All of us have lived with secrets from our past that we never talk about. Some happenings we just don’t want to think about, let alone talk about with others. I am about to reveal one of mine. There are only a handful of times in my life when I have been forced to make a decision that has been so upsetting that I have ruminated over what happened for the remainder of my days. One such decision was literally a life-and-death choice that I had to make while acting as squadron commander at Cold Bay. I fully realize that it does not begin to compare with the gravity of a choice to send troops into battle. However, that does not diminish how saddened I have been with regard to one incident during the rabies outbreak among the foxes in 1970.
Elsewhere, I tell a story of the rabid fox biting the tire of my jeep. That same week, a couple of friends and I pulled our jeep into the site parking area. We had been exploring the Izembek wilderness as we so often did. As we hopped out of the vehicle, one of the others got a strange look on his face and looked down at his trousers. He amazingly kept his composure and quietly told us that a fox had just brushed against his leg! Of course, we all jumped back into the jeep until the fox had left. By then, we knew about the rabies outbreak. It was on our minds whenever we ventured outside. We were wildly relieved that one of us had not been scratched or bitten! After that and the prior encounter with a rabid fox and my jeep, I became so concerned that I gave away two fox pelts. I had obtained them while hunting prior to the outbreak. Anymore, I didn’t want to go near any foxes, dead or alive. I was already thanking my lucky stars that I hadn’t cut myself while removing those furs from their owners!

Not long after that second incident of a fox approaching a jeep, it was reported to me that all five of our dogs had gotten into a fight with a fox overnight. Concerned for the dogs and whomever might have been in contact with them, I went to see the airman that had been the dogs’ unofficial caretaker. After I told him what had happened, he and I then proceeded to find the dogs outside near the composite building. Carefully, we inspected them for wounds. Yes, doggone it, they all had bite marks and scratches. I then had them penned up at their shelters and notified everyone at the site that the dogs were quarantined. No one was to approach them. Then, after ensuring that all people were safe, I called HQ at Elmendorf to report what had happened and to seek their advice on what to do next. Eventually, I was put on the phone with someone qualified to confirm that there were only two choices. He agreed with what I had thought. We must either keep them quarantined for “x” number of days until they were safe to approach, or alternatively to put them down.
First, I asked the person that had been caring for the dogs if he would continue doing so for the duration of the quarantine period. Naturally, he was most attached to them. He declined. Then I requested a volunteer from the rest of the squadron. Nobody stepped forward. I was not about to "order" someone to risk themselves, so it was up to me. I chose not to risk myself either. Thus, Mitzi and her four offspring perished. The original airman and I took care of the arrangements, ourselves.
I loved those dogs. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. My Cold Bay experience would have been much less without them. Mitzi was a Black Lab, and every time I see one, I think of her. She remains with me in the back of my mind to this day.