Seuk Kim didn’t have to fly rescue dogs. He had a wife, three children, a full life in Virginia that didn’t require volunteering his weekends to transport animals from overcrowded shelters to safety. But for four years, he’d been doing exactly that—piloting his small plane across states, carrying dogs who’d run out of time and options, delivering them to rescues and families who’d give them the second chances they deserved. Hundreds of dogs had survived because of him.
On his final flight, he carried two passengers: Whiskey, a puppy with broken legs who needed specialized medical care, and Pluto, another rescue heading toward a new home. They were just dogs to most people—strays, statistics, animals whose deaths wouldn’t make headlines or change policy. But to Seuk Kim, they were lives worth saving, and that made all the difference.
The small plane went down in the Catskill Mountains. The details of what happened in those final moments remain unclear—mechanical failure, weather, the unpredictable dangers that come with flying small aircraft over difficult terrain. What’s certain is that Seuk Kim, a 49-year-old father and volunteer pilot, died doing what he’d done for years: trying to save animals no one else would fight for.
Miraculously, both dogs survived the crash. Whiskey and Pluto were pulled from the wreckage, injured but alive, their survival a small mercy in the midst of devastating loss. Rescue workers who recovered them must have understood the cruel irony—the man who’d dedicated years to saving dogs had saved two more with his life, even as his own ended.
Seuk Kim’s family lost a husband and father. His children lost the parent who taught them that service matters, that some things are worth personal sacrifice, that lives have value even when the world suggests otherwise. The rescue community lost one of their most dedicated volunteers, someone who showed up consistently, asked for nothing, and simply did the work because it needed doing.
But his legacy lives in numbers that matter: hundreds of dogs who found homes because he flew them to safety. Shelters that could take in new animals because he created space by moving others. Families who met their perfect companions because someone was willing to transport them across state lines. And two dogs—Whiskey and Pluto—who survived his final flight and will hopefully spend long lives with people who know they’re alive because someone cared enough to try.
Heroes don’t always look like we expect. They’re not always soldiers or firefighters or people who wear uniforms and receive medals. Sometimes they’re middle-aged immigrants with pilot licenses who spend their weekends flying rescue missions for animals most people ignore. Sometimes they’re parents who teach their children that privilege comes with responsibility, that having skills means using them to help others, that a full life includes making room for service.
Seuk Kim didn’t die doing something reckless or pointless. He died doing something intentional and meaningful—work he’d chosen because he believed it mattered. The tragedy isn’t that he volunteered but that his generosity cost him everything. That a man who gave so much lost the chance to see his children grow up, to grow old with his wife, to witness the hundreds of happy endings his flights made possible.
The rescue community will remember him. Whiskey and Pluto, if dogs could understand such things, owe him their lives. And somewhere, hundreds of dogs are living in homes they only reached because a pilot in Virginia decided their lives were worth his time, his fuel costs, his weekends, and ultimately, everything he had to give.
Rest in peace, Seuk Kim. You were a hero in the quietest, most consistent way—by showing up, over and over, for those who couldn’t save themselves.