This may not be quite the story you are expecting. I might as well make that clear from the outset.
I served thirteen years in the U.S. Navy, including eleven as a SEAL, participating in countless operations and missions as part of the post-9/11 war on terrorism. As a member of SEAL team (redacted) I was on the ground in Pakistan in the spring of 2011, when the highest of high-value targets, Osama bin Laden, was shot and killed. So it’s fair to say that I have seen some shit. But that is only part of the story here, and not the most important part.
You see, while I have had the privilege of serving alongside some of the bravest and best men you could ever hope to meet, I also had the distinct honor of working and living with an unusual and unsung hero whose role in modern warfare—specifically counterterrorism—is hard to comprehend. Unless, of course, you served with him or one of his fellow four-legged warriors.
I grew up with dogs, had always been a dog lover, but I had no idea of the extent to which canines had been incorporated into the military until I became a SEAL and began to hear the stories. I remember walking into a training room once, early in my tenure, and hearing the following directive:
“Raise your hand if your life has ever been saved by a dog.”
Without hesitation, roughly 90 percent of the men in the room lifted their arms. They did not laugh. They did not smile. This was serious, earnest business.
A dog can save your life? It sure as hell can. In my case, many times over. Both on and off the battlefield.
This is my story, but it is also the story of one of those military working dogs, or MWDs (more accurately, he was part of a particularly advanced subset of MWDs known as combat assault dogs, or CADs; and he was the most famous of them all, thanks to his participation in the raid on bin Laden’s compound), a canine SEAL named Cairo, a seventy-pound Belgian Malinois who jumped out of planes, fast-roped out of helicopters, traversed streams and rivers, sniffed out roadside IEDs, and disarmed—literally, in some cases—insurgents. In short, he did everything expected of his human counterparts, and he did it with unblinking loyalty and unwavering courage. I would have taken a bullet for him, and he did in fact take one for me. So this is his book as much as it is mine. Maybe more.
I first met Cairo in the summer of 2008. I’d been in the navy for six years by that time, almost all of it as a SEAL, and had been through multiple deployments, most recently to Iraq. I was stationed in Virginia, satisfied with my work, and not really looking for any big changes. But when I was introduced to the canine program, it immediately caught my interest. I had rottweilers and pit bulls as a kid, but had never bothered to do any training with them. They were pets and companions, not working dogs. Fortunately, in those early days of MWDs being incorporated into Special Operations, experience was not a hard-core prerequisite for becoming a dog handler; all you had to do was express an interest in the job, and suddenly there you were, attached 24-7 to a magnificent Malinois (German shepherds, Dutch shepherds, and Labrador retrievers have also been used as MWDs, but the Malinois—basically a smaller, leaner, more agile version of the shepherd—is the ideal combat assault dog).
Not everyone is a dog person—I think sometimes you are either born with that trait or you are not—and not every SEAL wants to babysit an animal both at home and on deployment. My fellow SEALs were all happy to have Cairo out in front of us when we approached a quiet compound in the middle of the night, unsure of whether the perimeter was lined with explosives or how many people were lying in wait. And when not on the job, he was the sort of dog—friendly, playful—that encouraged human interaction; simply put, just about everyone on the team loved him.
But to take on the burden of being a dog’s handler? That was left to someone who really wanted the job. Someone who understood and embraced the designation.
That was me. Cairo was my dog. And I was his dad. I don’t use that term euphemistically. The relationship between a handler and a canine SEAL is profound and intimate. It goes well beyond friendship and the usual ties that bind man to dog. The training is experiential and all-encompassing, a round-the-clock immersion designed to foster not just expertise but an attachment of uncommon depth and complexity.
Anyone who has ever shared his life with a dog understands the symbiotic nature of the relationship—how a dog relies on his master for sustenance and shelter, and responds with love and loyalty so unconditional that it can take your breath away. Well, take that relationship and multiply it tenfold, and then factor in the almost incomprehensible bond that is forged when a dog puts his life on the line for you and your brothers, every single day, and you get an idea of what it was like for Cairo and me—and indeed for almost anyone who is fortunate enough to be the handler of a canine SEAL.
So, yeah, in a very real sense, I was Cairo’s dad, as close to him as a father is to a son.
He was three years old when I met him, having already graduated from a class of potential military candidates and emerged as a one percenter—a dog with not only freakish athletic ability and sensory gifts but a tireless work ethic, as well. In short, a dog who might become a SEAL. But there was something else about Cairo that made him special: an affectionate and laid-back demeanor that in other dogs might be grounds for dismissal. A military working dog, after all, must be a fighter, first and foremost, and in many cases, that trait is not easily juxtaposed with gentle companionship.
Cairo was different. He had the ability to throw a switch. When it was time to go to work, he would work. And his work was exhausting, dangerous, and sometimes bloody. Cairo was exceptional—the product of centuries of natural evolution, impeccable breeding, rigorous training, and, let’s be honest, a winning ticket in the genetic lottery. But there was something else that made him special, a ferocious drive to hunt and perform and to serve; as with his human counterparts in Special Operations, Cairo seemed fearless and indefatigable.
