Secret Service Dogs

by Maria Goodavage

  Their future was bright, with years of fun and work ahead. The latest adventure was a trip to New Orleans on a protective mission for Vice President Joe Biden.

  But as they were sweeping a parking garage for explosives, Maxo fell from the sixth-floor roof of the garage.

  It was a freak accident, involving the Mal’s unending exuberance, a leash that got torn away from the handler, and a collar that popped off the dog’s neck. Maxo was rushed to a veterinary emergency hospital but didn’t survive.

  His death ripped his handler apart. It’s terrible enough when a dog dies from an illness, or in the line of fire. But when it’s an accident, even if there’s no wrongdoing, the burden of the guilt can be incapacitating.

  The military has been contending with its dogs nearly flying off roofs or out of buildings—and sometimes actually going over—for a long time. During predeployment training at Yuma Proving Ground in Arizona, handlers are reminded of the dangers of not having complete control as their dogs search the top of a mock “Middle Eastern” compound. Still, some break away and head for the edge in pursuit of a Kong, or just because they’re such high-drive dogs that they’ll take any opportunity to run.

  It even happens on deployment. One day Marine Staff Sergeant Kristopher Knight’s dog, Bram, was walking around the roof of a compound in Iraq when the Kong he was clenching in his jaws dropped and bounced to the ground.

  Bram decided to follow it. His fall was only eighteen feet, but Bram was relegated to light duty for three weeks.

  On February 4, fifty mourners, mostly from the Secret Service but also several outside agencies, gathered for a memorial service for Maxo at a military base that’s the administrative headquarters for the Service’s Explosive Detection Team.

  The team shares space with the element that stores and services the armored fleet for the Secret Service. Maxo’s memorial was held in one of the garage bays where the limos are. Two limos were used as backdrop, along with pipe and drape, so it no longer looked like a garage. There were rows of seats and a podium set up in front for the speakers.

  After a call to attention, placement of the urn and flag, and a heartbreaking canine prayer read by a handler, unit commander Captain Barry Lewis stepped up to the podium. A former handler himself, he knew the pain of losing a canine partner. (In his homage that follows, the name of the handler has been removed out of respect for his privacy.)

  Ten months. Ten months is not a long time. But then again, these were dog months. It’s amazing what good work a dog can achieve in such a short time. That is what we should remember today. All the good work Maxo did in his relatively short career.

  [Handler], today we will present you with some mementos. Photos, poems, the flag that covered Maxo on his ride from Andrews Air Force Base back to this building. Maybe not right away, but in time you will pull them out and proudly share them with . . . family and friends. You will talk about all the places you traveled as a team and all the work he did. And maybe with fellow handlers you will compare whose dog, at times, could be the biggest knucklehead.

  As you know, last year was a campaign year. The Canine Unit, like every Secret Service entity, was challenged by what they were asked to do to support the protective mission. Canine Maxo did his part in helping the unit meet our responsibility of explosive detection.

  I want to share what Maxo accomplished in ten short months:

  Crisscrossing the country, Maxo and [his handler] traveled on twenty-eight separate protective details to provide protection for the president and vice president.

  An additional twenty-five separate protective missions for the president, vice president, and foreign heads of state were conducted by them here in the Washington, D.C., area.

  The out-of-town details included the United Nations General Assembly in NYC, the Democratic National Convention, the Republican National Convention, and cities and towns from Florida to Nevada. Just a couple of months ago Maxo and [his handler] made the long trip to Thailand to provide coverage for the president.

  The most recent in-town detail was the long day known as “the inauguration where Maxo helped secure the parade route.”

  In ten months, Maxo saw more of the country and the world than a lot of dogs see in a career. And of course that doesn’t even take into account the work done every day at the White House and other permanent areas of responsibility.

  [Handler], that is something you and the unit should be proud of today. That is what we should remember.

  Last week I paid a visit to our class currently going through training. They are about three weeks into their seventeen-week course.

  I asked a few of the students who they thought the best dog was so far in the class.

  I heard two or three different names. Not what I was looking for, but they figured it out pretty quick. By the time I left they knew the answer.

  “My dog.” The right answer is, “My dog is the best dog.”

  [Handler], we don’t have to tell you that Maxo was the best dog.

  The handlers in attendance knew what he meant. Every dog is the best one as far as their handlers are concerned. Handlers brushed away tears as they thought of their own dogs, of the mortality of these partners who would forever define them.

  It’s a tradition for law-enforcement officers who die in the line of duty to be called one final time by dispatch. During this “last call,” police radios at the funeral or memorial are tuned to a frequency, and the dispatcher calls for the deceased officer three times with his or her call signal.

  Upon hearing no response, the dispatcher says that the officer has arrived at the final assignment and that the officer’s shift is over forever, or words to that effect. There may be a mention of heaven, and how the officer will be missed by all.

  Maxo’s version of this tradition was broadcast on the radio of one of the canine vans with its emergency lights on. A handler who had previously been a dispatcher made the call.

  In the silence that followed the last call, even the most experienced, toughened officers wept—some more silently than others.

