Soldier Dogs Part 4

The boot camp program where trainers build military working dogs from the ground up is referred to as dog school. The program that teaches handler skills is called the handler course. Pretty much all soldier dogs and handlers across the military are trained here. (The exceptions are Special Operations dogs and dogs for the IDD and TEDD programs, which are dedicated to a faster turnaround time for certain explosives detector dogs. These dogs are trained by contractors.) Dogs who are selected to go the dual-purpose route-and that's the vast majority of the dogs-will have a total of 120 days to learn all the skills necessary to certify in explosives or narcotics detection as well as patrol work. Single-purpose detection-only dogs do it in about 90. Contrary to what many on the outside think, with the exception of a couple of smaller programs (combat tracking dogs and specialized search dogs), dogs are not matched up with handlers at Lackland; they're a.s.signed to handlers once they're s.h.i.+pped to the bases that request them.

But before the dogs can even start to get the rigorous training they need in order to one day become soldier dogs, they have to go through a rather grueling initial time at Lackland-one that may make boot camp for their two-legged friends look like a walk in the park.

Every soldier, sailor, airman, and marine must go through some form of induction when entering the military. A haircut, health exams, reams of paperwork-all the less glamorous aspects of serving one's country need to be taken care of before getting down to the business of boot camp.

Soldier dogs go through a more rigorous induction process, including time on the operating table. The road to becoming a military working dog entails being poked, prodded, cut open, sealed shut, and wearing a bucket around your head for a few days.

After a ten-day quarantine, during which they're visually evaluated every two hours, the dogs get physicals, blood work, vaccinations, and flea and heartworm treatments. The rest of a dog's induction is done under full anesthesia. Female dogs get spayed, males with undescended t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es get neutered. (The U.S. has one of the few militaries that will purchase these "cryptorchid" dogs.) But otherwise males generally remain intact. The thinking is that these dogs are more aggressive and primed for action with those hormones coursing through their bodies. Also on the list of induction events: Both s.e.xes get their tattoo number inked into the inside of their left ear while anesthetized. otherwise males generally remain intact. The thinking is that these dogs are more aggressive and primed for action with those hormones coursing through their bodies. Also on the list of induction events: Both s.e.xes get their tattoo number inked into the inside of their left ear while anesthetized.

And these days, every dog over thirty-five pounds also undergoes a potentially lifesaving surgery called a gastropexy. The surgery will prevent a syndrome known as bloat from becoming fatal. Not long ago, 9 percent of U.S. military working dog losses resulted from complications of bloat. That number has dropped to zero since all large dogs started getting "pexied," as it's called in soldier dog circles.

Bloat, aka gastric dilation-volvulus, is a dangerous condition that mainly affects large, deep-chested dogs-precisely the kind the military favors. Bloat occurs when the stomach becomes overdistended with gas for any of a variety of reasons-not all known. This alone can be deadly, since it can cut off normal circulation when the enlarged stomach presses against major veins. Respiration can also be affected, since the stomach is pressing against the lungs. If you ever ate way too much in one sitting and found it hard to take a good breath, you'll have a feel for what the beginning of that phase of bloat can feel like.

But it's when the stomach twists at both ends (at the top the esophagus and at the bottom the pyloric valve) that bloat becomes especially lethal. Gas in the stomach can no longer escape either way, and circulation is severely impaired, leaving irreversible cell damage. Shock and cardiac arrest can occur within hours without emergency treatment.

On a visit to Lackland's brand-new Medina Military Working Dog Clinic-so new you can still smell the happy scent of paint over the scent of dog-I watch Nye operate on his reluctant patient. He has done at least four hundred of these surgeries in the last few years. Fred may not realize it, but he is in good hands. Dog Clinic-so new you can still smell the happy scent of paint over the scent of dog-I watch Nye operate on his reluctant patient. He has done at least four hundred of these surgeries in the last few years. Fred may not realize it, but he is in good hands.

As Michael Jackson's "Ben" cuts through the static of the radio that's propped up on a shelf, Nye makes the incision. It's only about three inches long. The surgery will take no more than an hour, and in the end, Fred's stomach will be sutured to his ventral abdominal wall. His chances of dying of bloat will have been virtually eliminated.

