#1

I had taught Sentry, Patrol and the Drug Detector Course at Lackland AFB (1971-1975). I had retrained many sentry dogs that had been placed in patrol dog classes. I enjoyed training sentry dogs because they did not have to have their spirit broken by adding a standoff.

I realized that the patrol dog concept of controlled aggression was responsible for changing the dog program. Standoff (FYI for any non-dog handlers reading this: the handler commands the dog to come back without biting a perpetrator) was the single most reason that placed dogs at bases that would have never had sentry dogs.

Within a few years, dogs went from being limited to SAC bases with nuclear weapons security requirements, to being incorporated into bases' law enforcement requirements.

Anyway, getting back to the story, I knew that the trainers at the section could use some extra help, so I volunteered to work with the problem dogs. I scheduled the training through the kennels on my time off and worked with 30 or 40 dog teams. I briefed the kennelmaster on my progress, and he seemed satisfied. I did not want to have good dogs killed just to be politically correct.

After a few sessions, I knew I had major problems with a few of the dogs. Copper was one of the problem dogs, he was older, a bit slower, and a fast person could probably outrun him. But, oh could he bite like an alligator! A1C Marshall Swope, the handler would yell, "Out, No, Out", and Copper would just squeeze his eyes shut tighter and bite even harder. So, I talked to the kennelmaster and the vet about using a shock collar. Both agreed to allow me to use an electric shock for corrections as long as I was the person throwing the switch.

The electronics shop made me a battery powered transformer, using a 6-volt lantern battery that created a shock similar to a cattle prod. The parachute shop sewed and riveted brass terminals on a leather collar. I ran wires down the inside of a nylon 360 (a 360 inch leash used for attack training) to carry the current to the terminals. I used it to break the extremely overaggressive dogs with good results. If the dog disobeyed a command to stop his attack, I would hit the switch when the handled yelled " No".

We put on quite a show with various results. Some of the dogs would act like God had touched them when they received electric corrections and pursued a close "Come-to-Jesus" meeting with their handlers; others were confused and would associate the pain with the decoy and just hit harder. I did not like shocking the dogs; they were only doing what they had been repeatedly encouraged to do for years. These dogs were more like sentry dogs than patrol dogs, and they had my respect!

During this time, A1C Paul Newman gave me the nickname "Dr. Frankendog" and drew a cartoon on the blackboard of the kennel's break room. It depicted a dog seated in an electric chair, strapped into headgear wired to a gigantic switch with yours truly standing by ready to throw the juice. It was hilarious! I wished I'd gotten a picture of it before someone erased it.

The political pressure decreased and life went back to normal at Clark. Happily, no dogs were sacrificed for political reasons. I heard some years later that Lackland was using commercial shock collars on hardheaded dogs.

#2

Oh, not to forget the stewardess, here's the rest of the story.

The Stretch 8 was cordoned off and drug dog teams searched everybody and every item going into the area. This stew would bitch and moan every flight and every search.

That first encounter, she started up about how degrading it was to be searched by a dog and would not cease and desist. Probst replied, "How do you think the dog feels?" Well, things went downhill rapidly and the stew escalated her verbal attacks.

A few months later, this same stew had the misfortune of asking Sgt Cathy Moore, my wife now of 23+ years and former fellow drug dog handler, "Want me to bend over and spread my legs, too?" Cathy sweetly replied, "No, thank you, dear, my dog doesn't need any!" The stew never opened her mouth again when Cathy worked the Stretch 8...

#3

I'll probably be in the doghouse for telling this one:

Cathy and I had been in country about 4 months when the hospital told her she was pregnant. There were delays in finding her a desk job until an incident one night in one of the aircraft maintenance barracks.

She and Mister 1S91, were searching the place with SSgt Ed Joyner and Wolfe, and SrA Fran Rice and Buck W171. All three dogs were very mild mannered and none had much of a bite.

Mister alerted on a room. Ed went back to the day room where there was an ongoing beer party, to call the LE Desk and Legal for PC. The big guy assigned to the room showed up and got into a door-shoving match with Cathy. (Mister was no help, being a real mild mannered dog.) The drunks in the day room heard the commotion and ran down the hall, shouting obscenities, determined to "get the narc."

