literature

Planes: You Wear It Well (Part 1 of 2)

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Spring, 1988.

It had been a long, anxious day for the residents of the tiny Minnesota town. Ominous black clouds of a tornado spawning supercell approached from the southwest. Mere miles from the tiny bastion of civilization, trees were blown down. Telephone and power lines were severed. Some less reinforced structures were reduced to rubble. Rain and golf ball sized hail pummeled all else. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed. Menacing funnel clouds taunted terrified residents, chewing up the fertile fields, ruining the season’s bountiful harvest. In the midst of all this, beneath a green sky and apocalyptic conditions, a pale blue forklift, a doctor and PhD, had another, more pressing emergency on his tines. A yellow and blue striped AT-400 crop duster was going into labor.
At nine months pregnant, she’d picked one hell of a time to have her child. Not that he cared. Lori Crophopper was family. A new father himself, Darren Crosby wasn’t about to let the end of the world prevent him from helping a friend in her time of need. While hail and rain pelted the hangar’s steel roof and cracked numerous windows, he steadfastly remained by Lori’s side as pained screams erupted from her throat. Steadily the contractions grew stronger, to the point when Lori was shedding tears and whimpering. Right as powerful gusts bombarded the hangar and the situation grew truly dire, Darren, with his tines pressed against the aircraft’s swollen underside, cried out to her over the din.
“Push, Lori!”
Sucking in a strained breath and screaming her lungs out, Lori gave a final, mighty heave. A tiny crop duster slipped out of its mother, right into Darren’s tines. Mewling meekly and quivering, the newborn plane’s wings were wrapped around its fuselage, having yet to spread. Checking beneath its tail, Darren quickly ascertained the gender.
“Oh, Lori. It’s a boy.”
Unfortunately, the new mother and forklift couldn’t rejoice for long. Above them, steel beams supporting the roof bowed and creaked, threatening to give way.
“Darren...” wheezed Lori “I think the roof’s gonna give.”
“We gotta go now! Get to the shop!”
Lori, in extreme pain from having just given birth, forced herself forward, groaning loudly. Shielding the newborn from the elements to best of his ability, both Darren and Lori braved the ongoing storm. Cold rain stung their eyes and plating, making it nearly impossible to see. Gusts threatened to send them all airborne. Behind them, mere seconds after leaving, the hangar roof collapsed, bringing the entire structure crashing down. Lori, panting and gasping for breath, reached Darren’s shop first, which was reinforced. Darren entered next, still clutching the tiny plane in his tines. Placing the newborn before his mother, Darren closed the shop doors and wiped his brow, breathing a hefty sigh of relief. Any closer and they would’ve been crushed or blown away.
Upon seeing her son for the first time, tears of joy cascaded from Lori’s blue eyes, mixing with rainwater dripping from her fuselage. Licking his frame, the newborn whimpered at her touch and shivered briskly. Quickly going from someplace warm to the rain and cold of the outside world left him exhausted and delivered a strong shock to his newly developed senses. Within minutes, his tiny wings started to spread, like a newly emerged butterfly. Although dull grey and much smaller than he should’ve been, he was healthy, and the most beautiful thing Lori had ever seen. Being the firstborn son of her lineage, as part of the Crophopper family tradition, she named him after her father.
“My baby. My little Dusty.”

For the first month of his life, Dusty and his mother lived in Darren’s shop while their hangar was rebuilt. In that time, he’d opened his eyes, learned to stand on his own landing gear and operate his control surfaces. Fortunately, while many of the fields surrounding Propwash Junction were ruined, the town itself survived with comparatively little damage. Finally moving out of the cramped shop and into their newly completed hangar just in time for autumn, Darren and his wife could now tend to patients and clients much more freely. While cooped up inside as winter arrived and brought two feet of snow, Dusty was at the center of his mother’s attention. She sang to him, nuzzled his tiny nose, and licked him clean.
As winter rolled by, Dusty’s propeller blades emerged. A vibrant orange and white coloration appeared, replacing the dull grey he’d been born with. Despite his small size and being underweight, Dusty’s appetite was nothing short of ravenous. He never remained satisfied for long. Every hour, oftentimes sooner, he probed beneath his mother’s tail, mewling longingly as his propeller blades scraped her ventral plating. With a smile she’d lift her tail slightly, allowing him to nurse to his heart’s content, until she had nothing more to give. His appetite continually baffled the yellow and blue crop duster. Was her son’s stomach a bottomless pit? She wasn’t at all surprised that by the end of his first year, he’d more than doubled in size.
For three years, Dusty demanded all of his mother’s attentions and affections. For three years, Lori was forced to remain on the ground beside her son, who stubbornly refused accept anything from anyone who wasn’t her. Trying to get him to drink formula proved to be a lost cause. Whatever Darren attempted to give him, Dusty spit out and went running to his mother. Everyone sighed with relief when Dusty was fully weaned and finally abandoned his hourly routine. Lori returned to dusting crops beside Leadbottom, who slaved all day to make up for her absence. She always kept a close eye on that overly eccentric biplane. Though he meant well and would never harm anything, Lori didn’t trust him around her son.
Having dusted crops his entire life and devoting himself to his occupation, the decades of spraying carcinogenic chemicals had taken its toll. Although he’d only recently switched to more environmentally friendly fertilizers and insecticides, the damage had already been done. Back in the day, when Lori’s parents, both Piper PA-36 Pawnees, were still alive and roaring overhead with their powerful flat-eight engines, Leadbottom was far different. Cool. Hip. Slick. A greaser by all accounts. A product of the 1950’s. The usage of DTT and other such insecticides warped his mind and ate away at his body, leaving him a shadow of his former self. Lori’s parents were not so fortunate; eventually dying from the effects of the very chemicals they sprayed.
The reality made Lori’s plating crawl. She herself had been exposed to the chemicals which played a role in her parent’s deaths and Leadbottom’s altered nature, albeit to a lesser degree. While her structural integrity, flight performance, and general health hadn’t suffered, her reproductive health certainly had. The presence of toxic agents in her body, specifically teratogens, contributed to Dusty’s below average size and weight at birth. Fortunately, his ravenous appetite and rapid growth during his first year almost entirely negated this fact.