Nye st.i.tches Fred's abdomen, the dog's paws are unstrapped, tubes are withdrawn, and Fred is taken back to a recovery kennel. He will be checked frequently to make sure the Rimadyl and opiates he's getting are keeping the pain at bay and that the incision is healing well.

To keep Fred's mouth and teeth from exploring the surgery site, and to prevent his back paws from scratching at his fresh tattoo, Fred will wear a bucket over his head for the next several days. It's an old, scratched-up, dark blue plastic bucket with the bottom cut out, and it's fitted with ties that secure it to his collar so he won't be able to get it off. Not exactly the traditional "Elizabethan" collar civilian dogs wear after surgical procedures, but Fred doesn't mind.

Air Force Staff Sergeant Richard Crotty was stationed in Iraq when he got in touch with me. He wanted to relate this story of his first working dog, Ben B190, a German shepherd.

For seven months in 2006 Crotty and Ben served at the Eskan Village Air Base in Saudi Arabia, with the Sixty-fourth Expeditionary Security Forces Squadron. Their main duties were to search vehicles, conduct foot patrols, and partic.i.p.ate in random ant.i.terrorism exercises in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. They lived the life of expats, in a villa on base where they could have Chinese food or pizza delivered. Ben spent most nights on Crotty's bed. It was the good life for the pair, who preferred being together nearly 24/7 to life in the States, where dogs have to spend most of their days and nights in kennels. Village Air Base in Saudi Arabia, with the Sixty-fourth Expeditionary Security Forces Squadron. Their main duties were to search vehicles, conduct foot patrols, and partic.i.p.ate in random ant.i.terrorism exercises in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. They lived the life of expats, in a villa on base where they could have Chinese food or pizza delivered. Ben spent most nights on Crotty's bed. It was the good life for the pair, who preferred being together nearly 24/7 to life in the States, where dogs have to spend most of their days and nights in kennels.

They returned to Cannon Air Force Base in New Mexico in August 2006, and Ben's nights were once again spent in kennels. Crotty missed the camaraderie of those days and nights in Saudi Arabia, but he knew there was nothing he could do to keep his dog with him Stateside. On the night of January 7, 2007, Crotty went to say good night to Ben in his kennel and found Ben lying on his side-something the dog never did. When Crotty went to pet him, Ben urinated. Crotty noticed that the dog's stomach was rock hard-a sign he could have bloat. Ben had not had prophylactic gastropexy. Most male dogs back then hadn't.

With no time to lose, Crotty picked Ben up, put him in a patrol truck, and raced to the vet, sirens blaring. The immediate diagnosis called for emergency surgery. As he looked down at his dog on the operating table, Crotty's eyes were so filled with tears that "I could not see him as I was looking down. It was like it was my child. When the vet finally cut him open, the floor turned completely red."

It was too much. Crotty left the operating room. "When my kennel master came out of the operating room, he just shook his head. I lost it right there. My best friend for the last two years was gone." head. I lost it right there. My best friend for the last two years was gone."

In the end, the cause of Ben's fatal condition was not bloat. The vet had found inflammation of many organs, which had caused internal bleeding. Crotty was never told the reason for Ben's death, and he's not sure the veterinarian ever figured it out.

18

HANDLERS WITH BUCKETS

Students enrolled in the handler course at Lackland have paid their dues typically for months, but sometimes years, helping around kennels at their bases, cleaning p.o.o.p, working the dogs, a.s.sisting handlers with their duties, and generally proving to their field commanders and kennel masters that they are devoted.

Nearly all students in the handler course are military police. They've had to go through some intensive training in order to get to become MPs (or MAs-masters-at-arms-in the navy, or security forces in the air force). But little can prepare them for one of their first exercises: Pretending that an old .40-caliber metal ammo can is actually a dog.

For three days or so.

In front of all their cla.s.smates and anyone else who walks by.

These cans are referred to as buckets-not to be confused with the bucket that Fred had to wear over his head. The buckets were once used to safely transport ammunition, but now, through the magic of the imagination, and the embarra.s.sment of the majority of the students in the cla.s.s, they have been transformed into dogs. magic of the imagination, and the embarra.s.sment of the majority of the students in the cla.s.s, they have been transformed into dogs.

