Soldier Dogs

by Maria Goodavage

  Before the Robby law, Engstrom says, “it was extremely sad. We kept dogs working that had no business working, because there was no alternative. You would see dogs that literally had almost complete organ failure. We weren’t willing to give up these dogs to so easily die.”

  I met a dog at Travis Air Force Base who was deploying the next day. He was twelve years old. He already had seven deployments under his belt. I was stunned that such an old dog would still be deploying. But the handlers told me that deploying was what was saving him from death: While this dog was a pussycat with his most recent handler, who had been with him for a few months, if he didn’t know you, watch out. He was extremely aggressive.

  The handlers there are amazed that he is going so strong at twelve. They have a theory. They think he knows that if he doesn’t keep working, he’s done for. It’s the only explanation the handlers I interviewed could come up with. “He must know it, somehow.”

  The average age of retirement is now about 8.3 years. Some people would like to see dogs retired before they start having too many physical ailments, so they can get a little pain-free enjoyment out of civilian life. But with Department of Defense budgets in distress, it’s unlikely that highly functional dogs will be let out early just to enjoy some couch time before arthritis sets in.

  In 2010, the Department of Defense adopted out 304 dogs and transferred 34 to law enforcement. Eight dispo’d dogs who were healthy enough to be adopted were put down because they were deemed too dangerous for adoption. Twelve temperamentally adoptable dogs had to be euthanized because of serious health issues that would have caused intractable pain.

  Some say the numbers of adoptions would increase if the government would bring dogs who are retired while overseas back home. We’re not talking about dogs being abandoned on the streets of Kabul, as some who have heard about this issue seem to think. This is mostly about dogs who are left at permanent U.S. bases in places like Germany when they’re deemed unable to work. As it is, an adoptable dog stays at the base until adopted. If people in the United States want to adopt the dog, they have to pay for the dog to return home.

  The official argument is this: Dogs, as hard as it may be to swallow, are still considered equipment. When standard equipment (without a cold nose and a tail) is pulled out of operation, it’s not sent back to where it came from. So if a dog is retired overseas, you don’t send him back to the States, even if that’s where he got his initial training. And military budgets have been crippled with the economic downturn. The government doesn’t want to be paying for dogs to come back to the States if private individuals will foot the bill.

  Debbie Kandoll, founder of the group Military Working Dog Adoptions, calls this hogwash. “Uncle Sam transported those military working dog heroes over to permanent bases abroad. Uncle Sam has a responsibility to get the dog back to the continental U.S.,” she says. “There is no reason that half-empty U.S. military aircraft cannot transport these dogs back to CONUS [the continental United States]. At that point the adopter can pay for transport to the dog’s new residence.”

  She says many people have adopted dogs from overseas sight unseen. They get information from the kennel master and the dog’s handler, and if they like the dog, they figure out how to make it work. (On her Web site she gives tips for situations like this and provides contact information for U.S. military dog kennels Stateside and around the world.) It takes time and money to do this. I’ve heard figures ranging from $400 to $2,000 for transport, depending on location, time of year, and size of dog.

  In order for retiring dogs to be flown back home on the government’s bill, these dogs would need to be reclassified as MWD veterans instead of excess equipment, Kandoll says. Her group and a few others are pushing for an amendment to the Robby law that would make this possible. “We can’t let an ocean stand in the way of getting these deserving dogs wonderful homes,” she says.

  51

  A VERY GOOD LIFE

  It’s not just people who adopt from overseas locations who put a Herculean effort into adopting a military working dog. While I was at Lackland, I met a couple who drove 1,047 miles, from rural Illinois, to pick up their dog. That the pickup happened to coincide with a wedding a few hours away was pure luck. “We’d have come down for her no matter what,” says Jerry Self, president of an engineering firm in Illinois.

  Self heard about military dogs in December 2009, when a friend sent him a link to a video about the fact that the dogs need good homes when they retire. Shortly after, he put in his paperwork. In early 2011, Engstrom called to talk to him, to get to know more about his situation, and to give him the news that it wouldn’t be long now.

