Fama the A$$hole Bomb Dog Part 1

Fama the A$$hole Bomb Dog

by David Winners.

Part 1

So there I was, 4 years old, sitting on a couch with a Saint Bernard Dog puppy trying to bite my toes. That’s when it all started. Mom was a breeder and trainer of Saints and working breeds for show, sport and work. Dilettante Dad was a mechanical engineer, chef, welder and professional musician. I was now officially hooked on everything dog. That little ball of white and orange fluff turned out to be 265 pound Charlie. The best buddy a boy could ever have.

The next 31 years were full of dogs; as pets, rescue and re-home projects, hunting partners, and clients. Then I joined the Army. Of course I wanted to be a dog handler, but to make that happen, I had to be military police for a couple of years, at least, until I had the opportunity to attempt to get into the dog program. Now nothing against the MP corps, but they suck, so I went Field Artillery, and got to blow stuff up for a few years.

Now it’s time to go to Afghanistan, and we need a couple of dog teams to go with us. None are available, but there is this new program that turns us regular “joes” into combat ready dog handlers, just like the MP guys, but better, because we aren’t MPs. My First Sergeant (read: guy in charge) picks me to go because he knows I have a lot of experience with dogs. Yay, it’s off to dog school we go!

Day 1: It’s northern Indiana in April. It is 38 degrees and raining, which is beautiful weather for that time of year. At least there was no hail. 20 of us, fresh from the island of Oahu Hawaii, are packed into a classroom to begin our illustrious careers as dog handlers. All our instructors, who are bikers with tattoos and long lists of working dog credentials, introduce themselves, followed by Ken. Ken, the owner of the kennels, is the biggest of the biker guys, has the most tattoos, and also has scars all over his arms. You would think he would be intimidating, but quite the contrary. He is potentially the most charismatic speaker I have ever seen. He is so passionate about dogs that it exudes from his pores. When he talked about how odor travels through a room, I could see it! His eyes lit up, and if he had a tail, it would have been knocking stuff on the floor. I knew I was going to like this place.

It’s time to get our dogs! We all go outside to the kennels like a big herd of anxious schoolgirls, listening to the frenzied cacophony that is a dog kennel full of a couple hundred working dogs. They start bringing out dogs and pairing them up with handlers, matching up personalities to the best of their ability. There are about 8 of us left in the gawking gaggle when Heath, super type A personalty numero uno dog guy, asks, “Who isn’t afraid of dogs?”

Well, I looked around at the rest of the guys, who are now all staring at the ground, and can’t believe it. Somebody has to step up and get the job done, right? I raise my hand and plaster a confident smile on my face. Heath, who is a former Marine smiles back in that all too knowing way, fully understanding the bravado in my gesture, and tells me to wait right there. The rest of the guys were handed their dogs right away as the trainers exited the kennels, at which time they headed across the street to an open field to break the dogs and let them run off some steam. They were merrily frolicking in the beautiful Indiana rain with their new best buddies. Heath comes out of the kennel with this beautiful female GSD, and walks straight by me, with a quick, “Follow me.”

Now I am a Non-Commissioned Officer in the United States Army! Trained to fight! I have rappelled out of helicopters, fought in Iraq, survived several IEDs, made it through ALL the Twilight movies! I’m nervous. Heath takes Fama to my SUV which contains a vari-kennel in the back, opens the kennel door, and says, “kennel,” in the most soothing of voices. Fama immediately obeys, hops up in the kennel, spins around faster than any dog has any right to move, and proceeds to try and rip his face off. Heath calmly slams the kennel door in her face, takes a step back from the vehicle, and yells (she is barking like a rabid Tasmanian devil at this point), “She’s all yours buddy! Now get her out of the kennel.”

What did I do?!?! OK, Winners. Put on your game face. There is no way this dog can know that you are nervous. Fama now has the crate door in her teeth. There is saliva, mixed with blood from her tail, on my face. I try to reassure myself that Heath, being an outstanding guy, would never put a student in any kind of danger. I gather myself, take a deep breath, go to my happy place, and summon my power animal. None of this works at all, so I just opened the crate, grabbed her collar, urged her out into the world beside me, and asked her to sit.

She did.

Heath looks at me, smiles, and says, “Well, that went better than I thought it would!”

I successfully refrained from punching him in the mouth.