The buckets are shaped sort of like extra tall shoe boxes and are usually olive or khaki colored. They have two handles at the top and sometimes writing or lettering on the side. They look nothing whatsoever like dogs.

But that's the whole point. Just as medical students don't start out operating on living humans, handler students don't begin their training with a real live dog. It's too risky for the dogs and the students.

The real dogs the handlers train with aren't actually military working dogs, either. These dogs are "training aids." They live at Lackland and are a.s.signed to handler cla.s.ses throughout the year. Most training-aid dogs are here because they didn't quite cut it as working military dogs. Some washed out of dog school but are perfectly good as canine partners at the school. Others may have already served overseas or at their home bases but, for health or behavioral reasons, cannot work as fully functioning working dogs in the field. Even though they're not deployable, they're valuable a.s.sets to the military, and the dog program doesn't want any green handlers messing them up.

By the time they meet their buckets, the students have already gone through a few days of cla.s.sroom work. These are small, intimate groupings, with twelve students maximum per cla.s.s. They get plenty of hands-on time with three stuffed German shepherd toy dogs, learning the very basics, like how to put choke collars on them the right way, how to talk to them, and some basic commands. The dogs, though, are stuck in the sitting position, get knocked down easily, and get dirty far too quickly for anything more than cla.s.sroom training. Since function is far more important than form around here, the buckets are dragged out for the next step in training handlers. easily, and get dirty far too quickly for anything more than cla.s.sroom training. Since function is far more important than form around here, the buckets are dragged out for the next step in training handlers.

Handlers name their buckets to make these exercises more realistic. Brandon Liebert, the former marine dog handler we met earlier in the book, called his bucket Cananine (p.r.o.nounced Can-a-nine) because it was a can and it had a 9 spray-painted on the side. "It helped make it a little more believable that this was a dog," he says.

The idea is to do with the buckets just about everything handlers would normally do in the beginning stages of working with a canine training aid. Students have to tell the buckets to sit and lie down; they put two collars on their bucket's handles, making sure they have the choke chain going in the right direction and learning how to change from a dual collar to just a choke. They learn to keep proper safety distance from other students' buckets. They even do drill movements (for those not in the military, that's the "left face face" business)-no easy feat with a bucket, or a dog.

One of the first things students are taught when working with these military working buckets is how to offer praise. Genuine, heartfelt praise is essential to building a bond between dog and handler. In the working world of these dogs, you don't just say "Good boy!" in a slightly enthusiastic tone. You go crazy for the great deed the dog has done. Your voice goes up at least an octave, often more, just about as high as you can get it and not sound squeaky. You talk fast, and the vowels of your words are pulled longer, and sometimes you're not even understandable, and you're so enthusiastic that if you had a tail it would be wagging like mad. Many experienced handlers even throw in a "Woooo!" At Lackland, the trainers of new MWDs often add an exuberant "Yeeeehawwwww, hoooo dogggyyyyyyy!" in cowboy fas.h.i.+on. And for extra emphasis, on occasion, "Touch MWDs often add an exuberant "Yeeeehawwwww, hoooo dogggyyyyyyy!" in cowboy fas.h.i.+on. And for extra emphasis, on occasion, "Touchdown Texas!" Texas!"

When in the presence of handlers and trainers working their dogs-as opposed to buckets-you'll sometimes hear what sounds like the most enthusiastic praise, but then you realize that the words are all wrong. The tone is thrilled, but instead of words like "What a good boyyyy! Great fiiiiiiiiiiind!" they go something to the effect of "Oh my G.o.ddddd! How come you took so long to find that, you little dummy?!" It's a handler's way of expressing a little frustration while the dog remains encouraged about his efforts.

Talking to a real dog with such gusto can take some getting used to. Praising a bucket in such a fas.h.i.+on makes for a real challenge.

"A lot of students get embarra.s.sed. They get red-faced. Some get real quiet, even if they didn't start out that way," says Air Force Technical Sergeant Justin Marshall, instructor supervisor at Lackland. "We let them know that every single canine handler out there right now has gone through this. That seems to help a little."

