There are logistical problems searching with a small dog, officers say. The bigger the dog is, the more levels it can search. When an airplane is searched, dogs stand on the seats and stretch up to sniff out overhead bins.
HPD dog handler Carlos Perez remembers laughing at the officer training at Lackland who carried his beagle around the base. German shepherds, officers say, have a more serious, German work ethic. And because of its innate drive, a shepherd doesn't need the officer to hold its paw and tell it exactly where to look and what to do.
Kes Gilhome
Max, a 2-year-old Border collie, can detect 15 types of explosives by smell.
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Drilling one afternoon in Houston Intercontinental's Terminal B, big dogs run ahead of their handlers. They seem to be working on autopilot as they sniff the arrival and departure boards and race along the conveyer belts in baggage claim. Every now and then a handler gives some guidance, but it's minimal.
When the terrier or the Border collie works, it constantly looks at the handler, who has to tap each item to make sure the dog checks it, and if the handler moves forward, the dog can easily be pulled off the scent.
"The smaller, more hyper dogs are more responsive to the movements of the person who's handling the leash," says Ron Allen, the chief operating officer of BJR Security. "If the handler is new or unsure, then jerky motions or actions are going to distract the dog and the dog isn't going to work."
Aside from extra guidance, little dogs need more affection and coddling, trainer Tony Kemp says. "Labs, collies and spaniels are too people-oriented; they distract too easily. He has to be able to take obedience training without getting his feelings hurt. The little dogs, they pout if you correct them--like a little child. The shepherds, they have a harder core."
Airport bomb dogs are trained to be gentle enough to be around crowds, but since German shepherds have a Big Bad Wolf quality, most kids shy away. Working with a little dog would be a hassle, Robertson says.
"People want to pet the cute little doggies," Robertson says. "Everybody would want to pet Lassie. When you're working a threat, you don't have time to stop and let everybody pet your dog."
In early February, Max worked five school bomb threats in one day. Contracted by the
Fort Worth Independent School District, Max regularly searches lockers, lavatories and student backpacks.
Max spends his days riding in the back of a dark green van. The van hits six to eight schools every day; Max waits in the car while a blond Lab and a Chesapeake Bay retriever search parking lots for drugs and weapons.
In the travel kennel, Max lies with his face on his paws; he has a please-please-let-me-out look. When he barks and scratches the cage door, his handler drapes a black jacket over the kennel. He sniffs loudly, and the cage shakes.
"He's just bored," says Carl Rickert Jr, BJR Security's marketing and development director. "That's why he barks. He's in that cage all day long, and he gets sick and tired of it. But you can't let a dog out and let him run, because if someone ran over him, you're losing 12 to 18,000 dollars worth of dog."
The only time Max works is when there's a bomb threat or when the school district worries that there might be one. Max searches stadiums before sporting events, secures proms and is going to hit all 12 Fort Worth ISD high school graduations.
In four months with the company, Max has done so well that BJR Security bought three more collies.
"It's too early to tell whether they'll be a staple breed," Allen says. "But right now they offer potential. We see no shortcomings."
Max is on call for two hours after school. His trainer takes him to the park and lets him play. On a sunny Friday afternoon Max is fetching a Frisbee outside the Middle Level Learning Center, an alternative-education school in Fort Worth. After he plays, it's time to train.
As soon as he walks into the building, Max strains at his leash. He rears on his hind legs, his back paws slipping on the linoleum. In a first-floor classroom, he sniffs a teacher's heavy brown desk, file cabinets and the overhead projector. "Find it, Max," his handler commands. She taps on the bookshelves every three inches, guiding Max's search. In the corner by the door, he slows down.
"Where is it, Max?" she asks. "Where is it? Is it there?"
He sits in front of the cabinet where the black powder is hidden. "Good boy," she says and throws him his blue ball.
They play tug-of-war, then she takes him outside, gives him a drink of water and loads him into his kennel. He tries to escape and head back into the school.
"The little guy will just keep going," Rickert says. "He's as good as a shepherd."
Maybe even better.
But the cops still don't want him.
