From Baghdad with Love by Jay Kopelman (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT) 📕

a handler searches a suspect, and the suspect tries to hurt the handler, the dog attacks immediately without any command whatsoever. The dog then bites and holds the suspect down until he hears the command out, which means that if the handler is killed or knocked unconscious first, the dog will literally die holding the suspect down as he waits to receive orders to let go.

It therefore comes as no surprise to me when the dog handlers at Camp Fallujah smile and shake their heads when I ask if Lava can hide out in one of the kennels.

“Can’t help you, sir . . .”

I’m equally unsurprised when they tell me the closest military veterinarian who can give Lava vaccinations works at a base in Baghdad—some forty treacherous miles away—and because of General Order 1-A, they doubt he’ll be able to help.

They wish me luck, though, and give me what I suspect is some very expensive dog food.

Back at the officers’ building, I immediately e-mail the military veterinarian in Baghdad. I know it’s a risk, but I hope the veterinarian is as understanding as the handlers here at camp.

“I found this puppy in Fallujah . . .”

Then I sit back and think about what the dog handlers told me when I asked what happens to the dogs when their tour of duty is over.

As with the Marines, it turns out, the military working dogs’ elite status hurts them in the end. They aren’t like other dogs, and since the canine warriors can’t simply be debriefed, they have nowhere to go. If a military dog becomes physically unable to perform his tasks in the field—usually when he’s about ten years old—a veterinarian deems him as either “nondeployable” or “stateside deployment only” and his military records are sent to Lackland to a full medical review board.

If a nondeployable dog is deemed “adoptable,” meaning he probably won’t storm local playgrounds and attack small children unprovoked, and if the potential adopter understands the possible risks, meaning he or she understands that small children might provoke the dog who might storm the playground and attack them, then the adopter signs an agreement that absolves the Department of Defense of any liability for damage or injury the dog might cause.

Most of them, though, are deemed nonadoptable. These are the dogs whose entire lives centered on carrying out orders to perfection, who were so devoted to the military, they obeyed to the death. These were the most faithful, dependable, patriotic dogs of the lot, so they’re handed “final disposition” papers and euthanized.

I stare at the computer screen in front of me and try hard not to make comparisons. Nonadoptable. Maladjusted. Apt to attack small children on playgrounds. I bleed allegiance to the flag.

I follow my e-mail to the military veterinarian with an SOS to everyone but the gatekeepers of the Emerald City.

“I found this puppy in Fallujah . . .”

Later that day I receive word that I’m supposed to report to the Joint Task Force in Balad to replace a lieutenant colonel, Ignatius “Buck” Liberto, who’s going on leave for six weeks. I know the guy, right? So I e-mail him in Balad and ask if he’ll take Lava home with him when he leaves.

No problem from Buck’s end, but he’s flying out on a military plane, and in order to transport a puppy he’ll need all of Lava’s vaccination papers and approval from brass. I’m thinking that’s no big deal until I get the response from the military veterinarian in Baghdad.

He respectfully reiterates General Order 1-A that prevents the Marines from keeping pets, and further points out that diseases such as leishmania, hydatid disease, and rabies are common among stray dogs in Iraq.

“My apparent lack of concern for this puppy isn’t due to not caring. I’m simply following orders, regulations, and my desire to protect the public health of our soldiers,” the veterinarian writes.

“What I’m trying to make clear, Sir, is that nothing we can do for you is going to assist you in getting the dog home.”

Well, shit.

CHAPTER NINE

December 2004

Camp Fallujah

Dust swirls in the Humvee’s headlights as it grumbles in low gear toward the far end of the base. Concrete bunkers, concertina wire, tents, and sandbags appear and disappear before me like quick thoughts, and I notice how much sharper the edges of things seem than when muted by all-out sun. Then again, everything seems weird when you can’t sleep in the middle of the night.

It’s weird that I’m driving across base. It’s weird that it gets so cold in Iraq and that I’m crossing thin-skinned ice puddles under a black winter sky tattooed with stars. It’s weird that the prefab metal buildings erected by the Iraqi Republican Guard to train terrorists are now surrounded by US-stuffed sandbags to keep them out. It’s weird that the white beam of the headlight seems to stab with violence at whatever I’m passing—the chow hall, a big plastic tub used for Marines who decide to get baptized, a Humvee with a ram’s skull roped to its front, the “Morale, Welfare and Recreation” building filled with PlayStation 2 consoles that the psychologists recommend we use to unwind. It’s weird that there’s war. It’s weird that I’m part of it.

Where am I driving? To the Lava Dogs’ building.

Why am I driving to the Lava Dogs’ building? Because I can’t sleep.

Why can’t I sleep? Because Lava is in the Lava Dogs’ building.

Now that they’re back on base, it only seems natural that Lava should visit his uncles who conveniently live as far away from the officers’ building as they can.

Only I can’t sleep.

I start to nod off, but suddenly, like an alarm’s going off, I think, I’ve got to leave for Balad in two days, followed by Figure it out, Kopelman, followed by But how . . . , followed by Just figure the thing out, followed by Lava’s going to get shot.

See, orders just came down and the Department of