Soldier Dogs (36 page)

But what about food? He lives for food. (He is a Lab, 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.

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T
titan 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.

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