Free War Dogs by Rebecca Frankel

a few steps around the yard. But Rambo has got a good, full-mouth bite, and for that reason he remains fastened to me. Whenever I move, I drag him along with me. Jakubin encourages me to try to pull my arm away from the dog; the resistance excites Rambo, activates his prey drive, which in turn further ignites in him a desire to bite. I tug my arm for all I’m worth, but Rambo’s grip seems only to get stronger.
    We repeat this move of run, jump, and bite a few more times. When I take off the suit, a marking the shape of a dog’s open mouth has already puffed pink and purple on my upper right arm, a swollen pinch where the dog’s jaw clamped down on my flesh. Within an hour, that marking will billow into a righteous bruise of deep blues and greens. Compared to some of the batterings I’ve seen on arms far more muscular and experienced than my own, this mark is like holding up a paper cut next to a machete wound. That doesn’t, however, keep me from regarding the bruise fondly over the next couple of weeks, proud as its coloring molts into withering shades of yellow and brown. When Rambo’s imprint finally fades and disappears completely, I am sorry to see it go.
    When Jakubin first became kennel master at the Air Force Academy in 2002, the dog program there was so new they didn’t even have a kennel, so he and his handlers operated out of an old house on a remote part of the Academy’s campus. The house is gone now; the area where it once stood is the site of their canine memorial. It’s on the top of a little hill; the incline is slick in places where snow leftover from a recent storm still clings to the ground. A large tree with gnarly limbs had fallen on the ground and it serves as a barrier that closes off the memorial, making for a fitting, somber fence.
    There’s a small marker for each dog, a piece of stone bearing a bronze plaque with the dog’s likeness etched in black. Jakubin walks toward them,his boots crunching on leaves and sticks. Ginger’s memorial marker is on the exact spot where the old kitchen was, where she used to sleep. It’s a peaceful place. Jakubin likes it here; if he could move the kennels back to this part of the campus again he would do it in a heartbeat.
    He stands for a few quiet moments facing their markers, the sun somewhere above, almost warm. Jakubin’s shadow falls behind him, the mountains in front of him, the dogs at his feet.
    Even after a long career, losing a dog never gets easier. “That’s the worst part of the job,” he says, “is to see a dog go. I’ve probably become numb to it over these years and I still find myself thinking about the dog and shedding a tear.”
    Inside this world of handlers and their working dogs is a culture of dedication and sacrifice, even grief—all the things one might expect to find. But there was something else I encountered, something surprising.
    Resistance to the idea of love.

Three
    The Trouble with Loving a War Dog
    They were the only four-foots who could be trusted to do a piece of work strictly “on their own . ”Each one knew his job and did it, not because he was made to, but because of the love which is the impelling motive for everything a free dog does for a man.
    â€”Ernest Harold Baynes, Animal Heroes of the Great War
    Everything is bright—the blue of the sky, the red-baked earth, even the glare off the many pairs of sunglasses is blinding. Kevin Howard sits in a collapsible mesh chair along with a few handlers from Chris Jakubin’s kennels and two other former military dog handlers. They, like Howard, have volunteered to help with the day’s training. The group is taking a lunch break from decoy work in the cold cavernous buildings on Fort Carson’s immense training grounds in Colorado. Some of the handlers keep on their bite-training gear, whether for convenience or because the added bulk wards off the winter chill. While