By then, Daniel had been in Afghanistan two months. It was
July 2012, his third tour of duty and his first with Oogie, his military
working dog. They were leading their platoon on yet another patrol, clearing a
no-name village with maybe 15 houses and one mosque, when they began taking
fire.
“The first thing that went through my mind,” he says, “was,
‘S- -t. My dog’s gonna get shot.’ ”
It was a perfect L-shaped ambush, bullets coming from the
front and the right, the platoon pinned down in a flat, open landscape. Along
the road were shallow trenches, no more than 14 inches deep. Daniel grabbed
Oogie, squeezed him in a hole, then threw himself over his dog.
It went against all his Army training. “They tell us it’s
better for a dog to step on a bomb than a US soldier,” he says. The truth is
Daniel, like just about every other dog handler in the armed forces, would
rather take the hit himself.
Five weeks into their training, Daniel and Oogie were
inseparable. They showered together. They went to the bathroom together. When
Daniel ran on the treadmill, Oogie was on the one right next to him, running
along.
That week, Daniel got Oogie’s paw print tattooed on his
chest.
“The few times you safeguard your dog are slim compared to
what he does every time you go outside the wire,” Daniel says. “That’s your
dog. The dog saves you and saves your team. You’re walking behind this dog in
known IED hot spots. In a firefight, the dog doesn’t understand.”
Bullets were coming closer now; the enemy had long ago
picked up on how important the dogs were to the Americans, how successful they
were at sniffing out bombs. “I know there were three separate incidents where
they shot at Oogie,” Daniel says. And as he lay on top of his dog, he stroked
him and whispered and kept him calm.
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