I see you ogling my lanky athletic beauty,
my cropped brindle hair brushed and glossy. 
My dark eyes track your reckless approach, 
and, yes, that’s my tongue that drapes and 
drools over fanged teeth as I pant in the 
suffocating Iraqi heat, sprawled here in

the enclosed hold of a C-130 night flight
to Baghdad. Do upright ears, narrow chest
betray my Belgian Malinois heritage? 
I’m Sgt. Kelley, military working dog. 
That kickass corporal over there, who calls
himself my handler, he works for me, 

not I for him. He exists only to ensure my 
safety and survival. When I burn my paw pads 
on the scorched hard ball while out on patrol, 
the big lunk picks me up and carries me. I’m 
sure I got heavy after a couple clicks. If roaming
ferals threaten attack, he employs lethal force 

to protect me. But his show of true devotion 
came last mission when special ops requested 
a dog to sweep for unexploded ordnance. That’s 
my MOS, sniffing out explosives. So we Black 
Hawk-in, link up with the cowboys. No sooner
set down, an incoming round knocks me

flat. When I pop back up, corporal sees
that I’m bleeding from shrapnel wounds.
She’s wounded! He shouts, pressing bandages
to stem the blood flow. Call the nine-line! 
Lead cowboy balks at his dust-off request; 
still wants me to perform the sweep! 

No can do, you bastards! She’s out of here!
Dust-off evacs me to a battalion aid station 
for wound suturing and Purple Heart pinning.
Our C-130 descends, touches down, taxies to 
terminal. After this short layover, I’m off
to USA for well-deserved R and R leave. 

Corporal stays; he’ll team-up with another 
dog. They don’t want us forming close bonds, 
which lead to bad habits. I’m okay with that, 
though I’ll never forget he saved this dog’s ass. 
I’ll soon return for ’nother tour, then retire 
when old, if I survive Iraq’s mean streets.