Before the Robby law, Engstrom says, "it was extremely sad. We kept dogs working that had no business working, because there was no alternative. You would see dogs that literally had almost complete organ failure. We weren't willing to give up these dogs to so easily die."

I met a dog at Travis Air Force Base who was deploying the next day. He was twelve years old. He already had seven deployments under his belt. I was stunned that such an old dog would still be deploying. But the handlers told me that deploying was what was saving him from death: While this dog was a p.u.s.s.ycat with his most recent handler, who had been with him for a few months, if he didn't know you, watch out. He was extremely aggressive.

The handlers there are amazed that he is going so strong at twelve. They have a theory. They think he knows that if he doesn't keep working, he's done for. It's the only explanation the handlers I interviewed could come up with. "He must know it, somehow."

The average age of retirement is now about 8.3 years. Some people would like to see dogs retired before they start having too many physical ailments, so they can get a little pain-free enjoyment out of civilian life. But with Department of Defense budgets in distress, it's unlikely that highly functional dogs will be let out early just to enjoy some couch time before arthritis sets in.

In 2010, the Department of Defense adopted out 304 dogs and transferred 34 to law enforcement. Eight dispo'd dogs who were healthy enough to be adopted were put down because they were deemed too dangerous for adoption. Twelve temperamentally adoptable dogs had to be euthanized because of serious health issues that would have caused intractable pain. deemed too dangerous for adoption. Twelve temperamentally adoptable dogs had to be euthanized because of serious health issues that would have caused intractable pain.

Some say the numbers of adoptions would increase if the government would bring dogs who are retired while overseas back home. We're not talking about dogs being abandoned on the streets of Kabul, as some who have heard about this issue seem to think. This is mostly about dogs who are left at permanent U.S. bases in places like Germany when they're deemed unable to work. As it is, an adoptable dog stays at the base until adopted. If people in the United States want to adopt the dog, they have to pay for the dog to return home.

The official argument is this: Dogs, as hard as it may be to swallow, are still considered equipment. When standard equipment (without a cold nose and a tail) is pulled out of operation, it's not sent back to where it came from. So if a dog is retired overseas, you don't send him back to the States, even if that's where he got his initial training. And military budgets have been crippled with the economic downturn. The government doesn't want to be paying for dogs to come back to the States if private individuals will foot the bill.

Debbie Kandoll, founder of the group Military Working Dog Adoptions, calls this hogwash. "Uncle Sam transported those military working dog heroes over to permanent bases abroad. Uncle Sam has a responsibility to get the dog back to the continental U.S.," she says. "There is no reason that half-empty U.S. military aircraft cannot transport these dogs back to CONUS [the continental United States]. At that point the adopter can pay for transport to the dog's new residence."

She says many people have adopted dogs from overseas sight unseen. They get information from the kennel master and the dog's handler, and if they like the dog, they figure out how to make it work. (On her Web site she gives tips for situations like this and provides contact information for U.S. military dog kennels Stateside and around the world.) It takes time and money to do this. I've heard figures ranging from $400 to $2,000 for transport, depending on location, time of year, and size of dog. unseen. They get information from the kennel master and the dog's handler, and if they like the dog, they figure out how to make it work. (On her Web site she gives tips for situations like this and provides contact information for U.S. military dog kennels Stateside and around the world.) It takes time and money to do this. I've heard figures ranging from $400 to $2,000 for transport, depending on location, time of year, and size of dog.

In order for retiring dogs to be flown back home on the government's bill, these dogs would need to be recla.s.sified as MWD veterans instead of excess equipment, Kandoll says. Her group and a few others are pushing for an amendment to the Robby law that would make this possible. "We can't let an ocean stand in the way of getting these deserving dogs wonderful homes," she says.

51

A VERY GOOD LIFE

It's not just people who adopt from overseas locations who put a Herculean effort into adopting a military working dog. While I was at Lackland, I met a couple who drove 1,047 miles, from rural Illinois, to pick up their dog. That the pickup happened to coincide with a wedding a few hours away was pure luck. "We'd have come down for her no matter what," says Jerry Self, president of an engineering firm in Illinois.

Self heard about military dogs in December 2009, when a friend sent him a link to a video about the fact that the dogs need good homes when they retire. Shortly after, he put in his paperwork. In early 2011, Engstrom called to talk to him, to get to know more about his situation, and to give him the news that it wouldn't be long now.

