Cairo was not my first choice. Might as well be honest about that.
We met in the summer of 2008. I’d gotten back from my deployment, taken some time off for vacation, trained a little with my squadron, and now I was preparing to move onto my new role as a dog handler. I wasn’t given a lot of time to become acclimated to the position or to become acquainted with my new canine partner. That’s not to say that shortcuts were taken; it’s just that, as is often the case with Special Operations, there was no coddling or hand-holding. Whatever the job, it was expected that we would embrace it completely and quickly. I had volunteered to be a dog handler, so that’s what I was.
Of course, being a dog handler was not my sole responsibility; it was just another responsibility. This, I realized, might have been one of the reasons some guys had no interest in the job: it was intensely time-consuming, and yet it did not relieve me of my other training commitments within the squadron. Which was fine. If longer days were the price to pay for being a dog handler, I was more than willing to make the investment. Hell, it wasn’t like I had an especially busy social life. I was a young, single guy. No kids. Not even a serious relationship. I mean, I had girlfriends, one after another, pretty much, but none of them lasted.
I knew guys who had steady girlfriends while they were SEALs, and even some guys who were married, but frankly, I’m not sure how they did it. The job is so dangerous and demanding, with long blocks of time away from home. This is a challenge for all military marriages and families, obviously, but I think it’s particularly daunting within Special Operations. It’s not just the danger involved or the prolonged separation but the secrecy, as well. There are some things—details of missions, people you’ve killed, friends you’ve lost—that you simply don’t share with anyone. Not even a girlfriend or a spouse.
Some guys managed it. They were mostly older, and I presume they all had partners who were incredibly patient and understanding. Me? I wasn’t ready for anything like that. I knew what was important in my life at that time, and I wasn’t willing to compromise it for anyone else.
Ten-hour or twelve-hour days didn’t bother me in the least. I loved everything about being a SEAL—the training, the traveling, the deployments, the fighting. I was keenly aware of the fact that I had beaten long odds. Here I was, a kid with no military lineage, no great academic or athletic accomplishments, and I was part of one of the most elite Special Operations units in the world. I’d gotten there by working my ass off and by refusing to quit and by doing to the best of my ability whatever job was assigned to me. Don’t get me wrong. I was proud to be there; I think I deserved to be there. But sometimes I’d look around at my teammates, and I’d think about the stuff they had done, the missions they’d been a part of, stretched out all over the world and over a decade or more, and I’d think, Man, I haven’t done shit. I’m just lucky to be a part of this.
Being a dog handler was a chance to do something different. To me, it seemed like a role that cut to the core of what it meant to be a SEAL. It might not have been the highest-profile job or even the most exciting, but after what I had seen in Afghanistan, where Falco and Balto had repeatedly saved our asses, I knew how important a job it was. I also thought it was a really cool assignment. I liked dogs, I was fascinated by their expanding role within Special Operations, and I wanted to be part of that expansion. Before I even showed up to the first training session in Virginia that summer, I was excited about the opportunity to be a handler. And once I met the dogs, I was all in.
The introduction came during a half-day training exercise at a site not far from our base. The trainers had been working with this particular crop of eight dogs for the better part of two months, preparing them to be part of a SEAL team, assigned either to an operator or a master-at-arms. Roughly speaking, there was one potential handler for each dog. I knew ahead of time that, as a SEAL, I’d get my choice of dogs, or at least one of my top choices. In all honesty, though, they all looked great. I mean, I didn’t know shit about working dogs at that time, but every one of these guys looked like a thoroughbred.
Having already served with Falco and Balto, I felt quite comfortable around the dogs, but before they were removed from their kennels, we all were given a brief overview of the program, including the training they had received and a reminder that, while they were enormously attractive animals, these were, in fact, attack dogs. They were also rather young and, unlike Balto and Falco, still somewhat unaccustomed to the military life.
“I wouldn’t try to pat them on the head or anything,” one of the trainers said. “Think of them as weapons, not pets. Treat them with respect.”
I thought that was kind of funny, but it was certainly a warning that had merit. The Belgian Malinois and Dutch shepherds introduced to us that day were gorgeous, but each one had to be treated less like a dog and more like a loaded weapon. As someone who had grown up around dogs—and mostly the kind of big, tough, muscular canines that a lot of people understandably find scary—my first inclination was to befriend the dogs. I was accustomed to animals that looked nasty but whose bark was worse than their bite. In this case, exactly the opposite was true; by any objective standard, these were beautiful dogs, and most of them looked less imposing than the average pit bull. Beneath the beauty, though, beat the heart of a warrior. Each and every one of these dogs, we were told, was a ferocious fighter with an extraordinary prey drive. While it’s true that they responded best to positive reinforcement during training, it was also true that they required a firm hand.