That isn’t quite true, of course. Everyone who has walked into battle understands what it is like to experience fear; certainly, I felt it. Just as we all experienced pain and injury and exhaustion. Dogs are animals, driven by nothing so much as instinct—it is their natural inclination to withdraw from danger and to rest when weary. They are not so different from humans in that regard. So it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to learn that on the way to becoming MWDs in Special Operations, dogs must pass through a funnel every bit as narrow as the one that culls roughly 80 percent of the men who enter the navy’s SEAL program. And for those who make it further, the selection process is even more rigorous.
It isn’t for everyone; nor should it be. Let’s face it—most people don’t want to enlist in the navy. And most people in the navy have enough self-awareness and good sense to know that they don’t want to endure the agony of SEAL training. Of those who do take the plunge, most quickly discover they are in over their heads. It’s a self-selecting program, with the overwhelming majority of men who enter the infamous thirty-week training program known as Basic Underwater Demolition/Seal (BUD/S) weeded out not through injury or expulsion but through the simple act of surrender.
In a word, quitting.
That’s the whole point of BUD/S—not just to teach the basics of naval Special Operations and to produce skilled military tacticians but to find through natural selection the true warriors, men who will not quit under any circumstances.
The same basic tenets apply when it comes to developing military working dogs. Physical attributes are essential, but all the speed and strength in the world is useless if a dog freezes at the sound of a rocket-propelled grenade exploding into a hillside, or if instinct wins out and he withers in the face of enemy gunfire, or refuses to enter a darkened room because the last time he did this, a bad guy stabbed or shot him.
It is a fact of life that military dogs are at enormous risk for sustaining injury, as they are often the first members of a SEAL unit on the ground and thus first in harm’s way. Even armed with the most advanced technology, human soldiers are no match for canines when it comes to detecting explosive devices and ferreting out bad guys in hiding. It was part of Cairo’s job to search the perimeter before we advanced on a building or compound. Similarly, he often was the first member of the troop to enter a dark and dangerous building. He did this repeatedly and with unwavering reliability; he did it fearlessly.
Like I said, humans aren’t supposed to do this sort of thing; nor are dogs. It’s not natural. It’s not … normal. But some of them do. Cairo was one of them. He could sniff out an IED and in the process save dozens of lives. He could, and would, venture into a compound fairly buzzing with bad guys and yank some heavily armed asshole out of a closet before the guy could get off a shot. Did Cairo realize he was risking his life for the sake of his human counterparts? Probably not. But he knew that his work was dangerous; I don’t doubt that for a second. He did it, anyway, and he did it with not just skill and professionalism but with little regard for his own safety.
In the mountains of Afghanistan, on mission after mission, Cairo was a fighting machine—a military asset every bit as valuable as an AK-47 or night-vision goggles. But when it was time to go home and hang out with Dad, he could do that, as well. We’d sit on the couch and watch movies together. He’d eat steak right next to me. He would sleep in my bed. He could be trusted with strangers and kids; this was especially true after he retired. He was, in my estimation, a damn-near perfect dog.
If I do my job right, this book will be a tribute to Cairo, a story that captures not just the extraordinary work he did in support of the U.S. military and the enormous time and effort that goes into the making of a great military dog but what he did for me personally. He was, in many ways, my closest friend. I lost him for a while when our careers went in different directions, and then I got him back long enough to care for him when his health failed. In turn, he cared for me when I needed him most, when the emotional and physical scars of battle, including a traumatic brain injury, took a toll so heavy that I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
My hope is that this will not be quite like anything you’ve read before. Although there will be battlefield scenes and bloodshed, it will not be as violent as some of the books that have come before it. I want to focus on the exhaustive and intricate training that went into making Cairo the extraordinary soldier he was; and what he meant to his fellow fighters, and to me personally; and why I went to such enormous lengths to cut through the bureaucracy that nearly kept us apart in his waning years.
There is a code of quiet selflessness among SEALs, an acknowledgment that while the work we do is serious and important, we are not, individually, special. We are a team united in purpose, none of us more vital than the next. I am proud of my military service and of my work as a Navy SEAL, but I am keenly aware of the fact that there are men who did much more … who sacrificed more. I share this story not because I seek the spotlight—indeed, I have always withdrawn from its glare—but to honor my fellow soldiers, including a multipurpose canine military dog named Cairo, who was in many ways just as human as the rest of us.
We fought together, lived together, bled together. Cairo was right by my side when we flew through Pakistani airspace that night in 2011. He was an integral part of the most famous mission in SEAL history. After nearly a decade of pursuit, he helped us get the ultimate bad guy, and he was no more or less vital than anyone else on the mission.
But the story doesn’t end there, and it doesn’t end on a high note. It never does with dogs, right? Someone once said that buying a dog is like buying a small tragedy. You know on the very first day how it all will turn out. But that’s not the point, is it? It’s the journey that counts, what you give the dog and what you get in return; Cairo gave me more than I ever imagined, probably more than I deserved.
This is for you, buddy.