  —

  Most Secret Service dog handlers who have lost a dog still have their partner’s ashes, no matter how long ago the dog passed away. Some plan to be buried with the ashes.

  They also inevitably have some memento they will never let go. Often, a favorite ball. Anything the dog loved, or wore, becomes cherished. Even the fur around the house that used to drive them crazy becomes a poignant reminder.

  Jim’s dog Spike had two happy years of retirement before the onset of kidney failure. Spike died at home, in the arms of Jim and his wife, on Valentine’s Day.

  Spike’s ashes are tucked away in a place where they can’t be disturbed. So is his collar. Jim let his son have Spike’s choke chain, and his son hung it on the wall of his bedroom. Photographs of Spike, including a collage some of the ERT guys put together, are displayed throughout the house.

  Spike’s leash, the leather one he was issued in 2003 when he and Jim went operational, hangs near the front door. Jim would set it there every day when they arrived home from work, and would grab it every morning before heading out.

  Once Spike retired, the leash was placed there indefinitely. It is not to be used for any other dog.

  Seven months after Spike retired, Jim went back into the dog world as an instructor for the ERT canine program.

  “Being an instructor is truly probably the greatest thing I’ve ever done in the Secret Service,” says Jim. “And losing Spike was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. It was harder than losing family members. It really was. I don’t even know how to explain it.

  “I think it’s probably why I’m apprehensive to take another dog, because I know at some point I’ll have to go through that again. It’s overwhelming but at the same time I feel like I would be trying to replace Spike, and that’s just something I
don’t want to do.

  “Dog guys get weird,” he says with a resigned smile.

  Brian marvels at all the handlers who have forgone promotions within the Uniformed Division so they could stay with their dogs.

  “It’s a common theme,” he says. “For most handlers, having that dog, that partnership, that relationship, is the most important thing to them, as important as their families. You would not believe the things they sacrifice for the love of their dog.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THIS IS FOR YOU, DOG

  Marshall and Mike never imagined they would be hanging out on a red leather couch with their dogs at their feet in a VIP dressing room at the Daughters of the American Revolution Constitution Hall. The auditorium, the largest in Washington, D.C., has played host to Bob Hope, Aretha Franklin, Frank Sinatra, the Dalai Lama, Harry Belafonte, Isaac Stern, Walter Cronkite, Elton John, and dozens of other world-famous people.

  The spacious dressing room features a lighted theatrical vanity mirror for doing makeup—something the handlers were hoping to avoid. They’d been waiting for two hours for a photo shoot they were invited to do with their dogs, and so far no one had come in wielding makeup brushes. At this point, they were feeling pretty confident about not having to powder their noses.

  Hurricane and Jardan had been sleeping most of the time, except when Hurricane needed a dose of affection from Marshall. Then the dog would sit up, lean into Marshall’s leg, and wag expectantly, brown eyes gazing up hopefully.

  If that didn’t work, there was always the tap tap tap.

  Theater staff checked in with them frequently, making sure they were all OK, that there was nothing they needed. Some exercised great caution, knocking on the door several times as a heads-up to the dogs, then cracking the door to see if it was safe before entering—and even then, staying close to the exit just in case.

  Hurricane would usually look up and wag. But his friendly manner didn’t assuage the fear of some staffers, who were not expecting these dogs to do much other than bark and growl.

  “Oh no, he’s looking at me and his ears are up and he’s wagging. Is that bad?”

  “No, he’s fine! He’s happy,” a bemused Marshall would respond.

  The handlers were told to be there at 10 A.M., November 3, 2015, for the photo shoot. The (DHS) Secretary’s Awards were taking place, and Marshall and Mike were told that Jeh (pronounced jay) Johnson, secretary of Homeland Security, thought it would be nice to get photos with the dogs and handlers at some point during a break in the action.

  Marshall had met Johnson at a holiday party the previous year, when Secret Service director Joseph Clancy invited Marshall as his personal guest—one of only three. Being invited was a big enough deal. (Clancy could bring only Marshall or Mike, and Mike graciously said his friend should go.) But when Johnson stopped by their table and wanted to hear all about the apprehension of the fence jumper on October 22, Marshall was astonished—and only too happy to talk about Hurricane and Jardan.

  Now here they were a year later, about to get their photos taken with the big boss of the behemoth DHS and, most likely, Clancy. Marshall and Mike looked sharp in their black battle dress uniform pants, black boots, and black, long-sleeve tactical shirts. One arm bore a patch with the ERT motto, Munire arcem.

  The handlers thought it was a little unusual that they had to get there before the ceremony started. After an hour, one of them jokingly brought up the idea that maybe they were getting an award. But they agreed this is something they would have been told about.

  About two and a half hours after they got there, a woman with a headset knocked and opened the door. “All right, guys, you’re up!”

  The handlers muzzled the dogs, per Secret Service regs, and followed her out.

  “You guys really have no idea why you’re here? Nobody told you?” she asked as she led them down a series of snaking corridors.