Self and his wife, Karen, had been in San Antonio for two days when I met them at Engstrom's desk at Lackland. They were there to pick up Asta-the beautiful light fawn-colored Malinois I'd seen earlier in the kennel. They'd met her a couple of days earlier as they were looking for a good match. Self thought he wanted an old war vet German shepherd, but he and his wife saw Asta and knew she was the one. "There was something about the way she looked at us," he told me. vet German shepherd, but he and his wife saw Asta and knew she was the one. "There was something about the way she looked at us," he told me.

Asta was only two years old. She was as green as they come. She had not received much military training, because she had gotten injured and had fractured a vertebra near the end of her spine. She had undergone surgery, but she was compromised, and the vets didn't think it would be wise to put her into the program.

I waited to watch the Selfs and Asta meet in the adoption room and for them to walk off to their car with their new dog. But it turned out that Asta needed a couple more official clearances before they could bring her home. So they'd stay in San Antonio one more night. They were disappointed but took it in stride. "We waited this long, what's another day or two?" Self said.

"She's going to have a good life with us."

We kept in touch. Asta rode the 1,047 miles home to Casey, Illinois, like a trouper, never a peep, Jerry Self wrote me. They stopped for breaks pretty often, and when they stayed at hotels along the way, Asta slept in her crate. There were no accidents, there was no barking.

Back at home, Asta was gentle with the Selfs' grandchildren, and with their Chihuahua, who is grouchy about Asta being there. The Selfs don't think Asta would have been a good patrol dog because "there's not a mean bone in her body. She loves affection, and she gets quite a lot."

Asta has a thing for Frisbees. She owns about a dozen, and while she likes to chase after them, she prefers to fold them taco style and trot around with them. When Jerry Self goes to throw them, they wobble badly because of all the teeth marks. And she s...o...b..rs on everything. And she is high energy. "She gallops around like a horse most of the time.... She is young and rambunctious and likes to jump up on the couch and office furniture, and knocks everything down," Jerry says.

In fact, the Selfs find that at this stage, life is a bit more tame when Asta is enjoying time in a special 110- by 80-foot fenced-in area they built around their house for her. It has big trees and gra.s.s in it. Squirrels scamper up and down the trees, and the family's three cats like to bask in the sunshine and watch the latest addition to the household. She doesn't pay them much mind, though. She's just enjoying her newfound life in this lush, green, bucolic land-a long, long way from the war zone where she could well be right now had she not been injured.

Which brings me back to Jake. If not for his own accident-an accident of birth-could he have been a military working dog? Would he have withstood the rigors of training, of Yuma, of deployment? Would he have learned to fiercely guard a Kong, to want it so badly he would do anything for it? he have been a military working dog? Would he have withstood the rigors of training, of Yuma, of deployment? Would he have learned to fiercely guard a Kong, to want it so badly he would do anything for it?

He has the spirit, the loyalty, the can-do att.i.tude. He has patience, a great nose, no crippling fears. But does he have the drive? Would he be willing to do anything for a reward? Since I can take a Kong or tennis ball out of his mouth and have him shrug it off with a smile, his drive for that kind of reward is not strong enough. I can take a Kong or tennis ball out of his mouth and have him shrug it off with a smile, his drive for that kind of reward is not strong enough.

But what about food? He lives for food. (He is a Lab, say no more.) I think he could be one of those dogs for whom food is the reward that would lift him to great heights. But the dog program tends to frown on food rewards, as do most trainers these days, and he'd need so many treats he'd probably get so obese, he'd be dispo'd anyway.

The bottom line, though, really goes beyond whether or not he could have been a contender. As much as I have tremendous, undying admiration for military working dogs and their handlers-even more than when I began this journey-and as much fun as it is to fantasize that Jake could have the right stuff to be a soldier dog, I would not want him to actually do the job. I can't imagine anyone these days really wanting his or her dog to go to war, be in harm's way. Even most handlers would like their dogs to be with them somewhere other than military kennels, or FOBs, or outside the wire.

That's why so many end up adopting. "I wanted him to know what it was like to be a regular dog in a regular house, before he crossed the bridge," I was told in various ways many times. It's something many of us take for granted, but imagine being the dog who suddenly finds herself away from war, away from the blasts of artillery, IEDs, the adrenaline, the heat, the loud concrete kennels. Imagine living in a comfortable home, with a soft bed, and a loving family. It must be like a dream.

