Doing Research the Fun Way – Watching the VPD Dog Squad in Action

Reading the recent news about VPD Service Dog, Teak, who miraculously survived after being slashed by a criminal, reminded me of the wonderful service dogs we had the privilege to watch when I was researching a story for The Agatha Principle.  Mystery writers always look for ways to garner information about police procedure, and my visit to the VPD Dog Squad and a subsequent opportunity to watch the team on a training exercise provided me with a wealth of fascinating information.

The service dogs, as we all know, are used for tracking, apprehension and identification of substances such as drugs or explosives.  At one time, Labs were used as sniffer dogs, but they were phased out a couple of years ago; now sable, or black and tan German shepherds are cross-trained to handle all jobs.  However, the Labs are still used for customs and excise as part of Canada Border Security Agency.  Not every police force has its own dog unit.  VPD has a large contingent of service dogs, and Port Moody has a small K9 team. However, Delta and New Westminster share a unit, and the RCMP has a mobile unit that is shared between Burnaby, North Vancouver, Coquitlam and Surrey.

KaneIt is well worth a visit to VPD’s lovely new facility off Terminal Avenue.  The tour that is offered is interesting and informative, and it is great fun seeing the demonstration of how the dogs work.  The VPD dogs are a European strain, but bred locally, and German commands are used in training them.  Most are males, but occasionally a female is used, and the dogs stay with their handlers from puppyhood throughout their entire lives.  Specialized trainers train the dogs, but the handlers are taught to work with them, and when the dogs are retired around 8 or 9 years of age, their handlers can buy them for one dollar. Once that dog is retired, the handler is also out of the dog squad.

Training for dog handlers is critical.  Dog handlers are extremely vulnerable as their eyes have to be on their dogs much of the time and their hands are on a leash.  Therefore, they may not be as quick to spot trouble, and in a sudden emergency, they cannot get to their sidearm quickly.  Dog handlers are also often first on the scene so part of their training involves taking special race-car driving courses.  The dogs ride in expensive Chevrolet Tahoes with climate control and refrigerated floors.  The handlers are allowed to leave the engines running all the time when the dog is left in the car.

bathLike the cars, the VPD Dog Squad building is very impressive.  There is a report room, a workout room, a food-storage room and a laundry/dog-wash/checkup room, the latter with a bath that every dog would envy, not to mention every human if you substituted moisturizers for flea soap.  A flip of the dial produces soap, conditioner, flea soap, flea powder or anti-bacterial soap.  There is also a flip-up counter for checkups and a scale to check the dog’s weight.  In the hall, there is a notice board where handlers can leave instructions for their colleagues if they are going to be away and their dog needs care.  Each dog has a large kennel with access to the outdoors.  The K-9s are very well looked after, but so they should be.  A row of photographs in the report room and a list of names at the base of the statue outside the building remind visitors of the wonderful dogs who have been killed in the line of duty.

sleeveThe dog squad is a popular unit, so there are lots of applicants, and anyone who wants in has to spend some months as a ‘quarry’ before getting taken on.  Being a quarry isn’t for the faint-hearted.  When watching the demo on the training ground, we learned that the dog’s reward is the sleeve.  Since the dogs are trained to go for the arm, the quarries wear a heavily padded detachable sleeve.  We watched a handsome shepherd named Kane go through his paces, racing round the obstacle course, tail wagging and eagerly responding to his handler.  When it came time for the quarry to appear, complete with padded arm, Kane was barking in joyful anticipation.  In spite of his obvious enthusiasm, he waited patiently for the appropriate commands.  The dogs are trained to sit and stay while the handler searches the quarry, and have to wait until they receive a command to apprehend.  However, if the quarry moves during the search and there is danger to the handler, the dog makes its own judgment call to attack again. The dogs are also trained to listen to one person only, and are given exercises where they learn to ignore a command given by the quarry.  Kane performed in exemplary fashion, and once he had successfully ‘apprehended’ and the demo was over, he got to play with the sleeve.

