I came to Lackland wondering what style of training would be used on the dogs. These are strong dogs with great fortitude and will. I expected to witness some manhandling but hoped there would be nothing too brutal.
So I was surprised to see that training here is mostly about positive reinforcement. Dogs who did well got their rewards and heaps of happy praise. In detection work, failure to notice a scent just meant no reward. There was no yelling, no dragging the dog over and shoving his nose in the odor. The patrol side was only slightly different. Praise and Kongs and bite sleeves flew all around, but if a dog didn’t listen to a command during bite work—for instance, if he didn’t stop when a trainer shouted “Out!”—he’d get a quick, light jerk on his choke chain, and he’d be walked back to start the exercise again.
“It’s much more fun, much more rewarding, less inhibiting than other training methods,” says Arod. “Since you don’t use compulsion or what would be considered traditional punishment, it doesn’t affect the softer dogs badly.”
Months after my visits to Lackland, I ran into dog trainer Victoria Stillwell at the American Humane Association Hero Dog Awards in Beverly Hills. She has drawn a tremendous audience by espousing positive training only. We got to talking, and I thought she’d be pretty happy with the positive training I generally saw wherever I went for the book research. But she said she still thinks there’s room for improvement in military working dog training. “You can train even really aggressive dogs in a positive manner. You don’t need to jerk a collar. Dogs should not have to have choke collars at all.”
Doc Hilliard, who has been instrumental in developing training techniques for the dog school, says that patrol can be done without any sort of correction for some special dogs, “but takes a lot of time. We don’t have this kind of time, and the dogs we get are not prepared for pure positive training.”
In my travels to military dog training areas, I have never seen anything more than a collar jerk. Even when a dog ran hundreds of yards away from his handler during off-leash exercises in the Arizona desert, he did not get chastised when the handler and an instructor found him. In fact, he got extra care. “Get him water. Take his temperature. Put him in the trailer so he has some AC.” It was no act put on because a reporter was there. You could tell this was just protocol. I was amazed at the restraint. Even I might have had a few words with Jake had he made me run a few hundred yards in 112-degree weather.
Military working dog training has changed dramatically in the last twenty years, according to Doc Hilliard. As he explains it, traditional methods used to involve compelling a dog to perform obedience by using corrections, normally by jerking or by tightening a chain choke collar. The reward was understood to be release from this pressure, combined with petting and praise. While the praise was positive, the system was fundamentally “compulsive” in outlook because the dog was not given any choices; he was compelled to do as the trainer demanded.
The system worked, but sometimes produced dogs who feared their trainers and did not like work. These days, the dog program is moving toward more “inducive” systems of training, in which training is broken into three stages. In the first stage the dog is taught what commands mean by using a reward like a Kong or a ball. This reward is used to “lure” the animal into a correct position (for example, lying down) and then the dog is rewarded. If the dog does not carry out the command, there is no penalty other than simply not giving the dog the reward. In the second phase, trainers layer on some physical correction such as a soft pop on the leash. They teach the dog that this pop on the leash is associated, for instance, with breaking the down position before permission from the handler. This is how a dog comes to understand that certain actions are associated with collar pressure and certain others with lack of collar pressure.
In the final phase, the dog learns that he must carry out commands, no matter what the situation or how many distractions. In this phase, sharper collar corrections are used, and the dog is not given the option to do as he wishes. However, throughout all three phases, even the last, rewards such as a toy are still given to the dog when he performs correctly. As a result, trainers produce a dog who understands his work clearly, understands that corrections will be associated with mistakes or disobedience, but fundamentally likes his work because he has a clear understanding of what is expected—and because he often receives rewards.
That’s not to say harsher methods are never used, at least once the dogs are beyond boot camp level. There are “harder,” very aggressive dogs for whom I’m told nothing else has worked. The trick, say the handlers, is to remain calm and in control while getting the dog’s attention via a little “ass whupping.” A dog who’s not backing off an attack on another dog or handler can be thrown on his back and slapped (not hard) on his face, for instance, and no other handlers are likely to cry foul. The idea is not to hurt the dog, but to let him know in no uncertain terms that this behavior will not be tolerated.
