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The
Dog That Nobody Wanted
King, a police dog, was neglected until he was discovered by
Brian Gallagher. The following is an interesting story of how
King turns out to be the No.1
"narco" dog in New York City.
Staring
at the creature in the small cage, Brian Gallagher knew he'd
met his match. The dog's black eyes stared back
fearlessly and challengingly. "You don't want that one," an attendant said.
"Nothing but trouble."
"I'm a cop," Gallagher . "Trouble's my business."
"Yeah, well, this dog was leading a pack that
was running wild. Nobody wants him." The attendant motioned
toward a door to the room where animals were put to sleep.
Gallagher looked at the card attached to the
cage: " Think he's called
King." The dog growled, flashing white teeth. Greasy
hair stood out around his neck, making his large head appear
even bigger. Gallagher took a towel from a paper
bag, rolled it, and waved it slowly in front of the cage.
King's eyes watched the towel. When Gallagher held it closer,
the dog moved suddenly, clamping his powerful jaws on the
heavy wire mesh.
"Told you," said the attendant.
"Too wild."
"Unlock it," Gallagher said.
"You kidding?"
"Go ahead. He'll be okay."
The attendant shook his head, unlocked the
cage and quickly stepped back. Gallagher bent low, eye-level
with King. The dog watched intently, growling deep in his
throat.
"Okay boy," Gallagher said softly, slowly
opening the cage. Carefully he held out his hand, palm down.
The dog sniffed. Then the cop offered the rolled towel. At
once, King snatched it. Seconds later, the towel lay in pieces.
Gallagher moved back, allowing King out of
the cage. The
attendant against the wall. "You
crazy?"
King bounded out. His eyes passed over the
frightened attendant and focused on Gallagher, who threw another
rolled towel down the 60-foot hall. King was off like a rocket.
Half-way down, he started skidding on the floor. His backside
crashed against the far wall. But he had the towel, which
he raced back to Gallagher.
He's got real spirit, thought Gallagher as
the two played tug of war. Then he tried to pull King back
into his cage by tugging the towel. Instantly, King's massive
jaws clamped around his forearm.
"Okay, you win," Gallagher said.
"You don't
like being told what to do. Neither do I." Slowly he reached
for the towel with his free hand and tossed it into the cage.
As if to say, "Don't try that again!" King applied a bit more
pressure before releasing Gallagher's arm. Then, on his own,
he trotted into his cage.
"I'll be back to pick him
up," Gallagher told
the wide-eyed attendant.
As
Brian Gallagher left that day, he was already . It's crazy. How do I know that dog won't
tear me apart—like the towels?
He remembered his former canine partner—a magnificent white German shepherd named Buddy. For seven
years, Gallagher and Buddy had been together, patrolling by
day and going home at night. Then the unthinkable happened.
Buddy fell ill and within months the dog was dead.
Gallagher joined the New York City Police
Department but soon he began thinking of quitting the force."
I just can't do it anymore," he told a chief.
"What about working with dogs
again?" asked
the chief.
"My wife can't take the dog
hair," he lied.
Gallagher had never told his boss why he'd left the canine
division.
"So what about narcotics? Those dogs don't
go home with you. You take them out in eight-hour shifts,
and they're back in the kennel. Keeps their sense of smell
sharper."
"That so?" It might be worth the risk—if
he could find the right dog.Now, as he listened to the March wind, he
thought, Okay, I may be crazy─but I think that wild dog in
there would be a super cop.
Gallagher immediately began King's training at the police
department's canine center. There, a 5-by-30-foot training
wall held a number of "traps"─small pockets covered with
cardboard. In one, Gallagher had placed King's "toy"—a rolled-up
towel—only now it was heroin. Could he find it by scent?
King seemed uninterested as Gallagher led
him to the wall. Then the dog heard a rustle from a nearby
bush and began straining toward it, barking furiously. The
other kennel dogs joined in.
"Easy, King, easy," yelled Gallagher.
"Can't you keep that dog quiet,
Gallagher?"
Another officer had appeared in the doorway. Then he paused,
curious. "How's he doing?"
"First rate," Gallagher said confidently.
Then he muttered under his breath to King," Don't
make a fool out of me! Find the towel!" Instead,
King pulled Gallagher toward the far end of the wall and started
scratching on an empty trap.
"First rate, all right,"
the other officer
laughed.
"Got to be some traces of drugs in
there,"
explained Gallagher, only half believing it himself. When
the officer left, Gallagher said, "Okay, King, let's take
a walk, then quit for the day."
