SAN ANTONIO — When he came to, the Marine's arm hung limp. It had been broken by ball bearings from a suicide bomb hurled so hard that they some were embedded in his gun. Yet Brendan Poelaert's thoughts turned to his patrol dog.
The powerful Belgian Malinois named Flapoor had been his partner and protector for the last four months in Iraq. Now, the dog staggered a few steps along the street in Ramadi, then stared blankly. Blood poured from his chest.
"I didn't care about my injuries, my arm," Poelaert says. "I'm telling the medic, 'I've got to get my dog to the vet!' "
About 2,000 military dogs confront danger beside American soldiers, mostly in the Middle East. With noses that can detect scents up to a third of a mile away, many are used in Iraq to sniff for explosives. Their numbers have been growing by about 20% a year since the terrorist attacks of 2001, says Air Force Capt. Jeffrey McKamey, who helps run the program.
Dozens of these dogs have been wounded on the job -- scorched by the desert, slashed by broken glass, hit by stray bullets, pounded by roadside bombs.
Their services are so valued that wounded dogs are treated much like wounded troops. "They are cared for as well as any soldier," says Senior Airman Ronald A. Harden, a dog handler in Iraq.
For their first aid, there are doggy field kits bearing everything from medicine to syringes. Some are evacuated to military veterinary centers hundreds of miles away and even to Germany and the United States for rehabilitation. Many recover and return to duty.
On that day in Ramadi in January 2006, Poelaert, trained in veterinary first aid, began tending to Flapoor as soon as both were loaded into an SUV. He pressed his finger to the dog's chest to stop him from bleeding to death.
When they reached the base camp, a medic with veterinary training took over, putting Flapoor on an IV. Poelaert departed reluctantly for his own surgery.
Flapoor -- the name means "droopy-eared" in Dutch, the language of his homeland -- would eventually go to Baghdad for further treatment of his punctured lung and belly wounds. He'd later rejoin his handler and fly in a cargo plane to the U.S. for physical rehab.
Healing at Camp Pendleton, Flapoor is back to his usual self in most ways: fast, friendly, eager-to-please. But he still suffers a sort of canine post-traumatic stress. "He's really jumpy around loud noises now," Poelaert says.