Back in her teen years, Lori was quite adventurous and unprejudiced when it came to males, and had many intimate affairs. She never settled down with anyone for more than a few months, for the sake of keeping things interesting when not working in the fields. That is, until she met Dean King, a silver AT-6 Texan. Suave, charming, strong, and handsome. The dream of every girl for miles around. What more could a headstrong, awkward female with an insatiable need for speed like her ask for? She married Dean at 20 in 1960, foolishly diving headfirst into an intensely passionate relationship with no thought of the future. For a short time, it seemed Lori’s dreams came true.
Despite all of his physical strength and tenacity, Dean was very much an alpha male, a hot tempered plane who wished to dominate above all else. After the initial passion died down, Lori inwardly doubted he was indeed the one for her. In time, he grew cold. Callous. Indifferent. Unsympathetic. She stayed out later over the fields just to get away from his overbearing nature. Falling pregnant by him, her first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage after three months. To compound Lori’s sadness, Dean blamed her for her apparent ‘weakness,’ although Dinoseb and other such insecticides she sprayed were really to blame. After the miscarriage, Dean’s indifference turned to anger. He regularly struck and hollered at her. When she fell pregnant again, he got worse. He grew violent.
There were no complications during Lori’s second pregnancy. Although her labor lasted much longer than normal, nothing appeared wrong, that is, until her daughter came out silent and still, having died inside her mother’s womb during the unusually long labor. Lori’s elation turned to horror. After the stillbirth, Dean’s frayed patience finally reached its end. In a fit of rage, he attacked. Trying and failing spectacularly to plead with him, something inside Lori snapped. She had no recollection of her retaliation, only the moment when she came to her senses. She’d beaten Dean to within an inch of his miserable life, nearly tearing his left wing off. Once repaired and deemed airworthy, he fled Propwash Junction. Never again did his and Lori’s paths cross.
In 1964, while visiting her father’s family in Pennsylvania to get away from the fields of Minnesota, she stopped in Bethlehem to refuel. There she met an F4U Corsair, by the name of Skipper Riley. 19 years her senior and busy drinking his cares away with shot after shot of bourbon, everyone else dismissed him as a grumpy old crankshaft. Lori, however, sensed there was more to him than met the eye. She believed he carried a great pain in his heart. Curiosity took hold. Ignoring her advances at first, he found it odd that she approached him so willingly. ‘What does she see in me?’ he wondered. A casual conversation about his US Navy markings turned highly emotional for the old warbird, who broke down in tears.
Lori, for reasons she couldn’t explain, took pity and couldn’t with a clear conscience leave him to his own devices. Staying in Bethlehem with Skipper, he outwardly ignored her company and expected her to leave after a few days. Much to his bewilderment, Lori never left. After a month, his tough exterior began to break. He’d crack a smile, share a chuckle. After six months, she’d broken him. Skipper opened up about his experience in the Pacific Theater, sparing no detail. He spoke of his friends, the brothers in arms he trained for combat. Speaking about his first and only mission proved extremely difficult, leading Lori to wonder just how bad the experience really was. Recounting the vivid events, he had Lori riveted, almost begging to hear more.
He was shot down by a fleet of Japanese ships and witnessed every one of his friends perish. Alone and marooned on the open sea, he faced a blazing sun and the intense pain of his injuries from crashing. At night, he was attacked and dragged underwater by wild submarine, which he managed to kill. After another day adrift, he was caught in a nightmarish gale, tossed about by towering waves and saved from drowning by a pod of air breathing submarines. On the third day, an American aircraft carrier spotted and plucked him from the sea. For the better part of 30 years, he silently carried the burden and never told a soul of his experience. After telling Lori, he felt a weight had been taken off his frame.
Feeling the need to return the favor, Lori sobbed as she told him of her plight with Dean and her two failed attempts at being a mother. Horrified and disgusted upon hearing what she’d endured, the Corsair comforted Lori, drying her tears. From then on, they were inseparable. Moving in with Skipper, she continued to dust crops, learning to navigate the hilly Pennsylvania countryside. Every time Lori returned after a day of work, Skipper’s face glowed and he felt an intense head over heels sensation unlike any he’d felt in decades. A year later, they could no longer deny their true feelings and confessed their love. After living together for four years and sensing they’d found their rightful partner, they married in 1968.
In Skipper’s company, Lori had never felt so happy. He always found a way to make her laugh or smile, even when she felt down or tired after a day of work. He indulged her in pleasures beyond her wildest dreams, but never broke his chivalrous, gentlemanlike character. In her company, Skipper learned to forgive himself, come to terms with his past and find happiness. For 20 years, they lived under the same roof, content and harmonious. However, while Skipper remained the same, Lori began to feel melancholy. She felt their relationship wasn’t as exciting, passionate, and fulfilling as it used to be. For some bizarre, instinctive reason, it no longer felt right. Having remained by his side for so long, she sensed it was time to move on.
After all, she’d had a good run with Skipper. 20 years of marriage was no small feat. He was wonderful in so many ways. However, she couldn’t stay. Growing increasingly discontented and unhappy, Lori made up her mind. Breaking the news to Skipper that she wanted a divorce, the Corsair was utterly blindsided. He simply didn’t understand why she wanted to leave. Attempting to reason with and persuade his wife to stay proved futile. Signing numerous documents and finalizing the divorce, Lori flew out of his life, returning to Propwash Junction. Home again after being away for so long, Lori soon discovered she was pregnant. For nine months she carried Skipper’s son, fearing something would go awry and she’d lose him like she’d lost her first two.
Fortunately, her fears were proven wrong when Dusty Crophopper entered the world. Small and underweight, but otherwise healthy. While Lori busied herself with raising her son and dusting crops, Skipper had become a depressed recluse in the hills of Bethlehem, worse off than before. Still in love with Lori and completely unaware he was a father, the Corsair was reduced to a broken, hobbling mess. He openly wept all day, longing for his wife to return. Having left so suddenly, he had no idea where Lori had gone, or if she’d started over with someone else. He wondered if somehow, he was to blame for her leaving. Was it something he did? She seemed so happy with him. Why the sudden change? Somehow, it had to be his fault.
He strongly contemplated suicide. Slit the main oil and hydraulic lines in his wing joints, lay down and close his eyes, go off to wait for her in the next life. Ultimately, the excessive quantities of bourbon he consumed dulled his senses and clouded his thoughts, driving all thoughts of suicide from the old warbird’s mind. Living in solitude and without Lori by his side, Skipper vowed never to love again.