There's one situation where it would be handy if Jake were a military working dog, though-especially now that he's getting a bit on in years: whenever he needs medical care. The medical care these dogs receive would be prohibitively expensive for most of us and is first-rate. It makes my health insurance look rather primitive. military working dog, though-especially now that he's getting a bit on in years: whenever he needs medical care. The medical care these dogs receive would be prohibitively expensive for most of us and is first-rate. It makes my health insurance look rather primitive.

52

THE BEST MEDICAL CARE MONEY CAN BUY

Tt.i.tan N319 slowly slides into the CT scanner. He's on his back, paws in the air. As he enters the tube, a red laser shines on him, creating interesting arcs and lines on his paws and then on his rear end and, finally, his tail, until he's all the way in. A technician is beside him, making sure all is well. Outside the room, other CT pros, including two veterinary radiologists, look on, noting the dog's image on a large computer screen in front of them. He's a Malinois, but in black-and-white, with the perspective of this particular view from the scanner, he looks rather like a lizard.

This is a high-end CT scanner he's in, but he'll never know it, because he's out cold. (He would not know it anyway, I suppose.) Nearly everything at the Daniel E. Holland Military Working Dog Hospital at Lackland Air Force Base is state-of-the-art. Opened in 2008 and named after an army veterinarian who was killed in Iraq, the $13 million hospital is a unique referral center providing top-notch veterinary care for pretty much every issue a soldier dog could face. If they can't take care of it here-for instance, if a dog needs an MRI, something the MWD hospital lacks-a dog can be taken to the human medical center at Lackland. MRIs are scheduled during non-human-patient hours. can be taken to the human medical center at Lackland. MRIs are scheduled during non-human-patient hours.

When the veterinary hospital bought the CT scanner being occupied by Tt.i.tan, it was better than the one at the human medical center. Tt.i.tan is being examined for a previous injury. He's looking good so far. My guide, Kelly Mann, a veterinary radiologist and director of the hospital, ushers us on.

Down the hall and through a few large, superclean exam and treatment rooms we come to a boxful of light blue shoe covers. Mann asks me to put on a pair, and he does the same. We then enter a small, darkened room and come to a large window that looks into a large, state-of-the-art surgical suite. It's one of two at the hospital. A team of two veterinarians (one visiting from Korea) and two vet techs surrounds the patient. You cannot see there's a dog under all that surgical draping, and you'd swear it must be a person until you see a tiny hint of a paw. This dog has a bad carpus (basically, a dog's wrist) injury, and today is getting a procedure called arthrodesis to fix the carpus in place. It should greatly reduce the pain he's been having.

After his surgery, he'll be taken to the recovery area, which has heated floors. During his weeks of recovery, he'll eventually end up in what they call the "gee whiz room." This is the part of the physical therapy department that has underwater treadmills designed just for dogs. The body weight of a dog on one of these treadmills is greatly reduced, making weight-bearing exercise more bearable. It's one of the first steps in exercise rehab.

It's clear that soldier dogs who come to this hospital are in very good hands. Since it's a referral hospital, the facility gets military dogs from everywhere. Veterinary care at most bases with kennels is usually very good, but the vets know when something is beyond them or their facility, and they don't hesitate to send dogs here. (The hospital also treats TSA and Border Patrol dogs.) is usually very good, but the vets know when something is beyond them or their facility, and they don't hesitate to send dogs here. (The hospital also treats TSA and Border Patrol dogs.) You might think, "Well sure, they're giving this equipment good treatment because they have to keep the dog ready to protect lives, just like you'd service a military plane or even a rifle." And there may be some truth to that. The idea is to keep these dogs healthy and able to work. But many of the patients here will never be going back to work. Their careers are ending because of medical issues. It's heartening to see that the Department of Defense doesn't turn its back on them just because they're no longer of use.

"We fix them at the end of their career, even if we adopt them out. It's the right thing to do," says Mann.

The hospital's necropsy room is not far off the lobby of the hospital. It is very s.p.a.cious, with two tables and all the accoutrements needed for the deep level of necropsy done here. This is not where Engstrom found what was left of Max; that was in the old hospital. But it's a stark reminder that even with all the best treatment, soldier dogs die. And if you're a soldier dog, it is pretty much guaranteed you'll get a necropsy.