And heaven forbid a bucket gets loose. Someone yells out "loose dog," and everyone who hears it has to repeat it so everyone else can know what exactly is going on. Handlers who have a bucket on leash have to choke up (grab as close to the leash clasp as possible) on the leash. If the leashed bucket were a real dog, the handlers would then have to put their dog's face in their crotch area so the dog wouldn't see the loose dog coming, and therefore would likely not react aggressively. (Military working dogs are often aggressive with each other, and fights can break out in an instant. Practicing these maneuvers with buckets is best for everyone's sake.) Bucket training goes on until the students all seem to have a firm grasp of techniques. It usually takes two or three days. At the end, there's a friendly compet.i.tion in which students try to make the fewest mistakes in handling their buckets. The prize is a good one: The winner gets to choose which real dog he will be working with for the detection portion of the handler course. Other students can decide on their dogs based on how they ranked in the game, but sometimes instructors match students with dogs themselves, especially if they feel a student will do better with a certain type of dog personality. (A timid handler and an extra-bold, a.s.sertive dog may not make the best pairing, for instance.) The buckets are stored away for the next cla.s.s, and the bucket graduates head to the kennels to get their dogs. Most students are thrilled to finally be working with a flesh-and-blood dog. But for a few-usually those who had little experience with dogs before-it can be daunting. "Some just get scared when they get to the kennel and have to get the dog out. They feel overwhelmed, especially if the dog is really excited," says Marshall. Buckets don't spin in mad circles, and they don't accidentally bite you or bark until your eardrums throb. The energy of these dogs can prove too much for these students, and they turn in their leash shortly after being introduced to their dog.

For the most part, the dogs who work as training aids are old hands at this. They've done this before, sometimes many times before, and some almost seem to try to help students get through the training: "C'mon, just follow me, and I'll find the explosive and I'll make you look good, pal. Then you praise me up and give me my Kong and we'll be square."

For the remainder of the handler course, the dogs will help their students learn the basics of dog handling. Collars will inevitably be pulled too tight, commands won't be clear, students will balk or move the wrong way when doing bite training, but the dogs persevere. They're happy to be out of their kennels and working. They relish a handler's enthusiasm and praise, and the Kong or ball they get whenever there's a job well done, and the daily, long grooming/bonding sessions from their temporary a.s.signment. their students learn the basics of dog handling. Collars will inevitably be pulled too tight, commands won't be clear, students will balk or move the wrong way when doing bite training, but the dogs persevere. They're happy to be out of their kennels and working. They relish a handler's enthusiasm and praise, and the Kong or ball they get whenever there's a job well done, and the daily, long grooming/bonding sessions from their temporary a.s.signment.

Most students make it through the eleven-week program. By graduation, a couple of students may already have the makings of scars from when a body part was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seasoned handlers usually have several, all with good stories attached.

Graduation is held in a large fluorescently lit auditorium with mustard-colored walls. On the walls are photographs of handlers who died in the line of duty-a somber reminder of the reality of the n.o.ble profession they are entering. It doesn't stop the high fives and cheering of the small band of green handlers who are about to embark on a career with a built-in best friend.

19

DOG SCHOOL

It takes about five weeks longer to create a standard-issue dual-purpose military working dog than it does to graduate a handler. During this time, dog school instructors teach dogs fundamental obedience, detection, and patrol work. In the end, the dog will have a set of basic skills that can be built upon when he is a.s.signed to a home base, where the dog will expand on the previous training.

Air Force Technical Sergeant Jason Barken, a master trainer and training team leader at Lackland, likens dog school to an a.s.sembly line. With eighteen to twenty-two dogs per team of trainers, and nine or ten teams of trainers at a time, some two hundred dogs can be going through training here, albeit at different stages of dog school. They're staggered so not all dogs end up in one place at one time.

Each team is made up of five to seven trainers, including a "red patch," or training supervisor. The red patches wear a red triangular-shaped patch on their tan overalls, which distinguishes them from all the other trainers wearing tan overalls on the team. When a team gets a trailer of dogs, they divvy them up. So for a typical trailer of eighteen dogs and a six-trainer team that will teach them the ropes, each trainer ends up with three. typical trailer of eighteen dogs and a six-trainer team that will teach them the ropes, each trainer ends up with three.

While many dogs will already have some familiarity with bite training because the Department of Defense won't buy them if they don't have a decent bite, many don't know even the most elemental obedience. Most don't even know the command for "sit" or "lie down." And if they do, it may well be in Dutch or German.