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I got to meet a lovely fellow named Gus.

After the demo, when we mingled and talked, we were introduced to two of the dogs, one a puppy, still untrained, and one a lovely fellow named Gus who was close to retirement.  The puppy had obviously been watching the big guys go through their paces, because he lapped up the pats and attention, but he wanted to chew non-stop on my arm.

dockMy second opportunity to see these great dogs in action occurred a few months later when my husband arranged for VPD to use the IOCO Boat Club for a training exercise.  This exercise involved the Dog Squad with the Emergency Response Team, and each group was brought in on a rigid-hull inflatable, after which they had to act out scenarios which none of them knew in advance.  Different formations were used for different terrains and scenarios, although the dog handler, being the most vulnerable, was always last off the boat and at the rear when coming up the dock.  Caution seemed to be the foremost concern, and having seen the groups in action, I could understand why.  However entertaining it was to watch the training exercise, the reality hit home.  The police and service dogs have very dangerous jobs, and they can’t always anticipate when that danger will strike.  I have a lot of admiration for those willing to take on the challenge.

actionThe IOCO event enabled me to talk with trainers as well as handlers, and that was really useful, since the story I was researching involved sniffer dogs.  Whereas other training doesn’t start until 15 months as it’s gruelling and hard on the dogs, sniffer dogs can start training as early as six months because they are doing fun stuff that pups enjoy.  To train a sniffer dog, one sets out tubs containing different items.  When the dog sniffs the item you want it to recognize, it gets taken outside for a game with a ball.  Evidently one can train dogs to find anything.  One female handler had a dog that got bored easily, so she hid items all over her lot while the dog was in its crate; then she turned it loose to track them.  I was told that misbehaved dogs make good sniffer dogs because they love climbing all over things and ripping them up.  So not only did I get the information I needed to finish my story, I learned all kinds of useful tips on dog-training. Of course, we’re a dogless household these days, given that Minx the Manx is elderly and deserves to enjoy her old age in peace, but the next time I acquire a dog of my own, I’ll be able to teach it how to fetch our slippers.  Thank you Vancouver Police Department!

 

Episode Three: Max Arrives.

MaxMy Diary entry of January 27, 1993 wasn’t quite accurate. The family who owned Max lived in Queensborough, not Delta, but given the glazed state of my brain after weeks of preparing elementary school students for a puppet marathon, it’s hardly surprising that I had no idea which part of the Lower Mainland I was in.

Max turned out to belong to a South Asian household. The lady of the house was charming, and she explained to us that although she and her son were very fond of the dog, the men of the household did not want him. I took note of a well-chewed ornate newel post at the foot of the staircase, which suggested one reason why little Max was not popular. Once Hugh and I had been introduced to the family, our hostess’s son fetched the young dog and brought him out to meet us. Max barreled over to me right away and seemed eager to make friends. Immediately, and with a tiny flutter of apprehension, I noticed his eyes—one blue and one brown—the mark of the Siberian husky. The eyes contained a hint of wildness in their eagerness, and after my experience with Lucky, I felt unsure of what lay behind them. Still, Max wiggled enthusiastically and wagged his tail a lot, both very good signs. We visited for a while, and then left, having asked our hostess to call us in a couple of days as we couldn’t proceed with an adoption until we had finished the puppet-show run.

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Three-year-old Katie with Beanie – Pets and Friends volunteers. The war veterans loved them.