In short, you had to show them who was boss, and you didn’t do this by crouching to snout level, scratching them behind the ears, and cooing at them like a baby. Not in the beginning, anyway. Not if you wanted to, quite literally, save your face.
For much of the afternoon, we were strictly spectators, watching as the new crew of dogs ran impressively through a series of training exercises. The training site included a series of dimly lit underground bunkers. Each of the dogs was given a human scent to track and dispatched into the maze of bunkers. Eventually, if successful, the dog would come upon a man in a bite suit. The dog’s reward would be several minutes of aggressive biting until called off the attack by his handler. I had already witnessed Balto and Falco performing these feats on deployment, under harrowing conditions, multiple times, so it no longer surprised me that dogs could track so swiftly and attack so aggressively. Still, it was impressive to see them working in the early stages, learning their craft when they were just youngsters.
I can recall only one of the dogs being somewhat reluctant or difficult to handle—and, in fact, he eventually washed out of the SEAL program and ended up finding a home in law enforcement. They were all well behaved and eager to work. That said, there were two dogs that stood out from the pack, so to speak. One was named Bronco; the other was named Cairo. It wasn’t like they were obviously better than the other dogs. The differences were subtler than that: a slightly more aggressive bite and a reluctance to let go, and absolutely no hesitation when entering a dark room. I might not even have noticed some of this stuff if I hadn’t already seen working dogs in Afghanistan, but once you walk into a compound with a dog, you understand what he can do for you. I just had a feeling in my gut that both Bronco and Cairo would do the job well. From the moment they were taken out of the kennel, they looked like awesome dogs.
Before that first session was over, we had a chance to meet the dogs, albeit briefly. Like I said, there wasn’t a lot of petting or messing around, but we did get an opportunity to let the dogs walk among us, and sniff us, and see how they would react to us. I gravitated toward Cairo, mainly just because of the way he looked and how well he performed in the training exercises, but also toward Bronco. Bronco was the outwardly friendlier of the two; he nudged up against me and almost seemed like he wanted to play. Cairo was a little more laid-back—not unfriendly, but more serious about working. After a short introduction, the dogs were put back in their kennels, all of which were housed in large portable unit that was hooked up to the back of a truck and returned to the larger training kennel on the base.
For the next two weeks, prospective dog handlers spent large chunks of each day getting to know the new team of dogs. For the most part, we were spectators, watching as the dogs were put through exercises and scenarios, while the experienced trainers and handlers offered a running commentary. It was almost like a live-action classroom. With each successive day, we spent more time interacting with the dogs. A lot of it was very simple leash work: teaching the dog to walk at a certain pace and to obey basic commands. It should be noted here that this was not for the dog’s benefit: it was for our benefit. These animals had already spent the better part of three years being trained at an extremely high level.
Their new handlers, on the other hand, had virtually no experience with dog training. Sure, I was a Navy SEAL, but when it came to being a dog handler, I knew almost nothing. So, naturally, we started with baby steps, walking around the kennel with a dog on a leash, directing him to heel or sit or whatever. Then we’d take him off leash and allow him to do what he was bred and trained to do: run, hunt, detect, chase, bite.
Being a dog handler on deployment involves becoming proficient with a wide array of equipment, but in the beginning, in Virginia, it meant first learning how to use a leash and a choke collar. I’m sure some people don’t like the very idea of a choke collar, but it’s vital in the beginning to communicating to such a strong and aggressive animal who is in charge. Then, more positive means of reinforcement are easily incorporated into the process. We also utilized an electronic collar (sometimes referred to as an e-collar or shock collar). This was another tool of the trade that, in civilian life, might seem unnecessary or even cruel but can save the life of a military working dog on deployment.
These are smart, complex animals instilled through generations of breeding with a fierce desire to track and hunt prey. Intensive training hones that genetic instinct to a razor’s edge, so that you end up with a dog that will not only enter a dark house with gunfire going off and track a bad guy into the creepiest of holes without hesitation but also bite and hold the target until he is literally pulled off. Sometimes, the only way to get the dog to let go, or to return to a safer spot, is to give him a little zap with the e-collar. If that sounds unkind, well, it sure beats the alternative: a dead dog. I found the e-collar to be a highly effective training tool, one that gets an unfair rap. The amount of electricity generated is minimal and can be adjusted to varying levels of intensity. In general, it’s no more than the amount produced by the transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (TENS) units commonly used for physical therapy in humans. It’s harmless and causes no pain or damage to the dog; it just gets his attention. And once he understands the meaning conveyed by the e-collar, only the slightest amount of current is needed.