Summer, 1997.

Just past three in the afternoon, white clouds dotted the sky, doing little to obscure a July blazing sun. According to the weather forecast, the peace was not to last. By nightfall, thunderstorms currently blowing across Nebraska would arrive, bringing with them ‘torrential rain and possible hail.’ A yellow and blue striped crop duster raised her nose as she touched down on Propwash Junction’s runway and coasted to a stop. Taxiing off the runway, Lori exhaled wearily. Dusting crops with Leadbottom since the crack of dawn, the incoming rain would probably wash away the fertilizer they just applied, rendering their day’s work pointless. At 57 years old, Lori exhausted herself day in and day out to earn an honest living, while scraping together time to be with her son.
Though she was rarely around for half the year, Dusty wasn’t alone while she worked. It always brought a smile to her face, seeing him play with Dottie and Chug. They loved him like the siblings he could’ve had. Dottie always did her best to act as a big sister, a mediator. Chug, on the other hand, actively encouraged Dusty’s highflying antics and reckless behavior. Headstrong, awkward, and possessing a heart of gold, he continually reminded Lori of herself, back in her carefree days so long ago. Shutting off her Wasp radial engine, her propeller slowed to a stop. Draining her tanks of residual fertilizer, she wolfed down a 30 gallons of 91 octane at the Fill-‘N-Fly to slake her thirst. In terms of appetite, Dusty certainly took after his mother.
Returning to her hangar and finding the doors open, she was met with a surprise. Perched behind the radio set was a familiar 13-year-old green fuel truck and 9-year-old faded purple forklift. To Lori’s bewilderment, Dusty was nowhere to be seen. Where had that crazy kid of hers gone off to this time? Earlier in the day, Dusty and his friends trekked to the town of McMullen, 20 miles west. The only town with a movie theater for miles around, they frequently spent their allowances on tickets. Visiting McMullen on such a regular basis, they made friends with the theater staff and Hank Cruze, a member of the McMullen police department and humble 1978 Dodge Monaco.
“How’s it looking out there?” asked Chug, speaking into the radio.
From the radio and over the sound of a revving turbine engine came Dusty’s composed voice.
“I just passed the O’Leary’s windmill. I did the knife edge through the trees at 180.”
“180!?” gasped Dottie.
“Yeah! I’ve never gone through them that fast doing a knife edge.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard, Dusty. You don’t wanna break something again. You know what happened last time.”
“Ha!” scoffed Dusty “Dottie, you’re just like your dad. You worry too much. That’s not gonna happen again.”
“That’s the same thing he said last time…” grumbled the lift.
“Okay, I’m on the straightaway. I’m at 170 now, I’ll get a little higher and I’ll try to go faster.”
“Go to Ludicrous Speed!” cheered Chug.
“You got it! 175 and climbing. What’s my time?”
“One minute, 50 seconds.” replied Dottie, glancing at a stopwatch hanging from her tine.
“Gotcha. I’ll be back in four and a half.”
Facing the lift, anxiousness crept across Chug’s face.
“You think he can pass 200?”
Dottie shrugged her tines.
“If his engine doesn’t break first…yeah. Probably. I think he’s a little crazy, thinking he can be a racer. He’s not made for it.”
“I heard that!” replied Dusty.
Shaking her head and groaning softly, Dottie flipped off the microphone, shooting Chug a reproachful glance.
“You left that on on purpose.”
“I did not.” huffed the truck.
Clearing her throat rather loudly, both Chug and Dottie made a swift about face. Both vehicles blushed intensely at Lori’s suspicious stare.
“Oh, hey, Miss C!” beamed Chug, failing miserably to hide his nervousness “I didn’t think you’d be back this soon.”
If only Lori had a foot to tap. Flipping up her control surfaces, she tipped her nose, bringing her eyes closer to their level.
“Where’s Dusty?”

