I hear the beast before I see him, his humid, heavy breathing
filling the darkness, bouncing off the discarded junk strewn across the factory
floor. He’s trying to find me. I’m curled into a fetal ball on a shelf of a
musty plywood cage, locked in from the outside, straining to make myself
smaller. He’s getting closer, and his
panting makes a rhythm with his loping strides as he pads across the floor, his
breath and the soft slap slap slap of his paws stopping and starting as he searches
for me, smelling the air for my fugitive scent.
I tilt my head to see his shadow, the afternoon sunlight sliding under the metal door, framing his ears, head and neck as he sniffs the ground, the walls and everything else in front of him. The fear’s rising in my chest, and I want to scream for help but don’t. I stay silent and motionless, watching him pace back and forth across the dirty concrete, searching for me, his target.
Seconds ago,
I heard a voice shout, “This is the Hillsborough Police Department’s K9
unit. This dog will search this building. He will find you, and he will bite you.” This preamble could have included reference
to “Admiral Lollipop from the Petunia Brigade,” and a “my pet unicorn
Herschel,” but I was too fixated on that last part – the “He will bite you” phrase
- to hear much else. There’s just
something about being locked in a chicken wire cell in an abandoned plastics
factory in Goffstown while a fanged animal hunts for you to make you reflect on
your place in the universe.
There’s no
reason for alarm, I tell myself as the dog saunters closer. I’ll just use my safe word if things go
sour. Except that when the officer
locked me in this cage, he said nothing about words like “bunny” or “potato.” And I don’t know any German except
“liverwurst,” and that’s no safe word to a hungry German.
It’s been
less than two minutes but feels like forever as the dog continues
searching. He slows a bit, sniffs the
air, sniffs some more and trots over to my hiding spot. We lock eyes as he sits. I smile and say, “Fanto, you found me.” The dog barks and lunges towards my face,
erupting in short, staccato bursts until the lights come on. With one guttural command and the toss of a
rubber ball, Fanto stops barking and sits chewing his toy, happy and unimpressed
I didn’t cry for my mommy.
Fanto’s been
unimpressed with me the entire day, focused far more on his partner’s commands
than on my feeble attempts to hide or make small talk. Fanto is the lone member of Hillsborough’s police
canine unit, paired with Sergeant Nick Hodgen, Fanto’s partner, trainer and, by
all accounts, best friend, and my host for the day. Sergeant Nick invited me to join him and Fanto
as they train with Goffstown’s K9 unit on one of the two days each month local departments
convene to work on discipline, agility, exercise, searching and biting, lots
and lots of biting.
Fanto and his
two cohorts – Cyrus and Koa - are muscular, fit German Shepherds with black and
brown coats, massive necks and eyes that fill me both with a mix of warmth and
abject fear. Nick’s human counterparts, Officers
Chris Weeks and Jason Hull, make up the Goffstown K9 unit, and all three men
spend every other Wednesday together with their dogs, honing their skills in
dual purpose policing – patrol and narcotics – twenty hours a month. “Dogs are not like a piece of equipment that
you take out when you need it. Dogs need
training,” Nick tells me earlier in the day when we first meet. We’re at a park in Goffstown, minutes outside
Manchester, and Nick’s running Fanto through a series of obedience drills. Fanto walks in cadence with Nick, responding
to every word and tug on the leash, slight or harsh. Nick raises his arm, and Fanto moves. Nick says, “Down!” and Fanto lies down. Every time Fanto does what he’s told, Nick
tosses him a rubber ball on a string.
“That ball is the only thing Fanto cares about – it’s his reward,” Chris
tells me as Nick puts Fanto through his paces.
“Time for
bite work,” Chris announces, and Nick puts on a bite sleeve, a thick fabric tube
running from his wrist to his collarbone as Jason preps Cyrus for the
attack. Jason utters a few commands as
Nick stands, bracing himself for the dog’s lunge. Jason shouts, “Get ‘em,” and Cyrus lashes out
at Nick’s sleeve, clamping down hard and letting out a loud whine, which, translated
from the German means, “This feels uber awesome.” Jason shouts, “Out!” and Cyrus releases. After a few minutes of this, the team agrees
it’s time for me to get bit.