On the drive home, I expressed my concern to Hugh about the look in Max’s eyes. Hugh’s response: “He’s fine. I did the ‘Pets and Friends’ test on him. He didn’t bat an eyelid.” Since Beanie had been a Pets and Friends volunteer at the George Derby War Veterans’ Centre, I was well familiar with the test in question. While being screened for the program at the SPCA, the interviewer had trodden on Beanie’s back paw to see whether or not she would respond with aggression. Beanie, gentle creature that she was, had simply looked at him reproachfully with her big, brown eyes. Max, also, according to Hugh, had not reacted at all, if indeed he had even noticed. In hindsight, I realize that Max, when intent on a goal, did not feel pain and was oblivious to distractions, witness the way he would cannon into trees when chasing squirrels, and only stop momentarily for the spots in front of his eyes to clear before charging forward again. I’m convinced that Max’s goal at that point in time was to be taken home by the lady with kind eyes. Even at four months, Max had assessed me as a pushover.

The next day was Thursday, set-up day for the George Derby Centre show. That evening, Max’s owner called. It was not quite the call I expected, and suddenly I realized why the owners wanted a private adoption and why Max had not simply been discarded at the shelter. I was being asked to buy the dog. The situation did not feel right, especially since the initial contact had come through the SPCA. I reiterated that I would be willing to take Max and provide him with a good home, but that I was not going to purchase him. The following morning, I called Michael Weeks. Michael was horrified, and insisted that there had been no talk of money when he had been contacted. His understanding was that Max had to be given up and needed a good home. Michael had given out my name and number as someone who might be able to provide that home. He had no intention of being a broker for a private sale.

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Babes in the Wood – the original poster photo.

I had little opportunity to reflect on the situation, because Friday was the day our troupe performed Babes in the Wood for the war veterans, after which, we had to dismantle everything and move the theatre to St. Alban’s Church. By Saturday, we were exhausted, but the children valiantly struggled through one last show for the church group, after which Hugh and I dismantled the set and brought everything home—everything except our daughters, that is—they were going to a sleepover at one of their friend’s houses. This was opportune, because that evening, I received another call from the lady in Queensborough. She had decided to give us Max. She told me she had a ‘good feeling’ about him coming to our home. I had mixed feelings, remembering those wild eyes, but my instincts told me that Max really did need a new home, and I resolved that we would try to provide it. Hugh and I decided to pick him up on Monday, during Hugh’s lunch break, so that his arrival would be a surprise for the girls.

Monday was busy. I went for an early walk with Hugh before he left for school. Then home for breakfast and to see the girls off for school. I rushed through the day’s chores, then headed out for my singing lesson, en route stopping at the Sun building to hand in our donation money for Canuck Place. After my lesson, I raced home to meet Hugh and we set off to pick up Max. His family was waiting and Max was ready to go. I felt sorry for the little boy who had clearly loved Max and was upset to lose him, and I tried to reassure him that Max would be loved and cared for. Max seemed happy to have a leash clipped on his collar and he trotted outside with us, hopped into the back of the wagon and settled down like the best boy in the class. He was a model of good behavior on the ride home, exhibiting the laid-back attitude that later earned him the title of Ho Hum Husky. I felt smug. Why had I been worried? This was going to be a model dog. Piece of cake.  No problem at all.

As soon as we got Max home, Hugh had to leave to go back to school. Max and I went to the front door to see him off. What followed made me very thankful that Max now belonged to us. I went to take him by his collar, then realized that I could not get my fingers under it. The puppy collar had been left on and never adjusted properly as the dog grew. Max must have felt as if he was slowly strangling, a little more each day. I couldn’t begin to imagine the trauma he must have suffered. I called Hugh back to help me, and between us, we managed to get the collar off. As the rush of oxygen went to Max’s brain, his whole system seemed to go weak. His eyes rolled, and the next thing I knew, he’d deposited a big pile on the hall carpet. Poor Max. He really had needed to be rescued.

Hugh went back to school, and I spent the afternoon acclimatizing Max to me and me to Max. He seemed to be a good-natured little guy—at four months more of a knee-socks than a puppy—and very sturdy. With short legs and a barrel chest, he was almost as wide as he was tall. Even though he was young, there was a sense of watchfulness about him. Every interaction gave me the impression that he was sizing me up. He liked being patted, but I soon discovered that he had a spot on his side that was extremely tender. Later, we noticed that he was nervous when Hugh picked up a newspaper, so he had probably been beaten with a rolled up paper. When I went to put a collar or chain around his neck, he ducked and showed fear. However, when I stroked him and made him sit, he finally allowed me to loop on a chain and leash him, and once outside, he was happy again, walking beside me and sniffing at all the new smells along the way.