Walking with King through the streets, Gallagher
recalled his own training and how the instructor had told
the students to talk constantly to their canine recruits to
build trust.
"But what do we say to a
dog?" one student
had asked.
"Tell him your life
story," the instructor
had replied. And that's exactly what Gallagher did now." Buddy
was bigger than you, King—and a lot prettier," he confided.
"But you've got the
in toughness."
Then the man knelt and held the dog's huge
head in both hands. "Listen up, friend. I already lost one
dog, and I'm not lose another. I have faith in you. You've got
to stop playing around!"
"New dog?" The narcotics detective was standing
outside a building, waiting to go in for a search.
"Yeah," replied Gallagher nervously.
"Name's King."
The dog looked scruffier than ever. He'd smashed
his left ear, which now swiveled sideways while the other
stood straight as a spike.
The detective seemed skeptical.
"We've been
looking for two hours and can't find a thing. So whenever
you and King there are ready ..."
Two weeks before, King had passed his final
test, but barely. He'd found the drugs the trainers had planted,
but he had also gleefully torn an old mattress to pieces.
Now came his first real job. If he tears up a couch and there's
nothing there, we're dead, thought Gallagher as the dog raced
up the building stairs, pulling him along.
With King bounding ahead, Gallagher entered
the apartment. Two young suspects sat at the kitchen table,
eating pizza. "Hey, keep that dog under control," one of them
said.
King searched the living room, then the bedroom.
Back in the kitchen, he began to growl. As the men at the
table watched intently, he went to the oven, where the pizza
was, and scratched on the door. "Pizza dog," one of the men
laughed scornfully.
Embarrassed, Gallagher directed King to the
cupboards and the refrigerator. But King still strained toward
the oven door.
"I guess that is the end of
it," sighed the
detective. "You guys were lucky this time. Gallagher, thanks
for your help."
Gallagher, deeply hurt, started dragging King
across the
floor. Then he stopped. King hates pizza, he thought. Opening
the oven door, he flipped up the pizza box lid.
"We checked that," the detective said.
King pawed the door again, and Gallagher understood
in a flash. He directed the detective to unscrew the oven
door. As he did, one of the suspects ran. Instantly King leapt
and, using his big head, knocked the man down. Then he stood
over him, growling.
The detective forced the door apart. Placed
neatly inside were bags of white powder. The detective
looked at the bags, then, at King, then at the two men, ",
anyone?"
In practically no time King had established
a reputation for an uncanny nose. He traveled to airports,
seaports and houses. Over the next few years, King uncovered
thousands of kilograms of illicit narcotics. But his greatest
challenge was to come on January 23, 1994. It was an ordinary-looking truck, with storage
boxes built in under the short, flat bed. Its driver and a
friend—suspected drug dealers—were taken.
"I know this thing is carrying
drugs," said
the detective in charge, slapping the bed of the truck. "But
we can't hold these guys forever. Better get King over here."
Half
an hour later, a dark-blue van pulled into the district.
Gallagher climbed out and opened the back. King was already
barking excitedly and waving his tail.
"King, old buddy!' the cops greeted him. The
dog jumped out.
Then he walked slowly around the suspect truck
and sniffed.Approaching
the rear, he stopped abruptly, stood on his hind legs, did
a little dance and whined.
"It's got to be somewhere in the truck
bed,"
Gallagher said.
The work of sawing through the bed began.
As the district attorney paced, the men cut through the first
layer of metal. Nothing.
The attorney frowned. "Are you guys sure there's
something here?"
"Don't know," said the detective, looking
more tense. "Gallagher?"
Gallagher shrugged. "If King says it's there,
it's there."
After they cut through more layers of steel, a hidden trap
finally appeared. Inside, running the entire length of the
truck's bed, were bag after bag of cocaine. They totaled 182
kilos and had a street value of $20 million—one of the largest
narcotics seizures in New York history.
Gallagher stroked King's massive head, pushing
his swivel ear back. "You did good, you crazy dog. No more
work today. Now," he said, holding a rolled-up towel, "we
play!"
"
Dog Hits The Big One!" read the headline in a journal. Today
King continues his career with a reputation as the No.1 ""
dog in New York City—all, as the journal noted, "from the
dog nobody wanted."
Brian Gallagher still hunts with King every
day—only now a gold detective badge is pinned to Gallagher's
shirt. He conducts training seminars across the United States
and teaches at a criminal justice school.
When student cops ask him how to train a dog
to become like King, Gallagher says," You can mold most any
dog into a good canine cop. But King? He's molded my life.
He's truly a once-in-a-lifetime dog."
(1 694 words)
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