Police K9 Handler Quotes

While I was at a huge disadvantage, I realized Solo had an advantage here that he didn't have at the local kennel club. Law enforcement handlers don't expect their dogs to get along. Most of their dogs have an edge. Every dog was on lead coming and going; each dog worked separately. The warehouse rang with another warning I would become accustomed to: "Dog in!" or "Dog out!" For me, that warning was a comfort. A standardization of practice that would benefit me greatly. Working Solo, I wouldn't have to keep my eyes peeled for a shorthaired pointer to come bounding over off lead. Soon enough, Solo realized the same thing: With cops and Crown Vics around, he started to ignore sharp barks and growls and dog-permeated air. I didn't have to apologize for his personality. To the police K9 handlers, Solo wasn't a sociopath. He didn't even qualify as a jackass.

Sergeant Dominick Leland was tall, thin as barbed wire, and peered at the world through a permanent scowl. A rim of steel-colored fuzz circled his mocha pate, and two fingers were missing from his left hand, lost to a monstrous Rottweiler-mastiff attack dog he fought to protect a K-9 partner. With thirty-two years on the job as a K-9 officer, Dominick Leland had served as the Platoon’s Chief Trainer longer than anyone in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department, and was an undisputed, three-fingered legend. The Officer-in-Charge ran the Platoon, but Leland was the final authority and absolute master in all matters regarding dogs, dog handlers, and their place within the Platoon. When

This beautiful, slender German Shepherd with erect ears and a cold glare stood at attention, awaiting the order. I watched the canine's handler.  The man's lips moved ever-so-slightly, and the dog was off.  EMS was going wild.  They'd apparently never seen the K9 unit in action, either.  I glanced over to the waiting room, and I swear, every last person stood with their noses pressed against the windows. When I looked back outside, the police dog was dangling from the woman's forearm.  Even then, she continued to move around and yell.  She refused to drop her handbag and swatted at the dog's head. I'm pretty sure we were all rooting for the dog. The

I asked the decoy what happened. He told me he heard Mattis go down a row in the distance and then jump up onto a shelf. He said he then jumped from shelf to shelf (in the dark) straight toward him at about head level. The decoy said, “I know I was supposed to be still, but he was coming at me head level, so I threw my arm up to intercept him.” The other handlers, the decoy, and I were all astounded. This was not what I had planned. This was not the lesson | wanted to teach Mattis. I laughed because he’d solved it in a manner I hadn’t considered, and in a more efficient way. This type of Mattis solution became commonplace at every training session. Throw a complex problem at him and just watch him with wonder as he comes up with a solution. We never knew what it was going to be, but we knew it was going to be grounded in determination, athleticism, and efficiency.

Military working dogs, especially ones like Clyde, train differently from K9 units. In wilderness police pursuits, you back off if your target becomes all but impossible to find and your men might get killed due to poor conditions—usually bad weather or darkness. You wait for conditions to improve, knowing that your bad guy is going to have to wait it out, too. The sheriff had been following protocol when he called us in before we'd finished searching the train. Especially after hearing from Fort Collins. But in war, a dog is tracking enemy soldiers or terrorists. Men who, if they aren't caught, disappear into their rat holes and spend their free hours planting IEDs or taking sniper shots at your men. Military dogs and their handlers don't call it a day when the going gets tough. For Clyde, the game wasn't over until he found his man.