Two Lives in One Row
Emily had left Nottingham for Austria—not for a while, but for good. A new house, a new job, everything properly grown-up. Yet what travelled with her wasn’t suitcases or furniture. It was her dearest companions—two dogs she’d raised since they were puppies, nearly from the moment they were born. They weren’t pets; they were pieces of her. Kindred spirits.
Moving them turned out to be no small feat. No airline would let them in the cabin. Except one. But they had conditions: she had to buy out an entire row of three seats. The cost stung, but Emily had no choice. None at all. She agreed.
Nine hours in the sky. Two muzzles, two leads, tightly fastened to the armrests. A small rucksack on her back—that was all she owned. And most importantly—her dogs, right beside her. In the seats next to hers, frightened, trembling, but loyal. They looked at her like children to their mother.
“Hush now, my dears. It’s alright. Where we’re going, there’s a park. A proper one. With pines, walking trails, a pond. You’ll run there, like you did when you were pups,” she whispered, stroking each of them, letting them lick her hands.
Flight attendants offered them treats, even took pictures. No one could believe such big dogs could be so gentle. The cabin was calm. Almost peaceful.
When the captain announced their descent, Emily unfastened the leads. Soon—in just minutes—they’d be on solid ground. Home. The start of a new life.
Then—impact.
The front landing gear gave way. The plane lurched forward, skidding down the runway, its belly shrieking against the tarmac. It spun, careering out of control, hurtling straight toward a hangar.
Panic. Screams. Someone tumbled into the aisle. Someone called for their mother. Someone prayed. But Emily held her dogs tight and whispered:
“Don’t be afraid… We’re together. And when we’re together, nothing can scare us.”
They weren’t afraid. They felt her breath, her heartbeat. Their mother was with them.
Crash. Fire. An explosion in the wing. Black smoke. Then—silence.
Consciousness returned like a whipcrack: pain. In every joint. Every cell. Her whole body throbbed like a single raw wound. But through that pain—two wet noses. Two tongues. Two pairs of devoted eyes, full of fear and hope.
The dogs dragged her out.
Through smoke, through flames, through heat that stripped paint from metal. They pulled her—paw by paw, teeth clenched in her coat—leaving a trail in the grass from the shattered door to the hill where Emily now sat, hunched, alive. Grateful.
“Was it you? You saved me?”
They jumped, wagged, licked her hands. Sirens wailing closer. Fire crews, medics. She barely heard them. Just the whisper of her own heart: *You’re with them. They’re with you. You’re alive.*
Now they have their park. Their home. Peace. Warmth. Happiness.
Some nights, Emily wakes in tears—dreaming again of the hangar rushing toward her. She screams. And again, they’re there. Clambering onto the bed, pressing close. Lulling her back to sleep.
And that’s the whole answer, isn’t it? What does a person need to be happy?
Sometimes—just two dogs, and a little bit of love.