  Self and his wife, Karen, had been in San Antonio for two days when I met them at Engstrom’s desk at Lackland. They were there to pick up Asta—the beautiful light fawn-colored Malinois I’d seen earlier in the kennel. They’d met her a couple of days earlier as they were looking for a good match. Self thought he wanted an old war vet German shepherd, but he and his wife saw Asta and knew she was the one. “There was something about the way she looked at us,” he told me.

  Asta was only two years old. She was as green as they come. She had not received much military training, because she had gotten injured and had fractured a vertebra near the end of her spine. She had undergone surgery, but she was compromised, and the vets didn’t think it would be wise to put her into the program.

  I waited to watch the Selfs and Asta meet in the adoption room and for them to walk off to their car with their new dog. But it turned out that Asta needed a couple more official clearances before they could bring her home. So they’d stay in San Antonio one more night. They were disappointed but took it in stride. “We waited this long, what’s another day or two?” Self said.

  “She’s going to have a good life with us.”

  We kept in touch. Asta rode the 1,047 miles home to Casey, Illinois, like a trouper, never a peep, Jerry Self wrote me. They stopped for breaks pretty often, and when they stayed at hotels along the way, Asta slept in her crate. There were no accidents, there was no barking.

  Back at home, Asta was gentle with the Selfs’ grandchildren, and with their Chihuahua, who is grouchy about Asta being there. The Selfs don’t think Asta would have been a good patrol dog because “there’s not a mean bone in her body. She loves affection, and she gets quite a lot.”

  Asta has a thing for Frisbees. She owns about a dozen, and while she likes to chase after them, she prefers to fold them taco style and trot around with them. When Jerry Self goes to throw them, they wobble badly because of all the teeth marks. And she slobbers on everything. And she is high energy. “She gallops around like a horse most of the time…. She is young and rambunctious and likes to jump up on the couch and office furniture, and knocks everything down,” Jerry says.

  In fact, the Selfs find that at this stage, life is a bit more tame when Asta is enjoying time in a special 110- by 80-foot fenced-in area they built around their house for her. It has big trees and grass in it. Squirrels scamper up and down the trees, and the family’s three cats like to bask in the sunshine and watch the latest addition to the household. She doesn’t pay them much mind, though. She’s just enjoying her newfound life in this lush, green, bucolic land—a long, long way from the war zone where she could well be right now had she not been injured.

  Which brings me back to Jake. If not for his own accident—an accident of birth—could he have been a military working dog? Would he have withstood the rigors of training, of Yuma, of deployment? Would he have learned to fiercely guard a Kong, to want it so badly he would do anything for it?

  He has the spirit, the loyalty, the can-do attitude. He has patience, a great nose, no crippling fears. But does he have the drive? Would he be willing to do anything for a reward? Since I can take a Kong or tennis ball out of his mouth and have him shrug it off with a smile, his drive for that kind of reward is not strong enough.

  But what about food? He lives for food. (He is a L
ab, say no more.) I think he could be one of those dogs for whom food is the reward that would lift him to great heights. But the dog program tends to frown on food rewards, as do most trainers these days, and he’d need so many treats he’d probably get so obese, he’d be dispo’d anyway.

  The bottom line, though, really goes beyond whether or not he could have been a contender. As much as I have tremendous, undying admiration for military working dogs and their handlers—even more than when I began this journey—and as much fun as it is to fantasize that Jake could have the right stuff to be a soldier dog, I would not want him to actually do the job. I can’t imagine anyone these days really wanting his or her dog to go to war, be in harm’s way. Even most handlers would like their dogs to be with them somewhere other than military kennels, or FOBs, or outside the wire.

  That’s why so many end up adopting. “I wanted him to know what it was like to be a regular dog in a regular house, before he crossed the bridge,” I was told in various ways many times. It’s something many of us take for granted, but imagine being the dog who suddenly finds herself away from war, away from the blasts of artillery, IEDs, the adrenaline, the heat, the loud concrete kennels. Imagine living in a comfortable home, with a soft bed, and a loving family. It must be like a dream.

