![]() ![]() When I got under the covers, he stretched across the blanket, his weight heavy and comforting against my side. That first night, Dyngo sat on my hotel bed in an expectant Sphinx posture, waiting for me. It included a trip to the notary to sign a covenant-not-to-sue (the legal contract in which I accepted responsibility for this combat-ready dog for all eternity), a veterinarian visit for the sign-off on Dyngo’s air travel and tearful goodbyes with the kennel’s handlers. Just 72 hours earlier, I had traveled across the country to retrieve Dyngo from Luke Air Force Base in Phoenix, so he could live out his remaining years with me in civilian retirement. This dog had saved thousands of lives.Īnd now this dog was in my apartment in Washington, D.C. In 2011, he’d performed bomb-sniffing heroics that earned one of his handlers a Bronze Star. He’d served three tours in Afghanistan where he’d weathered grenade blasts and firefights. Dyngo, a 10-year-old Belgian Malinois, had been trained to propel his 87-pound body weight toward insurgents, locking his jaws around them. But he wasn’t playing-he was freaking out. His eyes were locked on me, desperate for the toy I was holding. In front of me was a large dog, snapping his jaws so hard that his teeth gave a loud clack with each bark. The lamps in the living room glowed against the black spring night. It was late-an indistinguishable, bleary-eyed hour.
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