so close. I’ll have Mace help you.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“No thanks are necessary. Keep talkin’ to this dog. Maybe you’re already learnin’ somethin’.”
Leland turned away without another word, and Scott looked down at Maggie.
“I need more baloney.”
Scott and Maggie went to the training field.
11.
Mace didn’t come out with the starter pistol. Leland came out instead, and brought along a short, wiry trainer named Paulie Budress. Scott had met the man twice during his first week of handler school, but didn’t know him. Budress was in his mid-thirties, and sported a peeling sunburn because he had spent the past two weeks fishing with three other cops in Montana. He worked with a male German shepherd named Obi.
Leland said, “Forget that business with the starter pistol for now. You know Paulie Budress?”
Budress gave Scott a big grin and firm handshake, but put most of his grin on Maggie.
Leland said, “Paulie here worked K-9 in the Air Force, which is why I want him to talk to you. These Military Working Dogs are taught to do things different than our dogs.”
Budress was still smiling at Maggie. He held out his hand to let her sniff, then squatted to scratch behind her ears.
“She was in Afghanistan?”
Scott said, “Dual purpose. Patrol and explosives detection.”
Budress was wiry, but Scott felt a super-calm vibe, and knew Maggie sensed it, too. Her ears were back, her tongue hung out, and she was comfortable letting Budress scratch her. Budress opened her left ear and looked at her tattoo as Leland went on. Both Scott and Leland might as well have been invisible. Budress was all about the dog.
Leland went on to Scott.
“As you know, here in the city of Los Angeles, we train our beautiful animals to hold a suspect in place by barking. Heaven help us she bites some shitbird unless he’s trying to kill you, coz our spaghetti-spined, unworthy city council is only too willing to pay liability blackmail to any shyster lawyer who oozes out a shitbird’s ass. Is that not correct, Officer Budress?”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
Budress wasn’t paying attention, but Scott knew the Sergeant was describing the find-and-bark method that more and more police agencies had adopted to stem the tide of liability lawsuits. So long as the suspect stood perfectly still and showed no aggression, the dogs were trained to stand off and bark. They were trained to bite only if the suspect made an aggressive move or fled, which Leland believed risky to both his dogs and their handlers, and which was one of his unending lecture topics.
“Your military patrol dog, however, is taught to hit her target like a runaway truck, and will take his un-American ass down like a bat out of hell on steroids. You put your military dog on a shitbird, she’ll rip him a new asshole, and eat his liver when it slides out. Dogs like our Maggie here are trained to mean business. Is this not correct, Officer Budress?”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
Leland nodded toward Budress, who was running his hands down Maggie’s legs and tracing the scars on her hips.
“The voice of experience, Officer James. So the first thing you have to do is teach this heroic animal not to bite the murderous, genetically inferior shitbags you will ask her to face. Is that clear?”
Scott mimicked Budress.
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
“As it should be. I will leave you now with Officer Budress, who knows the military command set, and will help you retrain her to work in our sissified civilian city.”
Leland walked away without another word. Budress stood, and painted Scott with a big smile.
“Don’t sweat it. She was retrained at Lackland to make her less aggressive, and more people-friendly. It’s SOP for dogs they adopt out to civilians. The Sarge there thinks her problem will be the opposite—not aggressive enough.”
Scott remembered how Maggie lunged at Marley, but decided not to mention it.
Scott said,
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“No thanks are necessary. Keep talkin’ to this dog. Maybe you’re already learnin’ somethin’.”
Leland turned away without another word, and Scott looked down at Maggie.
“I need more baloney.”
Scott and Maggie went to the training field.
11.
Mace didn’t come out with the starter pistol. Leland came out instead, and brought along a short, wiry trainer named Paulie Budress. Scott had met the man twice during his first week of handler school, but didn’t know him. Budress was in his mid-thirties, and sported a peeling sunburn because he had spent the past two weeks fishing with three other cops in Montana. He worked with a male German shepherd named Obi.
Leland said, “Forget that business with the starter pistol for now. You know Paulie Budress?”
Budress gave Scott a big grin and firm handshake, but put most of his grin on Maggie.
Leland said, “Paulie here worked K-9 in the Air Force, which is why I want him to talk to you. These Military Working Dogs are taught to do things different than our dogs.”
Budress was still smiling at Maggie. He held out his hand to let her sniff, then squatted to scratch behind her ears.
“She was in Afghanistan?”
Scott said, “Dual purpose. Patrol and explosives detection.”
Budress was wiry, but Scott felt a super-calm vibe, and knew Maggie sensed it, too. Her ears were back, her tongue hung out, and she was comfortable letting Budress scratch her. Budress opened her left ear and looked at her tattoo as Leland went on. Both Scott and Leland might as well have been invisible. Budress was all about the dog.
Leland went on to Scott.
“As you know, here in the city of Los Angeles, we train our beautiful animals to hold a suspect in place by barking. Heaven help us she bites some shitbird unless he’s trying to kill you, coz our spaghetti-spined, unworthy city council is only too willing to pay liability blackmail to any shyster lawyer who oozes out a shitbird’s ass. Is that not correct, Officer Budress?”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
Budress wasn’t paying attention, but Scott knew the Sergeant was describing the find-and-bark method that more and more police agencies had adopted to stem the tide of liability lawsuits. So long as the suspect stood perfectly still and showed no aggression, the dogs were trained to stand off and bark. They were trained to bite only if the suspect made an aggressive move or fled, which Leland believed risky to both his dogs and their handlers, and which was one of his unending lecture topics.
“Your military patrol dog, however, is taught to hit her target like a runaway truck, and will take his un-American ass down like a bat out of hell on steroids. You put your military dog on a shitbird, she’ll rip him a new asshole, and eat his liver when it slides out. Dogs like our Maggie here are trained to mean business. Is this not correct, Officer Budress?”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
Leland nodded toward Budress, who was running his hands down Maggie’s legs and tracing the scars on her hips.
“The voice of experience, Officer James. So the first thing you have to do is teach this heroic animal not to bite the murderous, genetically inferior shitbags you will ask her to face. Is that clear?”
Scott mimicked Budress.
“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
“As it should be. I will leave you now with Officer Budress, who knows the military command set, and will help you retrain her to work in our sissified civilian city.”
Leland walked away without another word. Budress stood, and painted Scott with a big smile.
“Don’t sweat it. She was retrained at Lackland to make her less aggressive, and more people-friendly. It’s SOP for dogs they adopt out to civilians. The Sarge there thinks her problem will be the opposite—not aggressive enough.”
Scott remembered how Maggie lunged at Marley, but decided not to mention it.
Scott said,
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