  There’s one situation where it would be handy if Jake were a military working dog, though—especially now that he’s getting a bit on in years: whenever he needs medical care. The medical care these dogs receive would be prohibitively expensive for most of us and is first-rate. It makes my health insurance look rather primitive.

  52

  THE BEST MEDICAL CARE MONEY CAN BUY

  Ttitan N319 slowly slides into the CT scanner. He’s on his back, paws in the air. As he enters the tube, a red laser shines on him, creating interesting arcs and lines on his paws and then on his rear end and, finally, his tail, until he’s all the way in. A technician is beside him, making sure all is well. Outside the room, other CT pros, including two veterinary radiologists, look on, noting the dog’s image on a large computer screen in front of them. He’s a Malinois, but in black-and-white, with the perspective of this particular view from the scanner, he looks rather like a lizard.

  This is a high-end CT scanner he’s in, but he’ll never know it, because he’s out cold. (He would not know it anyway, I suppose.) Nearly everything at the Daniel E. Holland Military Working Dog Hospital at Lackland Air Force Base is state-of-the-art. Opened in 2008 and named after an army veterinarian who was killed in Iraq, the $13 million hospital is a unique referral center providing top-notch veterinary care for pretty much every issue a soldier dog could face. If they can’t take care of it here—for instance, if a dog needs an MRI, something the MWD hospital lacks—a dog can be taken to the human medical center at Lackland. MRIs are scheduled during non-human-patient hours.

  When the veterinary hospital bought the CT scanner being occupied by Ttitan, it was better than the one at the human medical center. Ttitan is being examined for a previous injury. He’s looking good so far. My guide, Kelly Mann, a veterinary radiologist and director of the hospital, ushers us on.

  Down the hall and through a few large, superclean exam and treatment rooms we come to a boxful of light blue shoe covers. Mann asks me to put on a pair, and he does the same. We then enter a small, darkened room and come to a large window that looks into a large, state-of-the-art surgical suite. It’s one of two at the hospital. A team of two veterinarians (one visiting from Korea) and two vet techs surrounds the patient. You cannot see there’s a dog under all that surgical draping, and you’d swear it must be a person until you see a tiny hint of a paw. This dog has a bad carpus (basically, a dog’s wrist) injury, and today is getting a procedure called arthrodesis to fix the carpus in place. It should greatly reduce the pain he’s been having.

  After his surgery, he’ll be taken to the recovery area, which has heated floors. During his weeks of recovery, he’ll eventually end up in what they call the “gee whiz room.” This is the part of the physical therapy department that has underwater treadmills designed just for dogs. The body weight of a dog on one of these treadmills is greatly reduced, making weight-bearing exercise more bearable. It’s one of the first steps in exercise rehab.

  It’s clear that soldier dogs who come to this hospital are in very good hands. Since it’s a referral hospital, the facility gets military dogs from everywhere. Veterinary care at most bases with kennels is usually very good, but the vets know when something is beyond them or their facility, and they don’t hesitate to send dogs here. (The hospital also treats TSA and Border Patrol dogs.)

  You might think, “Well sure, they’re giving this equipment good treatment because they have to keep the dog ready to protect lives, just like you’d service a military plane or even a rifle.” And there may be some truth to that. The idea is to keep these dogs healthy and able to work. But many of the patients here will never be going back to work. Their careers are ending because of medical issues. It’s heartening to see that the Department of Defense doesn’t turn its back on them just because they’re no longer of use.

  “We fix them at the end of their career, even if we adopt them out. It’s the right thing to do,” says Mann.

  The hospital’s necropsy room is not far off the lobby of the hospital. It is very spacious, with two tables and all the accoutrements needed for the deep level of necropsy done here. This is not where Engstrom found what was left of Max; that was in the old hospital. But it’s a stark reminder that even with all the best treatment, soldier dogs die. And if you’re a soldier dog, it is pretty much guaranteed you’ll get a necropsy.