This isn't just to see what went wrong inside a dog; the knowledge gained from these procedures can help other dogs. A dog's tissues are sent to the Joint Pathology Center, where the samples are prepared for histopathology and read out by board-certified veterinary pathologists. Eventually, all of those results and the complete medical records are mailed to the MWD medical records repository. The end-of-life data are reviewed retrospectively by the staff epidemiologist, to keep veterinarians informed of the most common diseases being seen in the soldier dog population. This helps them refine the topics that are taught to Veterinary Corps officers and animal care specialists who are taking basic and advanced courses there, and the information helps the operational units learn of common issues to watch for in the working dog population. repository. The end-of-life data are reviewed retrospectively by the staff epidemiologist, to keep veterinarians informed of the most common diseases being seen in the soldier dog population. This helps them refine the topics that are taught to Veterinary Corps officers and animal care specialists who are taking basic and advanced courses there, and the information helps the operational units learn of common issues to watch for in the working dog population.

So there's a lot of potential good that comes from necropsies, but the notion of what a dog looks like-what poor Engstrom saw-after one of these makes me shudder. I would not want Jake to go through this. Most handlers want to be with their dog for euthanasia but won't stick around for the necropsy because it's just too much.

When a soldier dog dies, if the dog is lucky enough to have a handler (as opposed to dogs who are training aids), the dog will not be forgotten. Handlers can get the cremated remains of what's not sent off to pathologists. Depending on the base where the necropsy occurred, the handler may get the ashes back in a beautifully engraved wood box. Some bases have memorial walls where the boxes are placed next to photos of the dog. Others have small cemeteries devoted to their military working dogs.

Amanda Ingraham buried Rex's ashes at Fort Myer before she left for Germany with Cinte. She and her father worked together to make a cross with Rex's name deeply engraved in it. She didn't have time for a traditional dog memorial, but she will when she returns. And she's not looking forward to trying to read the poem that handlers traditionally read during these ceremonies. She'll probably have someone else do it, because she can't get through the last few lines. And she's not looking forward to trying to read the poem that handlers traditionally read during these ceremonies. She'll probably have someone else do it, because she can't get through the last few lines.

The poem, "Guardians of the Night," speaks of the bond military dogs (or police dogs, depending on the version you read) have with their handlers, from a dog's point of view. In the end, the poem talks about when their time has come to move on, and how for a time they were an unbeatable team, and then goes on to a couple of lines about what they'll do if they should ever meet again "on another field." This is where a lot of handlers break down. It's not great poetry. But if you picture your own dog, you're done for. (This poem is also read at handler course graduation ceremonies at Lackland, but it doesn't pack the emotional wallop it does at memorial services.) There's another tradition at MWD memorial services. The dog's bowls are placed upside down, to symbolize that the dog won't need them anymore. The collar and leash are hung in remembrance of the dog. And if the memorial is at a kennel, the dog's kennel door is left open, indicating that the dog will not be returning home.

53

THIRTEEN MEDALS AND RIBBONS

Sergeant Mark Vierig, the marine we met earlier with his combat tracking dog, Lex, had worked with another dog a few years before. The dog was a dual-purpose Malinois, a big ninety-pounder named Duc B016. "He was an amazing dog," Vierig will tell you. Their bond ran deep. Duc (p.r.o.nounced Duck) was always cool under fire, with a nose that sniffed out many a bomb in his day. He'd been to Afghanistan with Vierig, and to Iraq (twice), and even Thailand.

Vierig was able to adopt Duc in 2006, when Duc was ten or eleven years old. Vierig had left the marines after his four years of active duty (he was later called back in from inactive duty, which is where he met Lex) and was living with his wife, baby daughter, and four dogs in the mountains of Utah, next to the Weber River-a fly fisherman's paradise, and heaven on earth for the retired dog. Just the kind of place Duc deserved, Vierig told his friends.

On a summer day about a year after his grand new life started, Duc went outside and Vierig's wife saw him collapse. She yelled to Vierig, who ran out and found Duc unresponsive. He scooped the dog up and brought him inside the "Duc Room," a special room they had converted for Duc's comfort. Vierig sat down cross-legged on the floor, supporting Duc's head and upper body in his arms. He stroked his old face and neck, trying to figure out what was wrong. Suddenly Duc howled like a wolf, a plaintive cry Vierig had never heard before. Duc took one last breath and died in Vierig's arms. dog up and brought him inside the "Duc Room," a special room they had converted for Duc's comfort. Vierig sat down cross-legged on the floor, supporting Duc's head and upper body in his arms. He stroked his old face and neck, trying to figure out what was wrong. Suddenly Duc howled like a wolf, a plaintive cry Vierig had never heard before. Duc took one last breath and died in Vierig's arms.