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Max had a lifelong love affair with soccer balls – something that carried over from his fun times with the little boy who first owned him.

Our arrival at Second Street School was a great success. Caroline’s class was in a portable, so the children had direct access to the playground. Her teacher was Nancy Ebert, who I knew from my affiliation with Vagabond Players. Nancy was as wonderfully disciplined as an actress as she was as a teacher, and both my girls adored her. However, her patience was tested when Max arrived. The moment one student caught a glimpse of Max sitting patiently beside me in the playground, the buzz went round to the entire class, whereupon the portable emptied as the children rushed to meet Caroline’s new pup. Miss Ebert came to the door and called everyone back until dismissal, but I noticed she had a big smile on her face, and in time, she became great friends with Max too. Once the bell went, Max’s new fan club poured into the playground and surrounded him. He promptly ate one of the children’s sandwiches, and then attempted to steal another child’s soccer ball. When Katie’s class arrived, he kept an eye out for more treats as the second batch of children fussed around him.

On the walk home, he trotted beside the girls, perfectly happy as they traded him back and forth. Once home, he wolfed down his dinner, dutifully did his business outside in the garden, and settled down at bedtime on a blanket in the corner of our bedroom. I still could tell that he was watching me constantly, but whether he was trying to read my signals in order to be obliging, or whether he was trying to figure out what he could get away with, I was not sure. However, when I patted the blanket and said, “Head on pillow,” he obligingly flopped on his side and dropped his head. Then he slept through the night without a whiffle. No snores, no more accidents, and I was even getting used to his odd eyes. He definitely wasn’t my cuddly Beanie, but I sensed a bond forming amid our guarded truce. The strings were starting to attach.

Next week: Max meets his namesake.

Episode Two: The Lead-Up to Max – No Pun Intended.

minx
Minx, the Manx

Max

Max, our much-loved family pet, was the inspiration for fourteen of the twenty Elwoodettes shows, and with his puppet look-alike, he made over 100 bows on the stage of the Bernie Legge Theatre.  Our cat, Minx, the Manx, also exists in puppet form, although she, cantankerous cat that she is, never deigns to go down to the theatre in person.  However, audiences who came to our marionette musicals at the Bernie Legge Theatre were familiar with the ongoing feud between Max and Minx.  The onstage shenanigans between the misbehaved pair were definitely taken from life.  Both cat and dog were feisty in nature and often misbehaved, and their rivalry continued on into old age.

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The Heavenly George and the Angelic Bean from The Cinderella Caper
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Georgina and Beanie

Their ongoing feud seemed most ironical, since their predecessors, Beanie and Georgina, were exemplary pets, so much so that they featured in our show, The Cinderella Caper, as The Heavenly George and The Angelic Bean, coming to earth to help Max solve the problem of an exploding pumpkin, and expressing horror at the lapse in taste their master had shown in acquiring their replacements.  So before I embark on the story of Max, I should say a few words about his predecessors, and what was happening in our household in the days before he arrived.

Actually, Max had had many predecessors over my lifetime. From my childhood in England, there was Puddy, the Persian, who used to tree the cat next door, and Winky, the white mouse, whose goal in life was to avoid Puddy.  Once in Canada, I fell in love with Pooch and Rocky, two beautiful borrow-a-dogs, until the family acquired a dog of its own – the mutt in question being a Belgian Shepherd cross named Maverick who was hell-on-paws and as wild as his name suggested.  Maverick was followed by Circe, Cerberus and Diana, three gentle German Shepherds, and Lighthouse, a big black moggy who we found abandoned in Lighthouse Park.  However, Max’s immediate predecessors were George and Beanie, the pets Hugh and I adopted when we were first married.  George and Beanie were loving household companions, who oversaw the arrival of our two daughters, Caroline and Katie, with equanimity and proceeded to treat them with the same anxious maternal supervision as Nana demonstrated towards the Darling children in Peter Pan.