Dogs go through detection training first. They'll learn eight explosives scents here (or a variety of narcotic scents), starting out in much the same fas.h.i.+on they did when they were chosen for this work from the vendors. Only this time instead of vanilla or licorice, trainers use real commercial explosives.

A dog may have a slight change of behavior when he smells a new scent like pota.s.sium chlorate-kind of like a "Whoa, that was weird! Let me give that an extra sniff" reaction. It can be very subtle. Sometimes it's just a little extra time spent on a scent. When the dog has clearly detected the odor, a trainer "pays on sniff" by throwing a Kong over the dog's head so it lands on the scent. It seems to the dog like it's not the trainer who pays him, but the scent.

That dogs can believe the scent of pota.s.sium chlorate magically creates a bouncing Kong is just one of those things that makes them lovable. The trainer doing the high-pitched happy cheerleading for the dog's deed might seem a little odd to the dog at first. One wonders if the dog thinks the handler is just as happy to see the Kong appear from the explosive as the dog himself is.

The reason for the ball coming from the odor and not from a trainer at this early stage is that the dog shouldn't always be looking to the trainer to see if he's on the right track. A dog can't have this kind of dependence in theater, since handlers have no idea where IEDs may be. Looking for approval or reward in a wartime situation can lead to a dog stepping onto an IED instead of detecting it first. IEDs may be. Looking for approval or reward in a wartime situation can lead to a dog stepping onto an IED instead of detecting it first.

After a while, when a dog detects the scent, he'll stare at it, which of course leads to the reward. Trainers then introduce the "sit" command when a dog sniffs an odor, because it's important that dogs don't keep wandering around once they've detected something, and because sitting makes it clear that the dog isn't just staring at a pa.s.sing beetle. The technique where a dog sits and stares at an odor is known as deferred final response. Some dogs may lie down instead if the odor source is low or it's under something like a car.

Once a dog learns the technique for one scent, other scents can be fairly quick to follow. It's as if a lightbulb goes off: "Ah, here's a new, weird, unnatural, potent scent. Let's see if a Kong comes out of it!" After a while, the Kong doesn't even have to be used in this manner anymore, but it's inevitably part of the reward. The scents that dogs learn to detect at the 341st are just the start of a bouquet of narcotic or explosives scents they'll be able to uncover. Many more will be added as they continue their training at their home bases and beyond.

The detection portion of dog school takes about sixty days. In order to certify as a detection dog, drug dogs need to have 90 percent accuracy. Explosives dogs must have 95 percent, missing a maximum of one out of the twenty aids.

Then it's on to the patrol section of schooling. This starts with basic obedience, then ramps up to an obstacle course, with tunnels, a jump, stairs, and other structures similar to what dogs might encounter during a mission. Labradors and other dogs destined for a single-purpose career stop training here. encounter during a mission. Labradors and other dogs destined for a single-purpose career stop training here.

The shepherds and Malinois move on to the next phase of the dog school syllabus: the bite. Most dual-purpose dogs these days seldom need to use their bite skills in real life. But the deterrent factor may be part of the reason the dogs so rarely have to go into bite mode. Most people will back off when they see these dogs, or when the barking begins.

The dual-purpose dogs the Department of Defense purchases are already trained to bite, so the bite work is finessed and taken to the next level at Lackland. The dogs generally know how to run and attack a decoy's arm that's protected by a bite sleeve. It is deeply satisfying for a dog to chomp into it; in fact, the bite is the reward-no Kong needed.

But what about stopping someone who's running away? The dogs here work on an exercise called a field interview, where the handler is questioning a "bad guy," maybe frisking him. The decoy in this scenario is often clad in full-body protective gear, known affectionately as a marshmallow suit. It makes him look rather like the Michelin Man wearing a dark-colored coverall with thick fabric. The wearer's head is usually the only part that's not protected.

The dog stands guard. The person bolts. The handler shouts for him to stop, but he doesn't. Meanwhile the dog is completely at attention, ears forward, body stiff, tail rigid, eyes focused. The decoy is like a giant rabbit, and to a dog with a strong prey, hunt, or play drive, it's one of the most fun games there is.