Overcome by the sudden loss, and that primal howl, Vierig held his dog, telling him how much he loved him, how much Duc meant to him. Eventually he covered Duc with a brand-new 4-by-6-foot Marine Corps flag. He lay it over Duc's body. "He had done so much for me, I wanted to do right by him."

Within moments, four dogs Vierig was training for police and private companies entered the room. They were all energetic working dogs-a golden retriever, two Malinois, and a German shepherd. They'd revered Duc in life. They would run around and nip and chase and tackle one another, but they would leave him in peace. Now the dogs-every one of them-lay down quietly in a semicircle next to Duc's flag-draped body. They were not sleeping, but lying attentively, calmly. They stayed like this for twenty minutes. These independent-natured dogs never would lie next to each other-much less Duc-like this.

"They were paying respects to a dog who was deeply respected. That's not anthropomorphism," Vierig says. "If you'd seen it, you'd know."

Vierig wanted Duc's grave to be near the river, where fishermen walk by, so others would remember his friend, even if they had never met him. He wanted them to know that here lay a great dog. He dug a deep grave in a tree-filled area across the river and came back for Duc. Vierig wrapped Duc's body in the marine flag, picked up the ninety-pound dog, and hoisted him across the back of his shoulders. He walked him out his backyard and crossed the chest-deep water of the Weber, making sure to keep Duc dry. He lay Duc on the ground under a big tree with lots of shade. picked up the ninety-pound dog, and hoisted him across the back of his shoulders. He walked him out his backyard and crossed the chest-deep water of the Weber, making sure to keep Duc dry. He lay Duc on the ground under a big tree with lots of shade.

Then he placed Duc in the grave, buried him, and covered the site with big round stones from the riverbed to help keep other animals from digging down. Earlier in the day he had attached to the tree Duc's old military kennel sign with his name on it. To this, he attached all of Duc's medals and ribbons. There were about thirteen, but since military working dogs don't officially rate ribbons and medals, they were actually all Vierig's, for anything he earned while Duc was his dog.

Vierig has since moved, but he still goes up to visit his dog and replaces ribbons when they wear out.

54

WHO NEEDS MEDALS OR STAMPS?

Duc got his ribbons the way many dogs do: unofficially, and because of someone's great admiration and respect. Dogs in the military are not officially awarded ribbons or medals from the Department of Defense. America's canine heroes can save all the lives in their squad and get injured in the process, but they will not receive true official recognition.

When you hear about dogs garnering awards and decorations, it's usually because someone higher up at a command knows how valuable these dogs are and wants to award their valor, their heroism, their steadfast dedication to their mission. And the dogs get the awards, but the awards don't have the blessing of the Department of Defense. One former army handler I spoke with says he has seen dogs get all kinds of honors, including Meritorious Service Medals and Army Commendation Medals. Some dogs have also received Purple Hearts and Silver Stars. The ceremonies look official. But these are simply "feel-good honors," says Ron Aiello, president of the national nonprofit organization the United States War Dogs a.s.sociation.

For the last several years, Aiello and his group, which helps soldier dogs and their handlers, have been among a few organizations trying to get more official recognition of military working dogs. So far, the Department of Defense hasn't budged.

Aiello's group has been told medals and awards are only for human troops, not animals. Aiello is sensitive to the fact that giving a dog the same award as a person might be a touchy subject for some. So he proposed a special service medal just for dogs. That didn't work, either. Finally, "because the DOD had no interest in awarding our military working dogs for their service," explains Aiello, the group simply asked for official sanction of the organization in issuing the United States Military Working Dog Service Award. You can guess the result.

Because he and his team knew how much it meant for handlers to have some recognition for their dogs, they went ahead and created the United States Military Working Dog Service Award anyway. It can be bestowed on any dog who has actively partic.i.p.ated in ground or surface combat. It's a large bronze-colored medal on a red, white, and blue neck ribbon. It comes with a personalized certificate. There have been about eighty awarded so far, and Aiello says handlers greatly appreciate their dogs being recognized like this.

The move to see dogs get some kind of official recognition is gaining support from those inside, as well. In 2011, Master Chief Scott Thompson, head of military working dog operations in Afghanistan at the time, spoke at a biannual conference at Lackland Air Force Base. He said that these dogs absolutely deserve medals. "Some veterans may say it's degrading to them, but it shouldn't be. Most commanders have given dogs Purple Hearts, but it wouldn't have to be the same awards. I think most people would agree that dogs have earned the right to this. There needs to be some kind of legislation to recognize what dogs do, and we need to do the right thing." agree that dogs have earned the right to this. There needs to be some kind of legislation to recognize what dogs do, and we need to do the right thing."