15 miles away from Propwash and maintaining 300 feet, a 9-year-old orange and white crop duster blitzed eastward across the plains, grinning from ear to ear. Pushed beyond full throttle, his turbine engine whined fiercely. Intently watching his speedometer’s needle climb, he took full advantage of a brisk tailwind and attempted to break his previous personal speed record, which stood at 196mph. The needle started to climb, only to fall and climb again, teasing him.
“Come on, come on…”
Dusty’s speed hovered in the vicinity of 175mph. It wasn’t enough. He had to go faster. At this rate, he’d never pass 196 before flying over town. He couldn’t give up! Not when he was this close to besting his record! Flexing his elevators, Dusty ascended at a steep angle. Mindful of his speed so not to stall, he passed 3,000 feet. At the higher altitude, the persistent tailwind was much stronger, propelling the young plane to 192. Just a little more, then he could call it a day and say he’d broken his record for level flight. Happening to glance downward by mistake, his infinite sense of self-confidence evaporated as the ground appeared to shrink away. Snapping his eyes forward, the young plane panted heavily and leveled out, now at 3,500 feet.
“No, no, not this again. Keep looking forward, you idiot!”
Try as he might, Dusty couldn’t resist looking down. The green earth seemed to leap away before his very eyes. What was he thinking, flying this high!? He never flew this high for a reason! A blind, overpowering fear gripped the increasingly lightheaded crop duster, until he greyed out and entered a dive. Rapidly approaching the ground, his speed raced to 250mph, well beyond his model’s top speed. At 500 feet, the effects of acrophobia waned and he regained his wits. Jerking his elevators and pulling up as hard as he could, Dusty’s wheels almost skimmed the treetops of a small grove. Gradually decelerating and regaining altitude, Dusty wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. Any lower, and he would’ve been torn to ribbons.
Flying back at a much more leisurely rate, he intended to keep what just happened to himself. If his mother knew he flew above 1,000 feet again, she’d have a conniption. If she knew he nearly got himself killed because of it, well, it was anybody’s guess. What his mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. In terms of his level flight record, he failed to set a new benchmark. Be that as it may, he did manage to blow his all-time speed record out of the water. Again, he’d definitely keep it to himself. If he told Dottie and Chug he broke 250mph, they’d certainly inquire as to how. He could already hear Dottie saying something like ‘What did you do? Dive-bomb a cornfield?’
Passing over town, he looked down to see his mother along with Dottie and Chug standing in the doorway of their hangar. Why was she back form work so soon? It had to be that incoming storm he heard about earlier. Shuddering in midair as he lined up with the runway, he’d picked one heck of a day to see ‘Twister’ with his friends; a movie all about tornadoes destroying towns, throwing trucks, and bulldozing drive-ins. Dottie and Chug were composed most of the time during the scenes of menacing funnel clouds annihilating all in their path, whereas Dusty’s teeth were chattering and he shook in unadulterated terror. No way he was going to sleep well tonight, not after nearly leaking on himself in the theater.
Touching down and shutting off his engine, Dusty smiled and raced across the tarmac to his mother.
“Mom!” he cried gleefully.
Turning in his direction, Lori never tired of her son’s overjoyed expression whenever she returned from another day of work. It made the risk and nonsense she put up with worthwhile; to come home to his smiling face took all of her cares away. Rubbing their propeller hubs together, Lori kissed Dusty’s cowling. Being half her size at about 13 feet long, she still had to lower her nose to meet his. Hopefully before long, if he continued to grow like a weed, she wouldn’t have to.
“Mmm…” Lori purred, resting her nose atop his “It’s good to see you, Dusty.”
“You too, mom.”
Pulling back from him, she smiled. His eyes practically glowed. What did she do to deserve such a wonderful child? Ducking back inside the hangar to remove her sprayer for the day, Chug and Dottie approached Dusty.
“Do you wanna know your time?” asked the eager fuel truck.
The crop duster shook his head, lying about failing to break a record. He didn’t need to act very much in order to convince his friends.
“Ah, no. I had a good tailwind, but I didn’t break 190.”
Dottie, as always, could be counted upon to look after his mechanical wellbeing.
“Any overheating or delayed responses?”
“No Dottie, everything was just fine.”
Removing her sprayer and placing the heavy device on a wooden pallet, Lori sighed with relief. She hated lugging that thing around, but she put up with it for Dusty’s sake. Without that monstrosity mounted beneath her forward fuselage, he could snuggle beneath her fuselage without poking himself on the sprayer nozzles. Glancing at her son and his friends, she didn’t need to wonder what they were talking about or why they were so concerned about Dusty being able to fly as fast as possible. Dusty and Chug adored air racing. It was all they talked about and watched on television. They would sit glued to their TV, watching world renowned champions fly thousands of miles and reach mindboggling speeds.
Dottie, on the other hand, was a bit less supportive of Dusty’s mile high ambitions; more concerned with his wellbeing and safety. That young lift reminded Lori so much of her own mother, who had panic attacks and obsessed over her safety. Lori, young and believing she was invincible, ignored much of her advice until she found herself in dangerous or embarrassing predicaments. Afterward her mother gave her nip on the tail, a raised brow, and finally a stern and mind-numbingly boring lecture on safety. Unfortunately, Lori wasn’t one who remembered a lesson. Apparently, neither was Dusty.

Around six in the evening, dark clouds rolled in from the southwest, blocking out the sun and bringing torrential rain. Inside their hangar, Dusty guzzled down enough JP-5 to satisfy a Learjet. His earlier exertions and nearly getting himself killed left the young crop duster famished. Quenching his thirst and switching on the television, he eagerly watched planes compete in a pylon race in Spain. Watching the competition with him, Lori frowned at the sight of brightly painted planes making such tight, precise maneuvers. Perhaps, in another life, that could’ve been her making those tight turns and dazzling hordes of spectators.
Abruptly Dusty said “I wanna be like them.”
“Hmm?”
“I wanna be like them, mom. I wanna race when I grow up.” Dusty reiterated.
Oh boy, she thought. He reminded her a little too much of her younger self.
“You know, I wanted to do the same thing when I was your age.”
Now she had his attention. Facing his mother, Dusty went wide-eyed at her revelation. His mother wanted to be a racer, too?
“Really?”
“Yes.” Lori nodded “When I was younger, we didn’t have a TV. I listened to the races on the radio. I got so excited whenever a race was held. Of course, everyone, even my own parents, thought I was crazy. A crop duster who wanted to be a racer? It was completely unheard of. I didn’t let anyone talk me down, it was what I wanted. Then my parents asked me if I wanted to see a real race.”
With his rudder wagging, Dusty rose up on his wheels, trembling in anticipation and desperate to know more.
“Did you see one?”
“I did. Way back in 1951, when I was 11, my parents and I flew to San Francisco to see the start of the Transcontinental Rally. Thirty planes took off from San Francisco, landed in Kansas City, and continued to New York City. ‘From the Golden Gate to the Empire State,’ they called it. Before the race started, I got to meet the racers.”
“What were they like?”
Exhaling slowly, Lori knew she was probably about to burst his bubble.
“Well…I was in for a surprise. Some of them were really nice, they were just doing it for fun. Others…they were really arrogant. Full of themselves. It was all about winning and looking good. A lot of them had scars. They pushed themselves so hard, they broke gearboxes and cracked engine blocks. Some of them probably shouldn’t have flown, but they did anyway. When the race started, one of the racers crashed. He uh, he died. Right in front of everyone. He didn’t even take off.”
Shrugging her wings, Lori stuttered. She vividly remembered the flames and hush that fell over the spectators, coupled with the cries from the deceased racer’s family.
“I was terrified of races after that. I didn’t want to wind up like them, arrogant and scarred. I certainly didn’t want to end up dead. My father told me there was no shame in dusting crops. It keeps a lot of people fed, it pays really well, and it’s an honest living. I could either be a racer and help myself, or dust crops and help thousands of others, be a part of something larger than myself. I still had my dreams, but then my parents died and I had no choice. I had to dust crops. If I didn’t do it, no one would.”
Rubbing his nose against hers, Dusty stared into his mother’s tired eyes. She could see the raw determination emanating from them. This is what he wanted.
“I wanna race, mom.”
Lori nodded, gently pushing against his nose. His determination rekindled a long extinct fire within the female crop duster. She was so much older now. She blew her opportunity to leave the fields decades ago. Dusty still had a chance, and unlike his mother, he was already acting on fulfilling his dream, rather than sinking back and doing what he was made to do.
“If it’s what you really want, who am I to stop you? If you want to be a racer, then by god, do it. Show the world what you’re made of. Prove everyone wrong. If you’re that determined and you’re accepting of the risks, no one can talk you down. No matter what path you take, you’ll always have a proud mother.”
Giggling with excitement, Dusty jumped for joy, springing several inches off his wheels.
“I practiced. I wanna show you what I can do, mom. Would you like to see?”
“I’d love to. I have to work tomorrow, so, how about the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah!”
Nuzzling his propeller hub, Lori whispered “Show me what you’ve got. Give it your all, don’t hold back.”
Overcome with happiness at his mother’s approval, Dusty nodded, a thousand-watt smile spread across his face. Hopefully she’d be as impressed as Dottie and Chug were.
“I will, mom. I’m gonna be the first crop duster to win a race.”
“Remember, Dusty. It’s not about fame or winning. You’re proving a point. You’re proving you can do more than what you’re built for.”
Nodding, he replied “I’m gonna make you proud, mom.”
Kissing his cowling, Lori felt her son press against her chin. He felt so warm, overflowing with life and childhood eagerness.
“Dusty, you already make me proud.”