But every so often, a handler will go too far. These seem to be blissfully rare events, but they’re disturbing nonetheless. An out-of-control handler may kick or punch a dog, pick him up high and slam him hard to the ground, use a cattle prod, or even helicopter a dog. (The latter, unfortunately, sounds like what it is, with spinning and fear involved. It can end with a slam to the ground if the handler has really lost it.)
These methods are not only highly discouraged, an individual can be brought up on Uniform Code of Military Justice charges for abusing a dog. The consequences can range from being given extra work to loss of rank or even dog-handler status, or full court-martial that could result in a felony conviction. Marine Captain John “Brandon” Bowe says most cases never go to court-martial but are taken care of in a process called nonjudicial punishment (NJP). “Dog handlers tend to be a cut above, so NJP usually solves matters.”
Justice can come from unexpected places. It is not unheard of for instructors or other handlers to mete out quid pro quo punishment. Kick a dog hard in the belly when he’s already on his back, for instance, and don’t be surprised when what goes around comes around.
I heard about a situation that didn’t involve abuse, but accidental neglect. A handler forgot his dog in the dog trailer on a hot summer day. The AC wasn’t on, because the dogs were all supposed to be out of the trailer. The dog could have died but was found in time. So he would never forget his dog again, the handler was tied up, shoved in a kennel, and driven out to the training area. He stayed there for a few hours. There are no reports of him forgetting another dog.
With the way that dogs have become a deeply integral part of our families and our lives in the last couple of decades, it’s natural to think that the military’s stand on positive reinforcement training is a recent development—one that adheres to philosophies like the following, from a book about training war dogs:
The highest qualities of mind—love and duty—have to be appealed to and cultivated…. The whole training is based on appeal. To this end the dog is gently taught to associate everything pleasant with its working hours. Under no circumstances whatever must it be roughly handled or roughly spoken to. If it makes a mistake, or is slack in its work when being trained, it is never chastised, but is merely shown how to do it over again. If any of the men under instruction are observed to display roughness or lack of sympathy with the dogs, they should be instantly dismissed, as a promising young dog could easily be thrown back in his training, or even spoiled altogether, by sharp handling…. No whips should exist in the training school and are never necessary; gentle, steady routine work is the right method of impressing the dog’s intelligence, and kindly encouragement and caresses will meet its desire to understand, better than coercive measures or rebukes.
Modern thinking, to be sure. Only the author, Lieutenant Colonel Edwin H. Richardson, founder of the British War Dog School, wrote it in 1920. It’s from his book British War Dogs: Their Training and Psychology, which—together with his articles and influence during both Wo
rld War I and II—helped set the stage for how the U.S. would train war dogs when this country finally got our program going during World War II.
Richardson believed that positive reinforcement was the only way to successfully train a dog, that in the end you had to appeal to a dog’s good nature and desire to please. War-dog historian Michael Lemish says that the military followed this doctrine of positive reinforcement and never supported brutality or harsh treatment. But it hasn’t all been ear scratches and rubber balls for soldier dogs. For instance, mine-detecting dogs in World War II were frequently trained using electric shock collars.
And one form of training for sentry dogs in Vietnam sounds pretty crazy. It was called the agitation method and is described as “getting the dog excited about attacking his prey. Usually a small branch would be used and whacked across his backside to make the dog even more excited about going after his prey. It was not punishment.”
Those were some of the few real sticks officially used. These days, carrots are everything.
A handler told me about the first bomb dog he had. The dog was a veteran and knew exactly what was expected of him. “He’d be like, ‘Get my Kong ready and get set to praise me up, and I’ll go find a bomb for you.’ When you think of what this rubber toy inspires, it’s just incredible.”