  This isn’t just to see what went wrong inside a dog; the knowledge gained from these procedures can help other dogs. A dog’s tissues are sent to the Joint Pathology Center, where the samples are prepared for histopathology and read out by board-certified veterinary pathologists. Eventually, all of those results and the complete medical records are mailed to the MWD medical records repository. The end-of-life data are reviewed retrospectively by the staff epidemiologist, to keep veterinarians informed of the most common diseases being seen in the soldier dog population. This helps them refine the topics that are taught to Veterinary Corps officers and animal care specialists who are taking basic and advanced courses there, and the information helps the operational units learn of common issues to watch for in the working dog population.

  So there’s a lot of potential good that comes from necropsies, but the notion of what a dog looks like—what poor Engstrom saw—after one of these makes me shudder. I would not want Jake to go through this. Most handlers want to be with their dog for euthanasia but won’t stick around for the necropsy because it’s just too much.

  When a soldier dog dies, if the dog is lucky enough to have a handler (as opposed to dogs who are training aids), the dog will not be forgotten. Handlers can get the cremated remains of what’s not sent off to pathologists. Depending on the base where the necropsy occurred, the handler may get the ashes back in a beautifully engraved wood box. Some bases have memorial walls where the boxes are placed next to photos of the dog. Others have small cemeteries devoted to their military working dogs.

  Amanda Ingraham buried Rex’s ashes at Fort Myer before she left for Germany with Cinte. She and her father worked together to make a cross with Rex’s name deeply engraved in it. She didn’t have time for a traditional dog memorial, but she will when she returns. And she’s not looking forward to trying to read the poem that handlers traditionally read during these ceremonies. She’ll probably have someone else do it, because she can’t get through the last few lines.

  The poem, “Guardians of the Night,” speaks of the bond military dogs (or police dogs, depending on the version you read) have with their handlers, from a dog’s point of view. In the end, the poem talks about when their time has come to move on, and how for a time they were an unbeatable team, and then goes on to a couple of lines about what they’ll do if they should ever meet again “on
another field.” This is where a lot of handlers break down. It’s not great poetry. But if you picture your own dog, you’re done for. (This poem is also read at handler course graduation ceremonies at Lackland, but it doesn’t pack the emotional wallop it does at memorial services.)

  There’s another tradition at MWD memorial services. The dog’s bowls are placed upside down, to symbolize that the dog won’t need them anymore. The collar and leash are hung in remembrance of the dog. And if the memorial is at a kennel, the dog’s kennel door is left open, indicating that the dog will not be returning home.

  53

  THIRTEEN MEDALS AND RIBBONS

  Sergeant Mark Vierig, the marine we met earlier with his combat tracking dog, Lex, had worked with another dog a few years before. The dog was a dual-purpose Malinois, a big ninety-pounder named Duc B016. “He was an amazing dog,” Vierig will tell you. Their bond ran deep. Duc (pronounced Duck) was always cool under fire, with a nose that sniffed out many a bomb in his day. He’d been to Afghanistan with Vierig, and to Iraq (twice), and even Thailand.

  Vierig was able to adopt Duc in 2006, when Duc was ten or eleven years old. Vierig had left the marines after his four years of active duty (he was later called back in from inactive duty, which is where he met Lex) and was living with his wife, baby daughter, and four dogs in the mountains of Utah, next to the Weber River—a fly fisherman’s paradise, and heaven on earth for the retired dog. Just the kind of place Duc deserved, Vierig told his friends.

  On a summer day about a year after his grand new life started, Duc went outside and Vierig’s wife saw him collapse. She yelled to Vierig, who ran out and found Duc unresponsive. He scooped the dog up and brought him inside the “Duc Room,” a special room they had converted for Duc’s comfort. Vierig sat down cross-legged on the floor, supporting Duc’s head and upper body in his arms. He stroked his old face and neck, trying to figure out what was wrong. Suddenly Duc howled like a wolf, a plaintive cry Vierig had never heard before. Duc took one last breath and died in Vierig’s arms.