Werewolves on a motherfuckin' Plane!

This is just a fun little tidbit that would possibly occur in a more polished form in Vol. 2 of Raze, and involves our protagonist Trent, his "seeing eye dog" Lucas, and a very, very long flight from Montana and New York to rescue Gabe from some very novel-worthy doom. All characters, concepts, and plotstuffs are, obviously, (c) to me.

___ I hate flying. As a biologist, animals, plants, and ecosystems made sense to me. Giant hunks of metal packed with explosives & propelled by what amounted to over-glorified propellers, flying through the air at hundreds of miles per hour, did not. Cars were terrifying enough for transportation, and they were on the ground. And cars didn't involve squalling babies, bad airline food, persistently unavailable bathrooms, and dreadful on-flight movies. I began to wonder how long it would have taken to drive to New York, and if I'd be outed as a therianthrope if I ripped the emergency door off its hinges and made a run for it.
___ Fidgeting in my narrow leather chair, which reeked like tanning chemicals and dozens of passengers worth of sweat, I shrewdly looked to make sure no one was watching before obsessive-compulsively adjusting the small plastic knob holding the tray table in place until it was in a perfectly centered position. I didn't understand the mentality of people who left these things off center, the very corner just barely holding the table in place. I was certain it would have sprung open during take-off, definitely a safety hazard... or at least this was my justification for fretting over such a minor detail so I would appear slightly less anal retentive.
___ Because I was sitting in the back of the plane, the only area with seeing eye werewo... dog accommodations, I could hear little but the roar of the engine. It drowned out muddled instructions from the flight attendants regarding the various ways we should calmly conduct ourselves when facing our inevitable fiery death. Sighing and popping a stick of gum in my mouth in anticipation of the elevation change, I deftly avoided this presentation. Seat belts? For a plane crash? Really?
___Ahead of me, cast in browns through the tint of my sunglasses, the other passengers were staring obediently at a series of instructions reduced to simple pictures for our increasingly multi-lingual society. They all looked placid and trusting, devotedly shifting their attention between the flight attendants and the card to follow along. Social conditioning at its finest.
___The grinning stewardesses began cheerfully talking about how to react in the event of an "emergency water landing," which is a euphemism for "crashing into the ocean and drowning instead of crashing into the ground and burning." There was no ocean in the middle of America, and I thought it would be more pertinent to find out how I should react if the plane crashed into the Rockies, or a corn field, or - and I shuddered - Wisconsin.
___I was flying across my country on mission to rescue a heroin-addicted teen aged werebear from a situation that would likely endanger my life in the process, so why was it that the plane ride was more daunting? My attention shifted to Lucas, who was laying on the floor with his head on his paws, eyes half shut and looking decidedly bored. I thought I could see a tiny smile curling his dark pink lips slightly upwards when my heart skipped a beat with the sudden motion of the wheels on the tarmac. As we lurched free of the ground, my hand involuntarily spasmed around the arm rest. Lucas raised his head and grinned up at me, managing a mocking look even on a canine snout. I resisted the urge to give him a kick and blow my cover as blind.