The training and handling of military working dogs today just wouldn’t be the same without the Kong. It was, fittingly, a retired police dog named Fritz who inspired the creation of this hard rubber toy. Back in the mid-1970s, the German shepherd was always chewing rocks, cans, anything hard he could get his mouth around. It frustrated his owner, Joe Markham, to no end. One day, as Markham was doing some repairs to his 1967 Volkswagen van, Fritz started chewing rocks again. To distract him, Markham threw Fritz various van parts he was through with. The dog took no interest in the radiator hoses and other bits flying toward him, until Markham tossed a hard rubber suspension part to his dog. Fritz went mad for it.
Markham knew he was on to something. He finessed a design and found a rubber manufacturing plant near his Colorado home. After seeing the prototype, his business partner said it looked like an earplug for King Kong, and a name was born. Kongs are still made in Colorado, of a proprietary superstrong rubber. They dominate the dog-toy market.
Kongs are ubiquitous in the military working dog world. You’ll find Kongs at every military kennel and, really, anyplace in the world where there are U.S. military dogs. Lackland ordered nearly one thousand Kong toys in 2010, just for the dog school and handler course. Kongs even show up all over Afghanistan now, thanks to the presence of working dogs there. A Kong representative says the company donates thousands of Kongs annually to military dog facilities and handlers.
Kong is not one toy but actually a line of hard rubber dog toys. The most popular Kongs in the military are red or black, with what looks like three balls of different sizes fused together in a snowmanlike configuration. They’re hollow inside, and many civilians like to stuff treats into them to keep their dogs occupied with getting them out.
But in the military, Kongs are not used in this manner. They’re bouncy rewards that supplement the dog’s primary reward of pleasing the handler. (Some trainers say that the reverse is true—that handlers are secondary rewards to Kongs and other toys. It likely depends on the dog and handler.) Kongs gratify a dog’s prey and play drives. Toss a Kong on the ground, and it doesn’t bounce true, as a tennis ball does. (Military dogs also get tennis balls as rewards. Even a glove will do in a pinch.) Its odd shape causes the Kong to bounce and skip erratically, much like a fleeing rabbit or other prey. Dogs chase, catch, and experience what’s apparently the unparalleled feeling of the toy/prey in their mouths.
“To the dog with a high prey drive, the Kong is a million-dollar paycheck. You throw it and it’s run, chase, bite! They can’t help themselves,” says Gunnery Sergeant Kristopher Knight. But there are soldier dogs whose prey drive isn’t so strong. Kongs or praise or even food rewards may not be enough pay for them to do their jobs well. These dogs may certify at dog school and even do passably well at their home bases. But when they deploy to a place like Afghanistan, the motivation to sniff for IEDs can be the sole factor that separates life and death—for the dogs, their handlers, and anyone nearby.
Gunfire, mortar blasts, IED explosions, and intense heat are part of the canvas of extreme conditions troops and dogs have to deal with in that war-ravaged country. Even dogs with fine prey drives can have difficulty functioning well once they deploy to this foreign, oft-hostile setting.
Fortunately, soldier dogs and handlers have a Stateside location where they go to prepare for the rigors of deploying to this kind of environment. If you were blindfolded and taken there, you could easily think you were already deployed.
PART THREE
THE DOG TRAINER AND THE SCIENTISTS
22
AFGHANISTAN, USA
When you walk by an empty dog trailer, it’s supposed to be silent. And when Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kristopher Knight—known to his commanding officer, Captain John “Brandon” Bowe, as “the smartest and most amazing man on the planet to train dogs”—passes within two feet of a trailer’s empty kennels on a 110-degree August afternoon at the Yuma Proving Ground, it is indeed mute. But when I walk past it a few seconds later, I’m surprised when a series of hefty barks fly out of a lone dog, Rocky P506. He’s waiting in semi air-conditioned comfort while the rest of his class tracks faux bad guys in the distance. He is there as backup, in case any of the dogs are too spooked to track well after a hair-raising helicopter ride that was part of the day’s training. He won’t stop barking at me, even when I’m twenty feet away.
