War Dogs by Rebecca Frankel

four sides by chain-link fence. As soon as Jakubin opened the door, a commotion erupted, and all the dogs were up on their feet. Some wagged their tails, clearly happy to see him. They took little note of my presence, all except for Boda, who, as soon as I set foot near her house, made it clear that I was an intruder, unwelcome and unwanted. She barkedsharply and loudly in my direction, her growls becoming more beastly the closer I got.
    Boda is one of Jakubin’s misfit cases. She arrived at the Air Force Academy kennels with a superior detection record, but once they took her outside of a controlled training yard environment, her nerves began to show. Unexpected noises and unknown objects frightened her, and she shied from crowds, cowering in chaotic parking lots. Jakubin knew there was no way he could send this dog out on a deployment without a tremendous amount of work. So they were gradually trying to build up her confidence, trying to alleviate her fears.
    Now I’m outside at Fort Carson, watching as Boda’s handler, Staff Sergeant Robbie Whaley, runs a metal brush through her thick coat, sending tufts of fur into the air, like dandelion seed. Boda’s velvety ears sink with pleasure. Whaley, in the midst of this focused caregiving, had overheard the chatter about handlers loving or not loving their dogs, but had chosen not to participate. Whatever had been said did not deter him from planting a kiss on Boda’s muzzle; a kiss that she accepts without flinching.
    When the grooming finally ceases, she turns her head in my direction. I want her to trust me, so I offer the very same gesture my father taught me at a young age, cautioning me, “Never force your hand on a dog.” I rest my elbows on my knees and extend my open hands, palms to the sky.
    Finally, she approaches me, ever careful as she takes a sniff and then a lick of my left hand, then my right. I don’t touch her or speak. She hovers and then pushes her large face close to mine; I feel her nose cold on my cheek. I get a lick before she bounces back over to Whaley. Then a few moments later, she returns, her large nose sniffs my hair so close I can smell the cold air fresh on her coat. This time I don’t hesitate to catch the scruff of her neck and reach up behind her ears to give them a good scratch. She leans into my hand and settles against me on the ground. I can feel her heaviness, her warmth. It is a peaceful exchange, quiet and complete. I have been accepted. I am friend.
    A little while later Boda, emboldened by her shining coat, sashays around the group of us, weaving in and out of our circle, a pull toy in hermouth. The other handlers call to her, reaching out their hands to engage her in a game of tug-of-war. She hears them but ultimately denies them all, coming close but not close enough, at last bringing the toy to her handler—and only her handler—placing it at Whaley’s feet.
    Whaley looks down at her and smiles, convinced that this dog loves him. She in turn regards him, waiting and watching. There is expression in her face. It is a look of expectation and adoration. This is a face inviting play and she’s chosen her playmate.
    Driving out to Fort Carson for a second day of training, Jakubin takes the dogs and I hitch a ride with Jon Baer. It’s just the two of us in his truck, no dogs and no other handlers. It’s early, but he’s coffee’d up and ready for another day with the dogs. A longtime friend of Jakubin’s and a former Air Force handler, Baer was in the group yesterday and stood by during Howard’s no-love-for-the-working-dog speech. And even though he hadn’t said anything at the time, he believes that there’s a lot more to handler-dog dynamics than simply dominating a dog.
    When a handler is assigned to a new home station, the first thing he works on with his dog is rapport building. More important than establishing what some handlers like Howard call the