Ed dropped the phone and ran behind with Wolfe, shouting to Cathy, "Kick it in!" Well, Cathy's strong sense of self-preservation kicked in along with a healthy surge of adrenaline and she obliged; and took the door completely off the hinges. The guy ran out the back door onto the balcony and Fran collared him.

LE backup arrived and hauled off a bunch of drunk and disorderlies. The guy was apprehended and his marijuana and paraphernalia were also confiscated.

The next day in staff meeting, Capt Moore (no relation), LES Ops Officer, kicked off the meeting when he turned to me and said, "I see that your pregnant wife kicked in a door last night. I'll see about getting her that desk job immediately!" (Note: everytime a handler did something he approved of, it was, "Our drug dogs..." or, when he was embarrassed, it was, "One of your dogs...")

Needless to say, I was harassed to no end about that incident! Note that at that time, there were a number of LE and K-9 women told they were pregnant but weren't; sadly, Cathy was among them. The hospital lab was discovered to have a twisted sense of humor and revenge for all the drug busts and barracks searches. Today, however, the good news is that we a 16 year old daughter with her mother's eyes and wicked sense of humor!

#4

Let's see; oh, here's another good one.

A1C JJ Davis and Max Z123 went out to customs clear the then new F-15 touring PACAF bases to show off the F-4 replacement. The test pilot was a Lt Col. The press, wing commander, base commander and everybody and their dogs were there to see this thing.

The colonel walked right up to JJ and shoved his hand in Max's face and asked, "Does he bite?" Max, being his usual dedicated, charming self, happily obliged and bit his hand. The colonel yanked his hand up above his head with his newly acquired appendage still attached. Max let go and grabbed a quick nibble to the right kidney area, then proceeded to bite and hold the good colonel's right buttock and tore the seat out of his flight suit along with part of his drawers.

Capt Moore stopped me in the hall and announced, "One of your dogs bit the F-15 test pilot."

Max, what a hero!

#5

I know there's a dog named Peter listed, but did anyone every mention "Peter, Peter, the Handler Eater?" Gil Falcon had him on C Flt. This Peter was an older dog slowing down with age and arthritis. If the decoy or intruder was too far out of Peter's comfort range of running after them, he'd stop the pursuit, growl loudly all the way back to Gil and try to bite him instead!

#6

The following is a story that has a series of photos attached to it. They can be found in the photos section under washout photos.

A base photographer was assigned to develop a series of K-9 photos for a PACAF seminar back at Hickam AFB, Hawaii. He set up the photo shoot with the kennelmaster, MSgt Billy Owens. He wanted to depict our working conditions and rugged terrain we often went into on sweeps at Clark. He wanted a daytime shoot so that conference personnel would better understand just what sort of posts we worked.

Sgt Butch Guiterrez, A1C Dave Frisby, his dog Baron and Prince (aka Fat Dog) and I went on a sweep of FM Washout. Butch lead us in but gave up point after he got too far ahead. He went way off up the trail to check something. We came along and Prince alerted and lunged at him as we were next on the trail.

We came to a 4 to 5 ft deep pool in the washout where the sides narrowed and we had to ford it because there was no other way around. The bottom of the pool was very rocky, so I had a difficult time keeping my footing. Thus, I was just too darn slow for Fat Dog's comfort and he kept swimming around me. It finally dawned on him to come back and hitch a ride! Hey, the ole boy knew Mom would take care of him. I loved him dearly; he was the next best thing to a child. I'd go anywhere with him on Clark.

We had to fish out the photographer. He had gone ahead to the other side to set up for the shot of us fording the washout. When Prince crawled up on my shoulders, the guy was laughing so hard he lost his balance, slid down the bank and lost one of his cameras in the water.

We climbed out onto the other bank, crawled up a big split boulder and jumped across to the other side of it. We dropped rocks down the chasm and never did hear any hit the bottom. Perhaps it was an old volcanic lava tube.

When we finished our sweep and photo shoot, we smelled awful! We went back to the kennels and hosed off to no avail. I gave Prince a quick bath, then went home to get a thorough scrubbing--no telling what was in that funky water! I came back to check on Prince the next day and he still stank. So, I gave him three shampoos that afternoon before I could rid him of Eaud de Washout! No, Bill Sadler, it wasn't strawberry scented either!