CHARLESTON, W.Va. — The wildlife patrol at West Virginia International Yeager Airport (CRW) has gone to the dogs — specifically, to border collies Hercules and Ned.
Five days a week, and sometimes weekends, the herding dogs punch the clock and go to work clearing birds and woodland creatures from the mountaintop airfield at CRW. Their job as “wildlife canines” is critical to protecting planes and passengers from potentially dangerous wildlife strikes.
“My co-workers are all about the safety of the people flying in and out of the airport,” said Chris Keyser, 59, the airport’s wildlife specialist and dog handler. “They always want to do their job to make everybody safe.”
Collisions with local fauna is a real and rising threat. Between 1990 and 2024, the Federal Aviation Administration received reports of 313,716 strikes, including 25 accidents that caused 52 human deaths. In 2024, the agency registered 22,372 collisions, a 14 percent increase from the previous year.
Since the dogs joined CRW’s wildlife management team — Hercules in 2018 and Ned in 2024 — Keyser said bird strikes have declined by more than 70 percent. As of January, according to the FAA Wildlife Strike Database, the airport has submitted only one incident to the agency, a brush with a common grackle.
“Border collies are so intelligent and can endure the heat and cold really well,” said Keyser, who owns seven dogs. “They are full of energy and they like doing their job, because they’re herding dogs. It’s born in them.”
The 9-year-old Hercules owes his livelihood to Piper, the border collie who chased 9,347 birds over 6,206 hours at Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City, Michigan. Piper died of cancer in 2018.
CRW airport authorities, inspired by Piper’s accomplishments, decided to recruit a border collie of their own. After graduating from Flyaway Geese, a North Carolina dog-training facility, Hercules moved to the Charleston airport. When he was 7 years old and starting to slow down, Keyser drove back to North Carolina and returned with Ned, a tireless go-getter with a shiny black coat and pointy bat ears.
“Herc is a working dog and loving dog,” Keyser said. “And Ned is all about work, but he likes to play ball, too.”
Since introducing Hercules and later Ned, 4, on social media, the pups have gained celebrity status with about 72,000 followers on Instagram and TikTok. Passengers and flight crew members passing through Charleston often request a cuddle session with the pups. The dogs even have their own apparel line as well as souvenir swag sold at the airport gift shop.
I count myself a fan and was delighted when Keyser invited me to accompany the pups on a daily patrol earlier this month. Unlike many working dogs at airports, petting Hercules and Ned is allowed. The wildlife team, in fact, encourages it.
Preparing the dogs for duty
6:49 a.m. Keyser arrives in the pre-security departures hall a few minutes after the first plane of the day, a Chicago-bound United flight, has lifted off. He dashes outside to grab a biscuit from a friend who asks if, in return, he can say hello to the dogs.
Unfortunately, Hercules and Ned have not clocked in yet.
7:04 a.m. In a back office inside the Airport Response Coordination Center, a creature stirs.
“I can see a little nose,” says Keyser, peering through a crack in the blinds covering the door to their den.
Hercules and Ned live at the airport full-time, in an all-white room furnished with dog beds and kennels, hooks for their leashes, harnesses, pilot hats and coats, and a shrine to them. Portraits by admirers adorn the walls, and a display case contains military patches that soldiers traded in exchange for a Wildlife Patrol CRW badge embossed with a cartoon image of the pups.
After a breakfast of kibble and fish oil, Keyser says the magic words: “Are you ready to run some birds?”
First runs of the day
7:30 a.m. Hercules and Ned jump into the back seat of a white SUV emblazoned with a logo of the goggled dogs — the same graphic that appears on the back of Keyser’s hoodie and the patches as well as the magnets and mugs sold in the airport gift shop. (Some of the products predate Ned and feature only Hercules.)
Inside the vehicle, the air conditioning blasting on a crisp April morning, Keyser describes the four seasons through the lens of a border collie.
In the spring, when migratory birds are flying north, the dogs can disperse flocks of up to 200 crows, rafters of turkeys and nimbus clouds of starlings, one of the most dangerous hazards for planes. If starlings make contact with an aircraft, Keyser said it is like “getting hit with a shotgun.” April rains turn the grassy airfield into an all-you-can-eat buffet for birds.