(In case you ever get apprehended by a MWD or any law-enforcement canine, you might like to note that these dogs tend to bite the part of you that's moving the most. When you're sprawled out on the ground after a dog knocks you down, consider waving a white flag. And don't think about playing dead. The dog will liven you up very quickly.) bite the part of you that's moving the most. When you're sprawled out on the ground after a dog knocks you down, consider waving a white flag. And don't think about playing dead. The dog will liven you up very quickly.) "Git him!" the trainer exhorts. Music to a dog's ears. The dog gallops to his quarry and grabs whatever body part is convenient. The force often knocks down the decoy. Whether the decoy remains standing or gets sent to the ground, a well-trained dog will bite and hang on until the trainer calls him off. Most dogs don't want to give up the bite. Some release immediately, others grab and shake until more firmly commanded-or even physically pried off. With more training, the release comes more quickly.

And what happens if, during the initial pursuit, the "bad guy" gives up and stops running? The dog needs to be able to stop in his tracks and resist every urge to finish the pursuit and bite the c.r.a.p out of him until told to stop. This is called a standoff. The handler or trainer yells, "Out," very loudly, and the dog is supposed to stop in his tracks and stand guard next to the suspect. The dog learns how to escort the suspect away, heeling close at his side. If the person makes a move to escape, the dog can grab him if the handler doesn't get to him first.

I've watched this type of dramatic exercise at a few different military bases, with the big padded man or woman flouting the law and running away. It made me wonder if dogs think that all bad guys are obese. The message seems to be "Great big person runs away, I get to bite." I've been a.s.sured that this isn't the case. It's the chase that kicks in a dog's instincts, not the size of the person. In fact, as a dog gets more advanced, there's special protective gear that's a lot less bulky than the marshmallow suit. It doesn't protect as well, so it's not used that much. But it helps make the scenario more realistic. as well, so it's not used that much. But it helps make the scenario more realistic.

My question about bite-protection gear wasn't entirely unfounded, as it turned out. Over lunch at Chili's, Air Force Technical Sergeant Joe Null, the noncommissioned officer in charge of military working dog logistics, told me that there are some dogs who are so used to an obvious padded target-like a bite sleeve or full-body gear-that they're flummoxed when these are absent.

He pointed me to a grainy video on YouTube that shows what appears to be a real-life situation, taken from a helicopter camera that doesn't have the world's best zoom, of a police dog chasing a suspect. But as the dog gets ready to take down the man, you can see by the dog's body language that he's a little confused. Null says the dog is wondering, "Where's the bite sleeve? Where's the padding?" He pa.s.ses the man by, slows his pace, and for the remainder of the short video, man and dog weave around each other along the road, the dog now looking like he's merrily cantering around-no longer an aggressor but more a happy cartoon character. When the music s.h.i.+fts from a dramatic chase riff to the Looney Tunes theme, it fits perfectly.

"The moral for handlers," says Null. "Don't let this happen to you."

But it's easy to see why some dogs are motivated by the sight and scent of a good bite sleeve-a big, thick, almost castlike arm protector. Everywhere I went at Lackland's patrol area, dogs with heads held high and tails wagging hard paraded around with what looked like giant, stiff arms. After certain types of exercises-like finding a bad guy behind a closed door in a barren building with many doors-dogs would get the sleeve as a reward for about a minute, and they'd beam as they toted around the biggest and most outlandish "bones" ever. It's no wonder the dog in the video was holding out for his. (Another theory about that dog is that he didn't want to hurt the man. He probably learned that handlers are not happy when you bite into a body part that's not protected.) minute, and they'd beam as they toted around the biggest and most outlandish "bones" ever. It's no wonder the dog in the video was holding out for his. (Another theory about that dog is that he didn't want to hurt the man. He probably learned that handlers are not happy when you bite into a body part that's not protected.) What starts as a fun game propelled by a dog's play, prey, and hunt drives develops over months and even years into a drive to defend and protect. "The goal is to develop the ultimate working dog that will defend itself and its pack members under any condition," Arod says. If a handler is wounded and unable to speak, the dog won't just stand there waiting for the command. He'll go into full protection mode.

The trainers at Lackland plant the seeds of this drive. They teach a dog to attack when the "bad guy" starts fighting, or even when a suspect raises his arm while being questioned in a mock field interview.