Around midnight, the strongest region of the storm struck Propwash Junction with full force. Thunder blasted like battleships firing their guns. Lightning blazed like solar flares. Near gale force winds ripped through town, battering the tiny bastion. Inside their hangar and illuminated by brief flashes of lightning, Dusty was wide awake. Thanks to nightmares of him being sucked up by a tornado and hurled to the ground, he couldn’t sleep. Considering the apocalypse was blowing just outside, he didn’t want to be awake, either. He was essentially trapped, not wanting to be asleep or awake. Hyperventilating and glued to his mother’s side, the young plane shook violently, thoroughly gripped by an all-consuming fear. A deafening crash of thunder elicited a yelp from his throat, rousing Lori from her slumber.
“Huh…what?”
Groggy and burdened by heavy eyelids, she was immediately wide awake upon seeing the state of her son, who appeared about ready to faint.
“Dusty! Dusty, what’s wrong?”
He stared directly ahead, unblinking and frozen in place. Oh, boy. That crazy movie he saw earlier in the day probably gave him nightmares, she thought. The weather outside isn’t really helping, either. Lowering her nose, Lori kissed his nose and cowling, quietly shushing him.
“Shh…shh…it’s okay. Nothing bad’s gonna happen. I’m right here.”
Dusty’s erratic breathing slowed as she continued to kiss and gently nuzzle his orange nose.
“Mom?” he squeaked, barely capable of coherent thought.
“Shh…I’m here.”
Licking the top of his fuselage, he shuddered at the touch of her rough tongue. Though it felt a little awkward, being 9 years old and bathed by his mother so late at night, it was incredibly soothing. For a moment, Dusty forgot he was even afraid. Pushing back against his mother, he softly mewed, begging for more of her affections. Lori happily obliged with more kisses and licks. Pretty soon Dusty was smiling contently and wagging his small rudder. Rubbing his fuselage against hers, all felt right with the world.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
A sudden blast of thunder incited a gasp from the female crop duster. Sheesh, what a storm! It sounded like Satan himself was knocking on their hangar door. Sighing and shaking her head, Lori felt Dusty lean against her frame.
“Dusty, did I ever tell you what happened on the day you were born?”
“No.”
“You were born during a storm a lot like this. I already told you where babies come from, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Mr. Darren, Dottie’s dad, he was with me while I was in labor. Right as you came out of me, he was right there to catch you in his tines. The storm was only getting worse and we had to go to his shop. It has stronger walls and was built to withstand high winds. He uh, he carried you through that storm. After we made it to the shop, that was the first time I saw you. I was in a lot of pain from giving birth, but it was happiest moment of my life.”
Dusty’s eyes were wide in awe. Dottie’s father really did that? He had a hard time envisioning Darren carrying his newborn self through blistering rain and tumultuous winds.
“I didn’t know, mom. I didn’t know he was that brave.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. That’s why he’s your godfather.”
Snuggling beneath his mother’s wing, she kissed his canopy. Ever so quietly, Lori began to hum and sing a familiar tune, one that never failed to put him to sleep.
“’I had nothing to do on this hot afternoon, but to settle down and write you a line. I've been meaning to phone you, but from Minnesota. Heck, it's been a very long time. You wear it well. A little old fashioned, but that's all right…’”
Dusty’s eyelids grew heavy as he released several long yawns. His mother continued to sing until he’d grown still and quiet beneath her wing.
“’Well I suppose you're thinking I bet he's sinking or he wouldn't get in touch with me. Oh, I ain't begging or losing my head, I sure do want you to know, that you wear it well. There ain't a lady in the land so fine. Remember them basement parties, your brother's karate, the all day rock and roll shows. Them homesick blues and radical views haven't left a mark on you. You wear it well. A little out of time but I don't mind…’”
Glancing at Dusty’s canopy, his eyes had fallen closed. He breathed softly, appearing as content as could be while thunder and lightning continued to dance outside.
Smiling at him, Lori whispered “Goodnight, Dusty.”