  Marshall and Mike glanced at each other with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. They heard an amplified voice that grew louder as they walked.

  They rounded a corner and realized that the ceremony was not over. They heard Johnson saying something about the Secret Service but could not see him from their vantage point off stage right. But they could see the audience, which seemed to be engaged in the secretary’s story.

  Marshall felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body. Flat-out adrenaline, like the minute before a fight.

  “You want to go first, don’t you?” asked Mike, who was in front of him.

  “Hell yeah, I do!” said Marshall, and they traded places.

  “Tell us now what it is?” Marshall asked their guide.

  “When I give you the word,” she said, “walk up the stage toward the secretary.”

  This was no photo shoot.

  They waited in the wings and listened as Johnson continued his speech:

  Virtually every day, somebody in the Secret Service is doing something, an act of bravery, of valor, willing to step in the line of fire, willing to put themselves in jeopardy. I wanted to talk about two individuals in particular of the United States Secret Service who I want to see acknowledged here today. These are two members of the Secret Service who have never before been acknowledged for their heroism.

  On October 22, 2014, the White House complex security personnel were alerted to a perimeter breach where an intruder had jumped the fence line at the White House. As part of the North Grounds Emergency Response Tactical Team, this team immediately deployed to neutralize the situation. The suspect who had jumped the fence had no intention of stopping. But these members of the United States Secret Service made sure that the intruder did not get far.

  The actions of these Emergency Response Teams and members highlighted the selflessness and the bravery and the tactical proficiency and professionalism that we see every day at the United States Secret Service. One in the line of duty was badly injured in the course of stopping the intruder.

  Would you come out, please? Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome Hurricane and Jardan, along with their partners and trainers . . .

  Marshall laughed when he realized the twist, and was glad that the secretary had put the dogs first. The woman with the headset gave him the nod, and he and Hurricane strode out, followed by Mike and Jardan. The dogs heeled on their right sides and wagged as they walked across the stage.

  The audience cheered, and Marshall saw they were rising from their seats. A standing ovation. His adrenaline spiked again. He wondered how Hurricane was feeling about this.

  Marshall and the secretary reached out to shake hands. Hurricane had stopped between them and was looking up at their grasped hands above his head. The dog glanced quickly from one hand to the other and back, like he was watching a rapid-fire Ping-Pong game. Anyone who knew this dog knew he hoped one of those hands was going to pet him.

  The secretary leaned down and pet Hurricane on the head, and then used both his hands to stroke Hurricane’s shoulders. Hurricane stood right next to the secretary and surveyed the audience, looking out first to his left, then slowly to his right. The heavy seven-sided glass awards—the Secretary’s Award for Valor—were handed to Marshall and Mike.

  Johnson gave Jardan a friendly pat on the head, and everyone lined up for a photograph. There would be a photo shoot after all. The event coordinators had just neglected to mention the rest.

  Marshall had Hurricane sit at his right side, and the dog leaned against his leg, staring up at him and the glimmering award.

  Then something caught Hurricane’s attention. He seemed to realize that about a foot to his right there was this nice secretary guy who had been petting him only moments earlier, and that his left hand was just hanging down doing nothing.

  Not one to pass up an opportunity for affection—and always one to create an opportunity for it—Hurricane reached his nose up to Johnson’s hand and nuzzled
it swiftly a couple of times. His head moved in a sweeping gesture that made it clear he wanted the big boss to pet him again.

  Marshall saw this in his peripheral vision and wished he could have warned the secretary. “With Hurricane, there is no one-time pet.” You pet him once, you’re his friend for life.

  Johnson instantly complied with Hurricane’s request, petting him with one hand while the photographer snapped several photos. Hurricane stared up at Johnson, looking into his eyes.

  In the photos, it looks like true love.

  Photo session done, the audience applauded again, and Johnson stepped back to clap for the teams and wrap up the ceremony. Hurricane was still looking up at Johnson and seemed surprised that his new friend had backed up and stopped petting him.

  Determined to remedy this situation, Hurricane reached his head way back to try the same maneuver that had worked before—a couple of spirited nudges with his nose and a “come hither” beckoning gesture with his head—but he couldn’t quite reach the secretary.

  He was hungry for some more loving, so without missing a beat, Hurricane shifted his attention to Marshall. But with the weighty award in one hand and the leash in the other, it was all Marshall could do to shake hands again with everyone. There was no way he could pet his dog now without the DHS’s highest recognition for extraordinary acts of valor crashing onto the stage floor.

  Hurricane would just have to wait. There would be no shortage of petting and embraces backstage.

  —

  Like most of the highly competitive ERT members, Marshall likes to break records. The kettlebell record became his while he was still in ERT school. But it was not a pretty sight.

  This was before they were allowed to wear gloves. Marshall did so many snatches with the fifty-three-pound kettlebell—259 snatches by the end of the ten minutes—that his calluses tore off, and his entire hand was one big, open wound. “It was disgusting,” he says. The judge had to stand off to the side because when Marshall swung the kettlebell forward, blood sprayed out in front of him from between his fingers every few reps.