a dog nut too. He asks if, when you're finished with your breakfast, you wouldn't mind bringing your dog up to meet him." I told her I'd be happy to.

So after no less than three smiling flight attendants took away my plates and tray, and with Tiny riding in my hand like Cleopatra on her barge, I made my way forward to the flight deck where she ended up perched on the First Officer's knee while the Captain and I talked dogs for about half an hour. He was a beagle man, and I never hold that against anyone.

Our plane landed in Dorval after which we transferred to another Air Canada jet, this time a DC-9. My seat was at the extreme rear of the plane on the right. The flight was only half full and I was in the aisle seat with an empty seat between me and the window. A solitary male passenger who I recognized from the previous flight was in the aisle seat opposite me, with no one else around for six or seven rows forward.

Different plane, different crew. The first thing I noticed on boarding was a less than welcoming look for Tiny's crate from the senior flight attendant. Making my way to my seat, I stowed my carry on and immediately found out that Tiny's crate wouldn't fit under the seat. I signaled the one woman who appeared to be in charge, showed her my problem, and asked if there was somewhere I could stow the crate. Since there had been no problem with Tiny being in the cockpit of my first flight, I didn't expect an issue with her in my lap this time.

"Absolutely not," she said, "Your dog will have to go in the cupboard behind you. She pointed to a compartment about the size of an airplane washroom immediately behind me.

I looked at her in disbelief, calmly explained the hypoglycemia issue, and that I needed to keep an eye on Tiny to administer immediate treatment.

"No, it's against regulations," she replied.

Now I was getting pissed off. "False Authority Syndrome" always does that to me, and I've always followed the adage that rules are made for the guidance of the wise, and the blind obedience of fools. What transpired next would have gotten me thrown off the plane in the post 9/11 era.

"This is an Air Canada flight, is it not?" I asked, looking pointedly at the airline name embroidered on her jacket.

"Of course it is," she replied.

"Are there different regulations for this flight than the last one I was on? Because on the last flight my dog was nearly flying the damn plane."

At this point, the man across from me chimed in with, "He's right. The Captain had him bring that dog up to see him in the cockpit!"

She sighed then and said, "It can't be out of its crate because if something happens that dog could become a projectile!”

I looked at the few ounces that were Tiny, the canine cannon ball, and then at the woman with the baby on her knee sitting in the aisle seat 8 rows up.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, pointing at the woman with the infant, “That baby is more of a potential projectile than my dog will ever be. You go tell that woman her kid goes in the closet and I’ll put my dog in too.”

The flight attendant looked at the woman with the baby as though seeing her for the first time, then back at me. She opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out. Then she walked away toward the front of the plane. About a minute later, another flight attendant came back, quietly took away the empty crate, and stowed it in the locker. Tiny slept in my lap all the way to Halifax.