“If we make it unpleasant, they won’t want to come here to eat,” he said.
Summer slows down, as birds seek shade from the heat. Fall picks up with birds of prey, such as barn and screech owls and red-tail hawks. On gusty days, upward of 50 turkey vultures can surf the wind currents overhead. Anytime of the year, the dogs might come across a whitetail deer, coyote or turtle, which can derail a taxiing plane.
7:45 a.m. Before driving onto the airfield, Keyser calls the air-traffic control tower to check in. Ned, upon hearing a voice crackle over the radio, joins the conversation, whining and barking.
Keyser runs the dogs on all four taxiways, plus the perimeter and the one runway, totaling five or six miles a day. Though the 767-acre airport is small — it served 423,000 passengers last year, nearly 106 million fewer than Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport — it can be busy.
In addition to three major airlines and one budget carrier, CRW serves the West Virginia Air National Guard’s 130th Airlift Wing; private jets, military and cargo planes from the Capital Jet Center; and Marshall University’s flight school.
7:50 a.m. On their first lap, the dogs speed by a parking lot of C-130 Hercules aircraft, the namesake of the elder border collie. (Keyser had tried to rename Ned, but the young pup ignored any commands directed at “Charlie.”)
“Shake ’em out. Flush ’em out. Get the stubborn ones,” Keyser shouted at the blur of fur. “Look, look, look. Look, look, look. Shh, shh, shh.”
Two killdeer shoot out of the grass like skeets at a range.
“Good job!” Keyser shouts, their reward for being such good dogs.
8:55 a.m. By the time Breeze Airways rumbles down the runway, Hercules and Ned have cleared more killdeer, American robins, sparrows, woodcocks and starlings. Whenever a plane lands or takes off, Keyser instructs the pups to lie down. He can’t risk a fleeing bird slamming into an active plane.
The dogs stay down but they can’t sit still. Hercules munches on grass, and Ned scratches his back on the green-and-brown stubble.
9:27 a.m. Keyser receives a message that an American Airlines flight crew has requested an audience with the pups. Though Ned can run up to 35 miles an hour and Hercules is just about 10 mph behind him, the humans are too slow and miss the rendezvous.
Break time
10:38 a.m. Hercules naps on the cool floor under a desk in the command center. Ned plays ball. Over and over and over again.
11:04 a.m. Back to work. Turkey vultures circle above, teasing the wildlife team. At 100 feet above the airport, they are too high for Hercules and Ned. So, Keyser returns the dogs to the car, to protect their ears, and pulls out a pistol. He shoots blanks into the air and scans the sky. Empty.
1:11 p.m. All species stop for lunch. Hercules and Ned eat a bowl of pumpkin and kibble. I run down to the cafe/gift shop, where baskets overflow with plush toys of a young Hercules, when his nose was mottled pink. While waiting for my order, I skim a children’s book called “The Adventures of Hercules: A New Friend.”
Preboarding therapy session
2 p.m. Hercules pads into the waiting area of Gate B2 dressed in a patch-covered vest and a blue pilot’s cap, his greeter attire. When he’s not hazing birds, he’s comforting passengers as a therapy dog.
He sniffs Rowdy, a 10-month-old shih tzu, then takes a seat between a goateed man in a Bart Simpson T-shirt and a woman in a bubblegum pink top. Two hands reach out to pet him.
He jumps to the floor for more scratches. A woman steals glances at him. Keyser leads him over to her.
Marjorie Halfhill, an Orlando resident with West Virginia roots, looks deeply into his heterochromia eyes — one blue, one brown — and speaks softly to him.
“You have an important job, don’t you?” Halfhill says. He licks her face. “I am so glad I got to meet you. I won’t forget you.” More shared kisses.
The gate agent starts the boarding process. Passengers shuffle by Hercules, pausing to snap selfies or straighten his hat. After the doors close, Hercules looks around the gate before hitting up a TSA officer for pets.
Clocking out
2:44 p.m. “Want a nap?” Keyser asks Hercules after he has completed his inspection of the cafe floor.
He tilts his head, ears up like antennae. It’s quitting time.
2:57 p.m. Hercules falls asleep under a desk, done for the day. Ned is wandering around the office, hoping Keyser or the mysterious voice over the radio will ask him to work overtime.
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