Man’s best friend, even on the battlefields of Iraq

When he came to, the Marine’s arm hung limp. It had been broken by ball bearings from a suicide bomb hurled so hard that they some were embedded in his gun. Yet Brendan Poelaert’s thoughts turned to his patrol dog.

The powerful Belgian Malinois named Flapoor had been his partner and protector for the last four months in Iraq. Now, the dog staggered a few steps along the street in Ramadi, then stared blankly. Blood poured from his chest.

“I didn’t care about my injuries, my arm,” Poelaert says. “I’m telling the medic, ‘I’ve got to get my dog to the vet!’ ”

About 2,000 military dogs confront danger beside American soldiers, mostly in the Middle East. With noses that can detect scents up to a third of a mile away, many are used in Iraq to sniff for explosives. Their numbers have been growing by about 20% a year since the terrorist attacks of 2001, says Air Force Capt. Jeffrey McKamey, who helps run the program.

Dozens of these dogs have been wounded on the job -- scorched by the desert, slashed by broken glass, hit by stray bullets, pounded by roadside bombs.

Their services are so valued that wounded dogs are treated much like wounded troops. “They are cared for as well as any soldier,” says Senior Airman Ronald A. Harden, a dog handler in Iraq.

For their first aid, there are doggy field kits bearing everything from medicine to syringes. Some are evacuated to military veterinary centers hundreds of miles away and even to Germany and the United States for rehabilitation. Many recover and return to duty.

On that day in Ramadi in January 2006, Poelaert, trained in veterinary first aid, began tending to Flapoor as soon as both were loaded into an SUV. He pressed his finger to the dog’s chest to stop him from bleeding to death.

When they reached the base camp, a medic with veterinary training took over, putting Flapoor on an IV. Poelaert departed reluctantly for his own surgery.

Flapoor -- the name means “droopy-eared” in Dutch, the language of his homeland -- would eventually go to Baghdad for further treatment of his punctured lung and belly wounds. He’d later rejoin his handler and fly in a cargo plane to the U.S. for physical rehab.

Healing at Camp Pendleton, Flapoor is back to his usual self in most ways: fast, friendly, eager-to-please. But he still suffers a sort of canine post-traumatic stress. “He’s really jumpy around loud noises now,” Poelaert says.

Military dogs must be in top condition to perform their assigned duties. And training is rigorous.

Dogs take their basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, where they learn to tolerate the crack of gunfire and sputter of helicopters. They are trained to sniff for explosives on command, freezing and staring at suspicious objects.

They can intimidate a crowd by merely baring their teeth. Commanded to strike, they can easily flatten a big man with one leap, flying like a 50-pound sandbag tossed from a truck.

Smart and strong Malinois and shepherds predominate, but other breeds are trained too. Even small dogs, like beagles or poodles, are occasionally taught to detect explosives in submarines and other close quarters.

In Iraq, the demand for explosives-finding dogs has escalated. They lead patrols with their handlers in tow, sniffing bags and other suspicious objects along the way.

Larger bombs have been used in recent months, putting dogs and handlers at more risk. To protect handlers, some dogs are trained to wear backpacks with radios and respond to remote voice commands.

“As much as I love these dogs, their job is to take a bullet for me,” says trainer Army Sgt. Douglas Timberlake.

The military estimates it spends six months and $25,000 to buy, feed, train and care for the average dog. They are tended by 440 Army veterinarians worldwide.

The dogs get two physical exams each year. They also get blood tests, X-rays, and electrocardiograms.

When dogs crack their teeth with their powerful bites, military vets sometimes do root canals to save the teeth. “Here we treat them, because that’s part of that dog’s equipment: to use his teeth,” says Dr. Lorraine Linn, a dog surgeon at Lackland.

Dogs have been used in wars since ancient times. Thousands were enlisted by the U.S. in World Wars I and II and in Vietnam. Dogs cannot be awarded medals under military protocol, but commanders sometimes honor them unofficially.

Care for wounded military dogs was limited in earlier wars, and euthanasia was typical at the close of their careers -- but that too is changing.

Since 2000, a law allows many dogs to be adopted by police departments, former handlers, and others if the animals are placid enough.

Air Force Tech. Sgt. Jamie Dana’s German shepherd Rex was plenty friendly but also young and healthy. The military didn’t want to let him go.

When a bomb blew the door off the Humvee Rex was riding with Dana in Iraq in June 2005, he was thrown onto a roadway. He suffered little worse than a burned nose and cut foot, but Dana nearly died with collapsed lungs, fractured spine and brain trauma.

Rex visited her a couple weeks later at the hospital, and when she whistled for him and he jumped on her bed. Dana’s days as a soldier were over, but she missed her pal.

Friends and family petitioned Congress, and a law was signed to allow able dogs to be adopted under unusual circumstances.

Now, Rex lives on a farm in Smethport, Pa., with Dana, who believes the dog wasn’t really meant for a soldier’s life.

“He loves everybody,” she says. “He sleeps beside my bed.”

Other dogs in the war zone aren’t so lucky. Though no careful count is kept, Army vet Lt. Col. Michael Lagutchik, who supervises care at Lackland, believes about 10 dogs have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Dogs may wear bulletproof vests or booties to cushion their pads. They sometimes wear doggie goggles -- called “doggles” -- to keep out blowing sand. However, most handlers have their dogs go natural for fear of overheating.

They are cut or scraped, often on their paws. They are bitten by spiders or stung by scorpions. Their eyes and ears are irritated by the sand. The most common injury is probably overheating from the desert sun, which can sometimes spur a dangerous stomach condition called bloat.

Handler Jason Cannon, now a Tennessee state patrolman, knew something was wrong when his dog started to act skittishly while searching people crossing into Iraq from Syria. He and his dog were helicoptered back to base, where a vet suspected dehydration and prescribed two weeks of rest for the dog.

Less often, dogs on a mission get shot or bombed. Lackland trainer Trapanger Stephens, who served in Iraq, remembers seeing a dog get shot in the field. The vet inserted a breathing tube and did surgery then and there.

Another explosion in Ramadi sent Cpl. Megan Leavey and her dog back to Camp Pendleton. She got a concussion, and the animal hurt its shoulder. The dog underwent a regimen familiar to athletes: icing, heating, stretching, motion exercises.

Regardless of the dangers, the dogs are fearless. For them, checking a road for bombs means a fun walk, their handlers say. “They like what they do,” says Poelaert, who has returned to Exeter, N.H.

These days, he’s trying to move beyond memories of the Ramadi explosion, which killed dozens of people, including his best friend, fellow handler Adam Cann.

One image still inspires him, though: the sight of Cann’s wounded dog stretched over his body, as if to protect him.

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People interested in adopting a military dog at the end of its service career may contact Lackland Air Force Base at 1-800-531-1066.