Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
Down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Steve Sprouse retired his blocky-headed German shep-
herd, DJ, at eight because of arthritis and spine problems. When DJ lunged forward to hit
the bite sleeve, it was clear he was in pain; he yelped when the jolt traveled down his back.
He needed help getting into the back of the patrol car. Steve retired him just before I traveled
to Florida to watch Steve training.
“He gets out of the patrol car just fine,” Steve's wife, Sandy, pointed out, looking at the
shepherd fondly. DJ was tearing up coconuts from the backyard palms with Casey, their wild
young sable female, as company. Sandy has lived with every one of Steve's patrol dogs over
the decades, through their retirement.
DJ's forced retirement had Steve wondering as he tried on a stiff new bulletproof vest the
department had issued him: Was he too old to start another dog? Were his reflexes on the
street still good enough? All the moves that come naturally on a deployment would need
to become part of his body memory again. He would have to synchronize with a new dog.
Sandy and he would have to squeeze a third large, energetic dog into their modestly sized
house. “Do I have another dog left in me?” he asked.
It's a familiar question for handlers of a certain age, and not a rote one. For most profes-
sional K9 handlers, losing or retiring one dog becomes decision-making time. Some handlers
get into K9 not because they love working with dogs but because of the prestige. They realize
only afterward how all-consuming life with a patrol dog is. Sometimes promotion or another
division can beckon. But I know more than one person who refused promotions in order to
continue working with dogs in a unit.
Sometimes a handler's own retirement beckons. Steve, who spends most of his time train-
ing others, had some thinking to do. A new dog was more complicated than a new vest.
• • •
Solo's left hock can wobble, particularly the day after a demanding training or a long search.
His right front shoulder appears arthritic, probably from years of leaping of the fourth step
each time he comes downstairs. He slips occasionally on our concrete floor as he waltzes back
and forth across the house, shaking his toys until they are dead, a nightly ritual before head-
ing to bed.
Except for a smattering of gray on his muzzle and lower jaw, Solo doesn't look his age. In
any case, German shepherd muzzles can get gray before they turn three. He doesn't act his
age, either. He still dolphins around the yard, brings us toys at night, head up, a gleam in
his eye, setting them on the couch, pushing them with his nose, and then backing off and
crouching down slowly to see if we'll take the bait he's carefully set. When company arrives,
he becomes a tiresome clown. When I tell him to go lie down, he'll run at the dog bed and
jump on it with his front feet so he can use it like a boogie board to skate across the floor be-