Nick helps me
into the suit – a pair of thick pants with suspenders and a heavy jacket,
telling me, “You’ll get pinching and bruising,” as he cinches up the
pants. “The biggest effect a dog has is
as a psychological deterrent,” he mentions as I waddle over to Fanto, eyeing me
like I’m a two-legged mega pork chop with thinning hair. As Fanto stares, I’m being deterred
psychologically, but I’m in the suit, Fanto’s ready, and I’d never make it if I
try running for the woods.
Nick and
Chris offer instruction, none of which I remember because Fanto’s gaze pierces
my soul, tempting me to confess every transgression I’ve ever committed, and
just before I admit to getting two McDLTs and only paying for one in the summer
of ’84, Fanto’s jaws clamp down on my forearm, and I can feel the contours of
his molars as they search for a better hold.
To paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I immediately regret this decision as the
dog reopens his mouth and clamps down again and again, his mouth filled with
healthy teeth and pinpoint fury.
Everyone’s watching, including Fanto, and I can’t burst into tears, so
we keep going.
Isaac Newton’s
little-known Law of Canine Propulsion states, “A body at rest stays at rest; a
body in motion attacked by a running dog with fangs will wet its pants.” I’m reminded of this as I jog slowly from
Fanto and Jason. Instantly, Fanto
barrels into me, his jaw a vice-grip on my bicep as I struggle to remain
standing, wincing as the dog’s teeth pinch me through the suit. “Out!” Jason commands and Fanto heels. We finish with some bite work on my leg, and
I see blood on Fanto’s gums as he engages.
It’s forty degrees outside with a bitter early Spring wind, but I’m in a
full sweat and out of breath. It’s
Fanto’s world, and I’m just his chew toy.
Soon after
we’re at the highest point in Manchester, standing atop the massive landfill next
to the highway, along with the Manchester PD’s K9 unit, at least six dogs
strong. This is a meeting place of sorts
for police officers and their hirsute partners as everyone gets ready for the
annual certification tests in June, a weekend where cops and dogs gathers to
test each other’s mettle in feats of strength, speed, agility, sniffing out would-be
ne’er do wells, and, one presumes, late-night beer and/or water bowl drinking
contests. I watch Nick, Jason and Chris lead
their dogs through an obstacle course and play a game of hide and seek that
always ends with a dog biting someone in a bite sleeve.
During a
break, Nick shows me his specially-outfitted K9 police cruiser. The back seat is one large metal dog pen with
a small water bowl bolted to the floor, automatic fans for extreme summertime
temperatures and doors Nick can open with a remote-control he wears on his
belt. “If I’m out of the car and need
Fanto, he can come find me.” It’s like
having an on-demand superhero – one push of a button and salvation arrives.
Over lunch,
the officers explain the commitment this job takes. The dogs live with their partners year-round and
require constant attention. “It’s like
having a four-year old on a sugar high,” Chris says. They talk about the economics of a K9 unit,
and how the upfront costs of a
well-bred, well-trained dog and a special cruiser are offset by the fact that a
dog will go places humans won’t and the presence of a police dog is often
enough to stop a suspect in his tracks.
“Most of the time just the sound stops people from running,” Nick
says. He tells me of an unfortunate duo
suspected of pilfering copper piping from an abandoned house one night in
Hillsborough. “All I had to do was pull
up and let Fanto bark. They both
surrendered immediately.” Jason concurs
wistfully. “They all give up when they
see the dog. I just wish someone would
run. They always give up before the
bite.”
As I rub the
swelling on my arms from Fanto’s brand of justice, I silently agree to do the
same thing if and when I find myself breaking the law in Hillsborough,
Goffstown or the handful of other New Hampshire cities and towns with their own
Fantos. The alternative is too
terrifying.