The following morning, Lori reattached her sprayer, filled her tanks with fertilizer, and headed west, while Leadbottom flew east. Practically skimming the stands of corn and bolstered by years of experience, she knew where the terrain rose and fell, making the otherwise tedious job a matter of making passes and turning around until she’d layered a field. The western fields, those closer to McMullen, were slightly hillier than those to the east. They had more trees dotting the landscape and a line of high voltage electrical towers snaking through fields toward McMullen, demanding a bit more concentration. Be that as it may, the job had grown mundane and routine over time. Lori could fly with her eyes closed and manage to avoid every obstacle.
Just past noon, Lori had run out of fertilizer and began the return flight to Propwash to refill. The sun was partly obscured by bands of giant fluffy cumulous clouds, providing a respite from its baking rays. Maintaining 200 feet, Lori absentmindedly glanced upward. Gasping at the profile of an old warbird about 800 feet above her, its engine made a very distinctive buzzing drone, that of a mighty Twin Wasp radial. The plane in question, a black P-47 Thunderbolt, whistled past the crop duster, powering northeast. As the aircraft faded off into the distance, Lori glanced downward, knowing the sound of a Twin Wasp all too well. For the first time in several years, Skipper Riley intentionally crossed her mind.
A plethora of questions bombarded the crop duster. Most were unanswerable. What became of that old Corsair? Did he still remember her? Was he still upset about the divorce? Had he moved on? Frankly, Lori hadn’t a clue. She never bothered to give it a moment’s thought. He was the father of her son, and he didn’t know it. Come to think of it, she never told Dusty who his father was. He probably imaged his father was someone like Dean King, someone who his mother refused to talk about for a reason. Of course, Skipper wasn’t like that. He was the polar opposite. Memories flashed like photographs before her eyes. The laughs they shared, their late-night misadventures, and above all, how much she used to love him.
“He was nothing like Dean. I had it so good with him. Why did I leave him?” she wondered aloud.
Try as she might, Lori couldn’t think of a rational reason, other than not wanting to remain in place and plant her roots permanently. Skipper was in such a bad way when they first met, and she turned him around. Her sudden absence probably left him worse off than before. Maybe he’d harmed or killed himself. She never wrote or called. For all Lori knew, Skipper could’ve killed himself years ago.
“Why didn’t I want to stay in one place with him? I wanted to keep moving, right? So I left him for what? Why did I leave him? I didn’t gain anything. Okay, I had Dusty, but who am I kidding? When I’m too old to dust crops, he’ll wind up just like me. Not unless he enters a race and gets away from here. He’ll have to get over his fear of heights. If I could get over my fears, so can he.”
She paused. Over the course of her life, her parent’s lives, and her grandparent’s lives, what had they accomplished? Fly back and forth and spray some chemicals on a field. It was all they’d ever done, until the chemicals they sprayed eventually killed them. It was all Lori knew, too. She was getting older. It was too late for her to change. Dusty still had his life ahead of him.
“Oh, he doesn’t deserve a life out here. I never acted on my dream. I know I could have. My burden shouldn’t be his.”
Lori frowned.
“Skipper, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I never told him you were his father. He deserves to know.”
Suddenly, Lori felt something impact her right wing, followed by an indescribable pain. While lost in contemplation, she failed to notice she’d gradually descended to under 100 feet, right into a looming steel lattice transmission tower. Impacting halfway up the slender 80-foot tower, it sheared off half her right wing with the precision of a knife. Before she could have a second thought, Lori, her shattered right wing sheathed in orange flames and spinning out of control, smashed belly first into a cornfield at 150mph.

Five hours later, near Propwash Junction, Dusty had been practicing tight turns and rolls all day. Navigating through clusters of trees, passing silos, and performing loops, he performed everything he knew at least twice, just to be thorough. Dottie and Chug monitored his aerobatics through vehicle sized monoculars, offering him occasional pointers over the radio. With Chug it was a steady stream of ‘lower’ and ‘faster.’ Dottie, by contrast, encouraged Dusty to pace himself, countering Chug with ‘slower’ and ‘higher.’ Dusty, of course, went all out and risked wing and tail to put on his best show. Eventually, the intrepid crop duster tired from his aerial antics and exhausted much of his fuel.
Upon landing, he made a beeline for the Fill-‘N-Fly, where he drank half the station’s available supply of JP-5. His turbine engine, still growing and not fully developed, was nonetheless lightweight and powerful. However, while maxed out at full throttle for hours at a time, it drank fuel like an SR-71 and put an immense strain on its numerous components. Drinking his fill and taking a five-minute breather, Dusty noticed Chug and Dottie approaching.
“Hey, guys!”
“How was that last run?” asked Chug.
Letting go of a monstrous belch, he frowned in discontent.
“It was pretty good, I could’ve done it faster. I’m going back up, I’ll try it again.”
Dottie crossed her tines. Again? Was he crazy? It would be dark before long.
“You should stop for today, Dusty. Your engine isn’t designed to run at full power for hours at a time.”
“Pfff! Are you kidding? I’m not done yet. The gauges aren’t hitting red, its no problem. I need all the practice I can get, I’m doing this for real tomorrow.”
“Which is why you need to rest.”
Not hearing her last sentence, Dusty started for the runway, but suddenly stopped in his tracks. His previously cheery attitude was replaced with an unnerving glumness.
“I just remembered. When I was out by McMullen, I saw the craziest thing. A plane crashed.”
Instantaneously Dottie and Chug forgot about their friend’s antics. He saw a plane go down? Such a thing was an exceptionally rare occurrence, even around McMullen, where crop dusters and light aircraft came and went by the dozens every day.
Together with awe contorting their facial features, they asked “Really?”
“Yeah.” Dusty frowned “Well, I didn’t actually see it crash. It definitely happened earlier today. They hit one of those 80 foot electrical towers, you know the ones that go to McMullen?”
His friends nodded.
“They must’ve hit it pretty hard, they cut it right in half. The wires were broken, there were sparks flying all over place, it was a big mess. In a field by the tower, the corn was flattened in a long line up to this burnt patch. I didn’t see the plane that crashed, they must’ve taken it away. There were fire engines and police cars everywhere.”
“Yikes.” grimaced Dottie.
“Yeah…well, we all take a risk when we fly. They must’ve been flying too low...”
“…or something.” muttered Chug.
Exchanging a few halfhearted nods with his friends, the young crop duster headed to the runway and took off. Both the lift and fuel truck returned to the radio set inside Dusty’s hangar without a word. They shuddered at the thought of what it must’ve been like, to hit something so tall and go down in flames. How horrible. While offering Dusty pointers as he practiced his knife edge, a fully marked black and white Dodge Monaco approached Propwash Junction on the main road. His brake drums squeaked as he slowed to a stop outside the Crophopper hangar. Looking away from the radio set and toward the hangar entrance, Dottie and Chug were quite surprised to see who paid them a visit.
“Officer Cruze?” asked a bewildered fuel truck.
Though he appeared calm, Hank spoke in a much more straightforward manner than usual, like he was in a hurry.
“Chug. Dottie.”
“What uh, what are you doing here?” asked Dottie.
“Dottie, are your parents around by any chance?”
“Well…my mom’s out in McMullen. My dad should be at the shop. If he’s not there, he’s with Chug’s parents. At the Fill-‘N-Fly.”
Nodding respectfully, the big Dodge flashed her a halfhearted smile.
“Thanks, Dottie.”
Turning away from the hangar entrance, Hank’s 440 V8 rumbled ominously as he pulled away. Dottie and Chug never took their eyes off the departing car, until he turned around a neighboring hangar and disappeared from sight. Shaking their heads, something wasn’t right.
“I think he’s hiding something, Dottie.”
The lift nodded.
“Yeah. Why would he wanna see my dad? Heck, why would he come all the way out here when he could’ve called us? I don’t know what he’s hiding...but I wanna find out.”
Leaving the hangar and taking another taxiway to the shop so not to be seen, both young vehicles were eager to investigate. Pausing behind a neighboring hangar and waiting until Hank entered the brightly lit shop, they crossed the tarmac and peered around the corner of the building. Catching a glimpse of Darren facing the hulking patrol car, they’d only missed an exchange of greetings between the two. From their angle, Dottie and Chug couldn’t see Officer Cruze’s face. His grim tone more than sufficed. Exchanging bewildered glances, just what was he so disheartened about? They’d never heard the veteran officer speak this way.
“As I understand, you and your wife are Dusty’s godparents.”
“Yes, I thought you already knew that.” nodded Darren “What’s this about, Hank? What couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”
“Well uh…” Hank began, sinking on his wheels “I’ll just say it. There’s been an accident.”
Darren raised his brow, still not completely following the officer.
“What kind of accident?”
“Over by McMullen, around noon, Lori flew too low and crashed.”
“Crashed?” gasped the lift “Jesus. Is she alright?”
The Dodge shook his head.
“She’s dead, Darren. I saw the crash site. It uh, it wasn’t pretty.”
Holding his tines up to his forehead, the male lift shook his head, releasing a pained sigh. His jaw almost hit the floor.
“Oh my god…”
Dottie and Chug stared at one another through eyes the size the dinner plates, unable to form intelligible words. Lori was dead? No. It couldn’t be. Not her. Not Lori. Then they recalled what Dusty said earlier. He saw a crash site by McMullen, near an electrical tower. Reality came crashing down on the pair of young vehicles like a ton of bricks. That wasn’t the crash site of some random aircraft. That was Dusty’s mother!
“Since you’re Dusty’s godfather,” continued Hank “you’ll be granted custody. Speaking of which…where is he?”
“Uh…” groaned Darren, still holding his tines to his forehead “Out flying. He’s been out flying all day.”
Inching closer to the reeling lift, Hank gently touched his side with an outstretched tire.
“Darren, when he comes back…should I tell him?”
Sniffling and with hot tears in his eyes, Darren stared down at his outstretched tines, on the verge of breaking into sobs.
“Hank…I was right there when he was born. When he came out, he went right into my forks. I was the first one to hold him. Now…now I’ve gotta tell him his mom’s dead? Lori never talked about a father. She’s all he has. I know the other Crophoppers live in McMullen, but, he’s not close to them.”
“Darren, I liked Lori, too. For Dusty’s sake, we can’t dwell on his mother. Right now, he doesn’t know. If you want me to, I’ll tell him.”
Shaking his head, the lift replied “No, no. He knows both of us. I think we should both tell him.”
Sighing heavily, Hank nodded.
“Alright. We’ll tell him whenever he comes back.”
Dottie and Chug couldn’t bear to hear any more. Slowly making their way to Dusty’s hangar, they stood before the radio set, staring at the microphone as tears dripped from their eyes. They had to be the ones to break it to him. If Dottie’s father and Officer Cruze told him, he’d never forgive them. Perhaps he’d eventually come around if he were told by someone closer to his level, by someone he trusted completely. It was now a matter of who would be the one to tell Dusty his mother was dead, and bring his world crashing down.
“Should I do it?” asked Chug.
“No. I’ll do it.”
Taking a deep breath, Dottie hit the switch on the microphone’s base.
“Uh, Dusty? You there?”
“Yeah!” he replied cheerfully over his revving turbine “I just passed the Penrose’s silo at 180!”
“Dusty, I need to tell you something. It’s your mother.”
“Oh, she’s back? Thanks, Dottie! I’ll be right there!”
Frantically she attempted to elaborate before he changed frequencies to contact the Propwash tower.
“No! That’s not what…!”
All she got in reply was static. Slamming her tine down on the table supporting the radio, Dottie growled angrily. Of course he didn’t have the patience to hear her out. That way, it would’ve been easy!
“Damn him!” she cursed “Why can’t he listen for once!?!”
Staring at Chug somberly, now they had no choice in the matter. Her father and Officer Cruze were going to break the news.

