As much as we loved the dogs and the military depended upon them, we all let them down in the end. The dogs paid the ultimate price with their lives, despite their loyalties and the protection they provided.
Every time a military dog was euthanized (or "put to sleep" as was the common vernacular), it was a somber experience. The dog was taken out of his kennel for his last walk. The assigned handler usually came in early to give him one last good romp-one last, long do-anything-you-want-Big-Dog stroll. It was normal for his handler to want him to have a last few happy moments since he was kenneled most of his life. They lingered on that walk back, though. The dog was groomed one last time to look his best; then fed a good treat by his stoic but caring handler/partner. And, he was finally permitted one last good WOOF on the military brass as he was casually walked by one of their assigned vehicles. He was allowed to "salute," his own tribute to his undignified, perhaps untimely end, before he entered the vet clinic the last time.
Long ago, the dog learned to distinguish between locations where he was muzzled; it meant either a brief inconvenience to be transported on a posting truck or another visit that developed into the associative fear engrained by painful experiences at the vet clinic. (Years later, the former would be known as "equipment association" and the latter as "avoidance behavior"). He growled and carried on; he even bared his teeth as he was muzzled. He had become keenly alert as he entered the examine room and was lifted onto the table. He anticipated a new pain, another violation of his flesh and his proud, fierce demeanor. He fought; he struggled valiantly.
The vet came around to the business at hand with the infamous "green needle" which got its name due to the lethal drug's color. The dog was forced to lie down on the table, all the while he struggled against his partner. The dog thought of another tactic-gave his handler that poor-little-puppy-dog look meant to free him--an invitation, a promise that he would behave if taken out of that place. NOW! The vet tech and vet worked in tandem to find a good vein one last time.
He fought, he growled. Then, the needle was inserted; the syringe's plunger was gradually suppressed until all the deadly, cool green liquid was gone. Then slowly, slowly the dog became groggy, fighting the last long sleep as the deathly drug crept through his system. Although he fought less, his partner cradled him and held him closer, as one would a sleepy child. He stirred less and less, as though he was a seemingly recalcitrant toddler who yawned and muttered he didn't want to go "night-night" just at that last precious moment, not just yet. WAIT! The last mid-breath protest fell silent as all motion ceased. His breathing became shallower still and finally, one last exhale. All done, all gone, all... DEAD. The vet checked his vital signs and annotated a death pronouncement as the final entry on his records. Then came the final insult--the necropsy. All military working dogs were autopsied upon death in accordance with regulations.
Kennel attendants and/or handlers bore this warrior to his final, pre-dug resting place in the K-9 cemetery. A marker with his name and brand number witnessed this last indignity. Aligned with the other stark ones, row upon row, it bore testament to the military solution of his disposal, his life.
Years ago before his time, it had been said that the coward died many deaths; however, the valiant died but once. Thus, that axiom became his legacy to haunt our thoughts all these years later.
We all had our favorite dogs over the spans of our careers. Mine came in the form of 118 pounds of an Akita-German Shepherd mixed breed named Prince Z133. Thanks to this site, he and other handlers' favorite dogs still live on in our memories and stories.
When I was assigned to Clark for the second time in September of 1978 I was assigned one of the legend dogs from the earlier part of the Seventies, Copper.
I had seen Copper in action the first time I was stationed at Clark. At the time he had been handled by an A1C named McCauley. Together they were a strong match and made their share of recoveries and catches together. I address this team in one of my stories, (the second one).
Anyway, when I was assigned Copper upon arrival at Clark the second time it was actually sad, watching him continue to try and perform his duties as he had in the past. By this time he was 12 years old and for all intense and purposes finished as a productive military working dog.
One night we missed out on a bite and apprehension in the area of Hill Hacienda because of Copper's advanced age and slight hip displaisure.
I had been campaigning for a new dog for a couple of months and with Staff Sergeant Diane Lieber's help (our flight trainer at the time) I finally got one in Keller when his previous handler DEROSd back to the states. I guess I knew inside that when I got another dog Copper's days were numbered. How right I was.
It didn't take the back office long to make a decision. I had only been handling Keller for a couple of days and we were still getting used to each other. I had worked Keller for a mid or two and a swing shift.
When I came in to work on one of those swing shifts I was informed by my kennel attendant Nardo, that Copper was going to be put down the following day. I went to the back office and got permission to be the one to take Copper in.
That following day came much too fast. The previous night on post I had thought long and hard about what, to some extent had been my doing. Deep inside I knew that Copper's time was just up, but I also had this horrible feeling of guilt that it was my direct fault that his life was to end today because of me.
I went in a little early the following afternoon and just like in Cathy's story above, took Copper out and gave him a leisurely break. I then took him to the training area and let him romp around for at least a half hour. I'd have stayed there all day if I could have. I took him around the obstacle course and let him navigate the obstacles he was able to for one last time. If I'd have been able to find a wrap man I'd have let him have one last bite.
When we finished in the training area I took him across the street, just north of the K-9 graveyard where we used to do many of our scouting problems and just sat in the field with him for another half hour or so. I gave him some meat which I had brought him from home and I just sat there with him, trying not to break down and cry about what I was about to do to this trusting soul.
As I sat in the field the remainder of D Flight had reported to work and a couple of the handlers had come out to check on us. They knew today was the day. Finally, I climbed to my feet and, as slowly as possible walked that four hundred yards or so to the vet clinic with Copper for the last time.
It was a regulation that all dogs within the vet clinic area be muzzled so I slipped the muzzle on over Copper's snout for the last time. I entered the examination room, picked Copper up and placed him on the table. Just like all the other dogs, he hated the vet clinic. He stood on the examination table shaking like a leaf while I held him.
The vet prepared the syring and I forced Copper to lie down on the table. With my left arm across his back and my right arm under his neck I held him there while the vet and vet tech moved in to perform their duties, which I'm sure they weren't too fond of carrying out either. I told the vet that although there was a standing policy about muzzles in the clinic I was going to unmuzzle Copper after he injected him so my dog could be as comfortable as possible.
The vet, with assistance from the vet tech performed their duties with Copper slightly growling the whole time. When they were done they backed away a little and I slipped Copper's muzzle off his face and let it drop to the floor.
As in Cathy's story the end came fairly quickly. Copper lay on the table and yawned a couple of times. He then laid his head on my forearm as if trying to find a comfortable pillow to take a nap on. A couple of minutes later I knew it was over but I continued to stand there holding my dog for another five minutes until the vet moved back in and checked his vital signs.
I don't remember crying five times as an adult but I vividly remember this time.
I still didn't want to but I turned my once proud dog over to the vet and vet tech so they could do what they had to do. I scooped up Copper's muzzle from the floor and, taking one look back at my trusting friend's body, quickly left the examination room feeling as though I had just stabbed him in the back. Twenty years later I still feel like that was the worst thing I ever did to someone who trusted me.
Copper. I'm sorry
Then Sgt Marc Hodgdon (Hodge)