Ideally, you wouldn’t have to use the e-collar. You’d just yell, “Los!” which means let go or release. Most of these commands the dogs had heard since they were puppies undergoing early KNPV or Schutzhund training. In terms of communication, we had a good foundation on which to build. If I was playing fetch with a dog, the dog would race to pick up a toy or a ball, bring it back to me, and then, typically, refuse to let go. Instead, he would want to play tug-of-war with the toy or ball. To get him to drop, I would say, “Los!” If he let go, he would be rewarded with a ball or strong, enthusiastic words of encouragement or both. If he didn’t … he’d get nothing. And then we’d do it again. This, really, was the foundation of all training: convincing the dog to work in such a manner that he would receive positive reinforcement. Working dogs need to work, and they want nothing more than to please their handlers … their masters … their dads, as we became known. And there was no more important or more commonly used command than Los!
It was a tricky thing; you wanted the dog to bite, and to bite aggressively, and to hold on. But you also wanted him to let go when instructed to do so. This is more easily achieved in training than in real-world application, in part because, well, let’s be candid: in the real world, a bite leads to bloodletting, and when a trained attack dog gets a mouthful of blood, it can be intoxicating. To the point where he ends up being so committed to the bite that he gets himself killed. So it’s absolutely crucial that he understands and responds appropriately to the word Los! Sometimes an accompanying zap from the e-collar is needed to drive the point home and keep him from getting hurt.
We all quickly became proficient in the vernacular of combat assault dog training. Obviously, we didn’t learn all these commands during the indoctrination phase of the program, but we were introduced to the basic language of being a dog handler. I found it fascinating. The more time I spent with the dogs, the more I came to appreciate how intelligent and strong-willed they were. It was this, as much as their athleticism, that I admired.
Each prospective handler worked with multiple dogs each day. This makes sense on multiple levels. First, it’s good for a handler to have a variety of experiences. While the dogs might all look similar and possess similar skills, the truth is that every dog is unique. There are subtle differences in personality and technique; understanding those differences can be vital on a mission. Cairo, I would come to realize, was a tremendous worker. I never had to worry about him. He was just so good at doing his job without acting up in any way. A lot of dogs—probably most dogs—aren’t built that way. They take a lot of consistent work and effort to get them to behave a certain way.
I could tell Cairo was exceptional in the first few days as I cycled through the whole group, and it wasn’t long before I began to have doubts about my choice. I still liked Bronco—he was such a fun dog to be around—but I could tell Cairo was going to an easier dog to work with. In a lot of ways, I felt like he could teach me as much as I could teach him. Nevertheless, it was important to have the experience of working with different dogs, since you never knew what might happen on deployment. You could lose a dog—your dog—and suddenly have to adjust to a replacement. Similarly, it was beneficial for the dogs to become accustomed to a variety of human personalities and styles.
All of it made sense. All of it was very methodical and well planned and extremely labor intensive.
It was also fun. Can’t lie about that. I had volunteered to be a dog handler because I thought it seemed like an important and interesting job; nothing I saw in those first two weeks did anything to dissuade me.
As the end of our two-week indoctrination period drew near, I started to wonder which dog would be assigned to me. All the new handlers would soon be leaving with their dogs for a much longer and more intensive training school in California, and I hoped that Cairo would be my new partner. One morning, I was approached by Jim Hagerty, one of the program’s trainers. He and Don Christie were running the canine program, and it was up to them, along with command staff, to determine which dogs should be paired with which handlers. As I understood it, this was based on vacancies within a particular squadron, as well as the temperament and personality of the handlers. I had expressed an interest in both Bronco and Cairo, and I knew I’d get preference. But I never said explicitly, “I want Bronco,” or “I want Cairo.” And no one asked. These guys knew a lot more about dogs than I did, so I trusted their judgment. They watched all of us work with the dogs for two weeks, tried to assess our personalities as well as our strengths and weaknesses, and in the end made the assignments they felt were most appropriate.
“You’re getting Cairo,” Jim Hagerty said to me. “He’s the right dog for you.”
I shrugged. “Okay, cool.”
At the time, I’m not sure I agreed with Jim’s assessment, but I was satisfied with the assignment. I liked Cairo a lot, knew he was an exceptional working dog and probably would be an easier dog to train than Bronco. I just liked the fact that Bronco seemed a bit more playful when I first met him. To some extent, though, I had misjudged Cairo. He would prove to be not just friendly and affectionate but as loyal and loving a dog as you could ever hope to find. It took a little time to peel away the layers, but he was well worth the effort.