As the sun began to set, Dusty was in high spirits when he landed. Shutting off his engine, he didn’t see his mother sitting outside their hangar, nor was she at the Fill-‘N-Fly. Didn’t Dottie say she was back? He didn’t let her finish before changing radio frequencies. Perhaps she was in Darren’s shop. Poking his nose inside, his mother wasn’t there, either. Shrugging his flaps, he wasn’t overly concerned and considered the possibility she’d landed in McMullen. It wouldn’t be the first time. Thanks to her age and taxing workload, sometimes her engine or fuel pumps malfunctioned, coaxing her to land and have the necessary readjustments made. Assuming that was the case, Dusty casually quenched his thirst and refilled his fuel tanks.
From beneath the fuel station’s awning, he noticed a peculiar sight. There was Darren, and beside him was Officer Cruze. What was that old Dodge doing out here, way out of his jurisdiction? Both vehicles approached, straight-faced and silent. Stopping feet ahead of the young crop duster, he raised a curious eyebrow. Still, he wasn’t overly concerned. They were probably going to tell him his mother was staying the night in McMullen. But, if that were the case, why didn’t Officer Cruze just call? Why come here, so far out of his way? Maybe he just wanted to go for a drive. McMullen wasn’t exactly a busy place for a police officer.
“Officer Cruze?”
Hank didn’t respond.
“Is my mom staying in McMullen again? You didn’t have to come all the way out here. I understand.”
Placing his tine on Dusty’s wing, Darren frowned.
“Dusty…we have to tell you something.”
“What?”
Darren and Hank exchanged glances.
“Son,” Hank began “your mom isn’t coming back.”
“What are you talking about?” Dusty scoffed “She’s getting her engine fixed or something, right?”
“Dusty,” Darren continued “your mother crashed by McMullen earlier today. She…she didn’t make it.”
Glaring at the lift and patrol car, Dusty didn’t believe them. Was this some kind of joke? Darren and Hank were good friends. They did horse around from time to time and act like goofballs with McMullen’s other officers, but they’d certainly gone overboard this time. Why would they joke about something like this? It didn’t suit their character. Wait a minute. Darren said his mother crashed by McMullen. Earlier, he flew over what appeared to be an aircraft crash site, just a few miles from town. But then that must mean…
“Dusty?” whispered Darren.
Staring straight ahead, the young crop duster started trembling. His gentle shaking quickly escalated into violent convulsions. Dusty’s landing gear almost buckled beneath him as every surface went numb. His mother? Dead? It couldn’t be. But he’d seen the crash site. It had to be true! Tears formed rivers from his aquamarine eyes and he breathed in ragged, sharp gasps. Hank and Darren’s words of reassurance were drowned out by a long, blood curdling wail that transitioned into a scream. Dusty rose up on his front wheels and screamed at the top of his vocal range. From his engine came an unholy metallic groaning, hissing, and crackling, similar to the sound of metal expanding due to extreme heat.
His wailing scream grew into a piercing roar, one of incomprehensible grief and pain. Ignoring the passage of time, Dusty roared until his vocal cords were swollen and he could hardly muster more than a pitiful whimper. Through his mouth, his stomach evacuated its contents onto the tarmac before him. Still shaking and with his throat on fire, the young plane’s landing gear finally collapsed as he fainted where he stood. His vision turned to blackness, trapping him in a circle of hellish torment from which there was no escape. His mother, the one who gave birth to him, fed, weaned, bathed, sang, comforted, and taught him how to fly, was dead. Gone from his life. Even in unconsciousness, Dusty knew life would never be the same.

