My favorite co-pilot

Some vastly more experienced than I, some vastly not. Some have been great: helpful, tracking my moves, sensing when (and how) to assist and when not, and participating with navigation or communications or whatever I needed or whatever we agreed to before startup.

On the other hand, some right-seat pilots have been more like me when I’m in the right seat— always anticipating what the PIC needs and pointing it out before they realize it’s needed. Especially when I happen to be the more senior and/or more experienced pilot. I always tell myself I’m helping, maybe even saving us from something dangerous or at least that will have air traffic controllers yelling at us. Sometimes it’s appreciated, often it’s not. As someone once said, “Helping is too often just another word for controlling.”

But my all-time favorite co-pilot flew with me for more than a decade and racked up more than 500 hours in the right seat. She never wanted the controls and never gave me one piece of bad advice, in the air or on the ground.

Her name was Muffin, and she was my 50-pound Old English Sheep Dog. She absolutely loved to fly and would hop in the airplane any chance she got. I’d had her since she was eight weeks old, and we became constant companions for more than 13 years.

Whenever she realized we were headed to the airport she’d perk up and start barking with joy. As soon as the door was open she’d commandeer right seat and pant expectantly until I could untie and get through the preflight checklist. Never soon enough for her, for sure! “Let’s go,” she’d arf. And finally we would.Having her in the right seat made me want to fly smoothly and well, just so nothing would happen to my happy co-pilot.

She loved the feeling of flying, in smooth air or turbulence. She stared out her window gazing at puffy clouds or pouring rain. And she never told me how to fly or what I might be doing wrong. She never tried to tell me when I was wandering off course, about to enter a restricted area, or commented that we were low on fuel. But you know what? Having her in the right seat made me want to fly smoothly and well, just so nothing would happen to my happy co-pilot.

During descent Muffin even knew how to clear her ears. She’d begin by shaking her head, then as soon as the propeller stopped and I opened the door she’d jump out, bark, and shake her head vigorously until everything was back to normal. Then she’d look at me as if to say, “Do we have to quit?”

On the ground Muffin had many friends, a good dozen of whom would beg to keep her whenever I’d go on a business trip. No boarding this animal, for sure! Even at the TV station where I worked in post-production, I was instructed to never come to work without her; occasionally when I’d forget I’d be met at the editing room door with, “Hey, you can’t come in here without your dog!”

This black-and-white shaggy thing was my dear companion for more than 13 years, but the life of beloved pets is always too short. She ultimately became very sick, and our last trip together was that dreaded one to the vet, where the necessary but unthinkable final thing occurred, and she was relieved of her pain. It was transferred to my heart.

No friendly, professional co-pilot will ever replace aviating with my canine co-pilot Muffin, whom someone once called “Ben’s sheep dog of the skies.” It was more than 30 years before I found another pup that I loved so much. And never one who would have jumped at the chance to get a canine pilot certificate if such a thing existed.

Ben Moses is a documentary filmmaker and pilot.