Not all dogs will make it through this part of dog school. Patrol is not for everyone. Just as Ferdinand the fictional bull preferred to just sit and sniff the flowers, some tough-looking military working dogs really don't want to attack people. There are softies in the dog world, and no matter what you do, they're not going to be reliable aggressors. "They just want to be your friend," says Null.

The military knows this, which is why dogs certify in detection work first. These dogs can be perfectly good sniffer dogs, and they have the bonus feature of looking like they could eat you for lunch, even if they'd rather just come over for a good ear rub.

20

I TRY NOT TO NOTICE THE BLOOD

I've been watching bite-training work at Lackland for much of the morning when I meet up with Navy Master-at-Arms First Cla.s.s Ekali Brooks. He's training new students at the handler course on the basics of "catching" a dog.

When you catch a dog, the dog-generally a German shepherd or a Belgian Malinois-careens toward you at top speed, intent on biting into the part of your body that's easiest to access and that's moving the most. This can be rather dangerous, so you wear a bite sleeve. If you catch a dog right, you won't be hurt. Mess up, and you might know what a few hundred psi of dog bite feels like.

Brooks explains that as the dog runs at you, the sleeve needs to be a few inches away from your body so there's a cus.h.i.+on when the impact occurs. More experienced handlers and trainers can be running away from the dog and turn at the last second for the dog to bite into the sleeve. New students just stand there facing the dog, knees bent, ready to absorb the impact. In either case, as the dog runs toward you, you want to agitate the sleeve, shaking your arm so the dog is attracted to the sleeve and not to any of the many unprotected parts of the body. so the dog is attracted to the sleeve and not to any of the many unprotected parts of the body.

As I watch dogs fly by on the field of dry gra.s.s on this scorching Texas summer day, I realize a lot of things can go wrong if you don't do this decoy business right. (Brooks tells me that "decoy" is a more appropriate term for what I'd been calling the "dog catcher" or once even, carelessly, the "victim.") Besides the scars so many handlers and trainers bear, Brooks says these men and women are notorious for having shoulder problems.

Then he asks someone nearby a question: "You want to catch a dog?"

I look around for the decoy candidate he's talking to, but there's no one else close enough to hear that question.

"You want to try it?"

Oh G.o.d, the man is looking at me me. And he's smiling in that benevolent "here is a gift I know you will love" kind of way. How can I say no?

"Sure, that'd be great!" Suddenly the hot day feels much warmer.

Brooks calls over a husky student wearing army camouflage and asks for his sleeve. It looks like the arm of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz, only with a jute fiber cover over hard plastic. It's a Gappay brand-one of the best, Arod would later tell me-and starts at the shoulder, bends ninety degrees at the elbow, and ends well past the hand, which is sealed off in case of overly enthusiastic dogs.

Brooks hands it to me, and I try not to notice that there's blood on the outside. The jute should be a nice haylike color. And it mostly is. But there's one area that's the color and demeanor of the piece of absorbent material that's on the bottom of a package of hamburger meat. I didn't want to ask what happened. Better not to know right now. mostly is. But there's one area that's the color and demeanor of the piece of absorbent material that's on the bottom of a package of hamburger meat. I didn't want to ask what happened. Better not to know right now.

(I later learn that the blood is from the friction of a dog's gums against the jute, not from a handler mishap. It's uncommon that a dog bites in such a way that the gums sc.r.a.pe and bleed, but the sleeve I was wearing was pretty tattered and had clearly caught hundreds of dogs, and rubbed at least one dog's gums the wrong way.) I slip my arm into the thing. Inside there's foam cus.h.i.+oning and a bar of protective steel running the length of it. The cus.h.i.+oning has a sticky, grungy, spongy wetness from the sweat of the handlers who've been practicing this morning. Outside, the jute is shredded and damp from the saliva of dogs with great big canine teeth and an even bigger prey drive. The dog I'm about to catch-a smaller, older Belgian Malinois named Laika H267-eyes me and my giant arm from afar. She looks like she wants a piece of me. I tuck away any thoughts of arms as hamburger meat and get my instructions from Brooks.

He is confident and calm in manner and has done this for years. He has an enthusiasm about working with dogs that's conveniently contagious. "They actually pay us to work with dogs like this! There aren't too many people who like what they do, and I love what I do. It doesn't get any better than working with these dogs."

My arm is in good hands.