“Hey, Gunny, why didn’t that dog bark at you?” I ask.
“Heh heh,” he answers and we walk on.
We return about an hour later after watching the dog’s colleagues at work, and Gunny passes by the trailer. Once again, silence. As soon as I get within a few feet, a deep RAW RAW RAW staccatos at me.
“Gunny, why is he only barking at me?” Dogs always like me. What’s up with this one?
“Could be any number of factors, even something like you’re not in a uniform. He’s used to people in uniform,” he explains.
The barking continues and Gunny Knight walks toward the trailer. “Watch this. You can breathe on him and calm him down.” He goes up to the German shepherd, who is still barking in my direction behind the metal bars of his kennel. Gunny blows a stream of air gently on his head, and the dog almost instantaneously quiets down and sits.
Bowe told me that Gunny has a way with dogs that no one else has. “He talks dog. That’s the thing about Gunny Knight. He speaks their language. He speaks dog slang. He speaks dog En-glish. He speaks dog Ebonics. No matter what language, he knows how to read dogs, talk dogs, train dogs, and I’ve never seen in all my years in the Marine Corps—and that’s going on twenty—anyone who can work with dogs like him.”
I get closer to look at this transformed canine, in awe of what Gunny has done. Suddenly Rocky starts in at me again.
“Go ahead, breathe on him,” Gunny instructs. “Let him smell that you are calm and can control him, you are in charge.”
I conjure up the words “I’m the calm boss” in my brain, and I exhale gently on Rocky’s head. It doesn’t work. I realize that while I’m calm, I’m not feeling like the boss, just making up the words. So I channel Gunny Knight as my persona. No words this time, just a feeling—a benevolent authority; I am momentarily muscle-bound, with a big cocky grin. I exhale, briefly becoming Gunny Knight, breathing Gunny Knight vibes onto Rocky’s head.
Rocky suddenly stops. He sits and looks at me, mouth slightly open, seeming almost relaxed. He stays like that even as I walk away with Gunny.
What just happened?
Gunny tells me that he uses this technique to calm down dogs and let them smell the chemical cocktail that is uniquely him. “By doing so, the dog is able to determine multiple factors about me—confidence,
fear, threatening behaviors, trust, calm nature, etc.”
I later ran the incident by canine cognition expert Alexandra Horowitz. I thought she’d know exactly what magic Gunny had worked. But somewhat surprisingly, she said that it’s common wisdom in dog circles that blowing on a dog’s face is an aggressive action. “I could conjecture that a dog who is blown on might stop being restless, but not necessarily because they feel calm. They might feel alarmed, too. I would have to see the rest of the dog’s behavior and posture in context to get a read on this marine’s dogs.”
If Horowitz had been dealing with a standard military dog trainer, her desire to observe and understand the situation might have paid off with scientifically based insights drawn from other similar observations. But there is nothing standard about Gunny Knight.
And there’s nothing terribly ordinary about the predeployment course for dogs and handlers he runs in this arid corner of Arizona bordering Mexico and California. I learned this one dark June morning, at 4:30 A.M., when I first set foot on the Yuma Proving Ground.
23
THE PROVING GROUND
A full moon hovers over rows of open-air kennels, where the cacophony of barking punctuates the warm predawn desert air. Sixteen handlers in camo greet their excited dogs and leash them up for their morning constitutionals. Two klicks away, down a dusty road, an ammo recovery team sets out explosives in Taliban fashion, hiding them, covering them with dirt and pebbles, making them look just like any other part of the terrain.
Gunny Knight calls over to me and has me hop into his Isuzu VehiCROSS—one of only four thousand that were ever sold in the U.S. over several years, he will tell you.
We drive to a place called Site 2. As we’re driving, the sun climbs over the horizon, casting new light on what was only a milky visage moments ago. Flat, dry, unforgiving Sonoran Desert terrain spreads out for miles in every direction, with low, jagged mountains fringing the desolate landscape. You would not want to be lost here.
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