Eight days after Lori’s death, Dusty lolled about his hangar, unable to think of anything other than his mother. He didn’t eat. He hardly slept. Whenever he did manage to doze off, the young crop duster was wracked by nightmares of his mother dying in a fiery inferno. Having yet to come out of the hangar or speak to anyone, he drove away everyone who entered, wanting nothing more than to be alone. Even Dottie and Chug’s efforts to speak to their friend were in vain, and ended in much the same manner. Opening the doors just enough to squeeze through, Chug entered the still hangar. From a corner Dusty stared at the fuel truck, unblinking and blank faced, giving no indication of his current feelings.
Opening his mouth to speak, Chug never had the chance to utter a word. Snarling like a beast and raising his tail, Dusty bared his sharp teeth, snapping his jaws threateningly at the green truck. Smart enough to know he wasn’t welcome, Chug quietly left, leaving his friend in peace. Then Dottie gave it a try. Entering the hangar a short time later and bringing in food, she placed the tray at the center of the hangar. Raising her tines to indicate she meant no harm, Dottie managed to get close enough to touch the crop duster. Resting her tine on Dusty’s cowling, she noticed streaks on his fuselage from the sheer volume of tears he’d shed. She could almost feel the anguish radiating from her friend.
“Dusty.” Dottie whispered, mindful of his bloodshot eyes, which were focused intently on her “I’m so sorry. Your mom’s funeral is today. I thought you should know.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Dusty again bared his teeth, trembling and whimpering meekly. Fresh tears fell from his eyes. Shoving the lift aside, he nearly knocked Dottie over as a sorrowful, howling keen escaped his throat. Staring down at the lift through narrowed eyes, Dusty snorted menacingly, releasing a few throaty growls as he slowly advanced. Backing away nervously, Dottie stole a glimpse into his eyes. She could tell he wasn’t really angry at her. He was just in mourning. He didn’t know how else to express his grief other than through seemingly mindless aggression. Holding her ground and approaching her friend, Dottie attempted to talk sense into him.
“Dusty, this isn’t you. Let me help you.”
Unfortunately, he refused to be talked down. Leaping off his front wheels and slamming down on them, a defensive ‘come no closer’ gesture, the crop duster’s turbine engine roared to life. Not about to risk being sliced to ribbons, Dottie gladly backed away as Dusty inched closer, his propeller blades a blur. He glared at his friend through wild, unreadable eyes. Pushing the lift out through the hangar entrance, the plane stopped and shut off his engine once Dottie was a sufficient distance away. Turning around, Dusty slinked further inside the hangar. Falling to the floor at the center of the hangar, where he and his mother slept, he quietly sobbed, writhing about where he lay. The area still smelled heavily of his mother.
Taking in his mother’s scent, he mewled and cried like a newborn, instinctively begging to nurse; though his loving and previously ever-present provider would never come. He longed for his mother’s soothing licks and kisses, her warm fuselage, her calming voice. Anything. Anything to take away his pain.
“Mom…” he moaned “Mom…”

A few hours later, just past noon, Dottie and Chug sat outside their friend’s hangar, unsure of what to do. Dusty was someone they loved, and he wasn’t letting them help. From outside, they could hear his sobs. His weak mewls. It tore at their hearts, hearing him suffer so much. While their parents had gone ahead to McMullen, to Lori’s funeral, they elected to remain behind in hopes of getting through to Dusty. Unfortunately, they weren’t having much in the way of luck.
“Has he eaten anything?” asked Chug.
“No. I left him some food, I don’t think he touched it.”
“If he doesn’t eat something soon, he’ll starve.”
Releasing a pained sigh, Dottie wiped away tears with her tine.
“You know, I don’t he’d care if he did. His mom meant so much to him.”
“Yeah…” Chug nodded.
From behind the pair of vehicles, Dusty butted open the hangar doors and slowly rolled outside. Staring at his friends through unblinking eyes, he didn’t appear to foster any ill will this time.
“You said my mom’s funeral was today, right?” he asked, deadpan.
“Yeah.” replied Dottie “Its at the church in McMullen.”
Dusty blinked.
“I wanna see her.”
“Dusty, that’s probably not a good idea…”
Snorting through his exhausts, he cut the lift short.
“She’s my mom, Dottie. I wanna say goodbye.”
I don't think I've ever cooperated with someone so closely when writing a story before. I'd like to extend thanks to Blond-Lover, who without her help, this story would not have been possible. blond-lover.deviantart.com/

This is a short story involving our favorite crop duster from the Cars/Planes universe. It tells of Dusty Crophopper's upbringing, his mother, the childhood event that forever changed his life, and during his adult years, the search for his enigma of a father. Dusty endures severe trauma and heartbreak, as well as rapture and happiness.

I guess I like creating tragic characters and toying with reader's emotions, for better or for worse. How evil am I?The Devil 


Part 2: tulmur95.deviantart.com/art/Pl…
© 2017 - 2024 Tulmur95
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SonicFanGirl321's avatar

Aw, poor little Dusty. So young to be without his mother. :(