There was once a German shepherd mix who received an official Distinguished Service Cross, a Purple Heart, and a Silver Star. His name was Chips. He performed many feats of courage and loyalty while serving in World War II, but one event in particular shows what this dog was made of. In the dark of early morning on July 10, 1943, on a beach in Sicily, Chips and his handler, Private John P. Rowell, came under machine-gun fire from a camouflaged pillbox. Here's how Michael Lemish describes it in his book War Dogs War Dogs: Immediately Chips broke loose from Rowell, trailing his leash and running full-steam toward the hut. Moments later, the machine-gun fire stopped and an Italian soldier appeared with Chips slashing and biting his arm and throat. Three soldiers followed with their arms raised in surrender. Rowell called Chips off and took the four Italians prisoner. What actually occurred in the pillbox is known only by the Italians, and, of course, the dog. Chips received a minor scalp wound and displayed powder burns, showing that a vicious fight had taken place inside the hut and that the soldiers had attempted to shoot the dog with a revolver. But the surrender came abruptly, indicating that Chips was solely responsible.

That night, Chips also alerted to ten Italian soldiers moving in on them. Rowell was able to take them all prisoners because of his dog's warning. Chips was lauded for his heroism and highly decorated. But William Thomas, national commander of the Military Order of the Purple Heart, was not amused. "It decries the high and lofty purpose for which the medal was created." The War Department rescinded the dog's awards, and the medals were returned.

Major General J. A. Ulio would go on to decree the following year that "the award of War Department decorations to other than persons, that is, human beings, is prohibited." (You've got to love the clarification of "other than persons.") But he also wrote that "if it is desired to recognize the outstanding services of an animal ... appropriate citation may be published in unit general orders."

The latter clause left the door open for an official medal or award specifically for war dogs.

It's been nearly seventy years.

So this is how it looks if you want your dog to have a Purple Heart these days: Air Force Staff Sergeant Brent Olson received a Purple Heart and an Army Commendation Medal for what happened the day he and his dog Blek (whom we met earlier in Part Four) were involved in an explosion in Afghanistan. Blek received nothing. At a ceremony where Olson was awarded another medal, he wanted Blek to receive his due recognition. He leaned over and pinned his own Purple Heart to Blek's harness.

"Everybody was like, 'awwwww!'" remembers Olson, "but I wanted to make a statement. Dogs are soldiers, too. They give up their whole lives for this. Sure they do it for the play and the fun, but the reason doesn't matter. They work so hard and save so many lives. Not to be recognized officially is a slap in the face." their whole lives for this. Sure they do it for the play and the fun, but the reason doesn't matter. They work so hard and save so many lives. Not to be recognized officially is a slap in the face."

If not a medal-at least not just yet-how about a stamp? All kinds of stamps come out every year. Among the 2012 selection are several flag designs, the ubiquitous love designs, some weather vanes, and some good-looking stamps featuring baseball greats and film directors. The year before brought a stamp featuring Owney, a really cool postal service dog from the late 1800s.

Sounds like at some point, stamps honoring military working dogs would have been a natural. That's what Aiello thought. He and his organization have been at the stamp issue since 2000. The last pet.i.tion he sent with his official request had ten thousand signatures.

Connie Totten-Oldham, manager of stamp development for the U.S. Postal Service, recently wrote him saying, "I certainly can understand your interest in such an important subject and your frustration over your long campaign without seeing an actual stamp." She said she appreciates the many letters and pet.i.tions he has submitted through the years and that, as always, the matter is under consideration.

She suggested Aiello look into a souvenir cancellation postmark or services that provide personalized postage-you know, the kind of stamps featuring someone's baby or favorite cat. Aiello is not going that route. "I'm not going to settle for anything less than a postage stamp featuring these very deserving dogs." In case the postal service wants to know what it's up against, Aiello was a Vietnam war-dog handler. He and his scout dog, Stormy, routinely led many troops safely through the jungle, successfully completing missions, regardless of obstacles.... postal service wants to know what it's up against, Aiello was a Vietnam war-dog handler. He and his scout dog, Stormy, routinely led many troops safely through the jungle, successfully completing missions, regardless of obstacles....