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George on holiday
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George takes a wine tour on our honeymoon

Georgina was a silky, black Halloween cat, with yellow eyes and a gentle disposition.  She walked on a leash or rode in a snugli, and also travelled well.  She not only came with us on our honeymoon to Santa Barbara, riding serenely in an open basket as we went sight-seeing, but accompanied us regularly on family holidays.

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Beanie
rivalry
Early days.

We acquired Beanie when George was two.  After receiving a few disciplinary whacks on the nose, the puppy settled down and treated George with respect.  However odd it might seem, given that Beanie was a Dobie/Shepherd cross, Georgina decided that the dog was her baby, and the two were bonded for life.  When Beanie was old, she developed congestive heart disease, and we would often come home to find Georgina snuggled up to her on the floor, comforting her when she didn’t feel well.  It was heartbreaking, but not a surprise, when Georgina’s own health deteriorated rapidly after Beanie died.

easter
George and Beanie had infinite tolerance for the children’s over-exuberant affection.

Our household didn’t seem right without a dog, and our daughters were anxious to adopt another one.  Thinking a new puppy might perk up Georgina, we agreed, and all set off for the pound.  Not surprisingly, the girls immediately picked a puppy that looked just like a young version of Beanie.  It seemed docile enough, but to our horror, once home with the family, the puppy turned out to be hysterical and anxious, terrorizing the cat and biting everyone in the family within the first week.   With a distressed elderly cat on my hands, and a puppy that was clearly agitated at being in a household with lively children, I had a major problem on my hands.  Carson Wilson, the head of the Burnaby SPCA at that time, was a kind-hearted man who loved animals and was into practical solutions.  He assessed the situation quickly.  Lucky was a puppy that needed a laid-back environment.  Within the week, he had found her a perfect home – a hobby farm where she could hang out and interact-or -not with humans at will.  A Lucky dog indeed.  The children were sorry to see her go, in spite of the chewed portions of their anatomy, but Georgina breathed a visible sigh of relief and settled down to her declining months in peace and quiet.

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Georgina

Our darling George passed on to Cat Heaven on December 8, 1992.  Needless to say, Christmas was subdued that year.  However, soon the girls began to push for another dog, so I called Michael Weeks, the then head of the Vancouver branch of the SPCA, and let him know that we were in the market for a new pet.   Not that I needed a puppy in the home at that point, for we were busy preparing our first family puppet venture, a marathon effort involving nine children and myself, all alternating as puppeteers and vocalists, taking an hour-long show to three different venues as a charity fundraiser for Canuck Place.  A couple of days before our first performance date, Michael called me back and told me about a dog that needed a home.  This was not to be an adoption from the SPCA, but a private arrangement.  Michael had received a call from a lady who wanted to find a good owner for their four-month-old puppy due to the fact that her son had health problems and she was having trouble coping. The dog was a husky- shepherd cross.

babes
Burnaby Now coverage of the Babes in the Wood project – a wonderful group of children!

On January 27, 1993, my youthful troupe of performers sang and stringed their way through four performances of Babes in the Wood at Second Street Community School.  Between shows, I alternated between keeping the kids happy, dealing with local newspaper coverage and making calls to the RCMP to talk my way out of the parking ticket I’d found on my windshield the previous day when I’d returned to my car after loading all the show equipment into the school.  At the end of the school day, Hugh, who was teaching at Alpha at the time, hurried over to join us.  My mother had come over from West Vancouver to see the show, so she looked after the girls while Hugh and I dismantled the theatre, loaded it into the trailer, and moved it to the George Derby Centre in preparation for the next show.  Once we finished unloading our gear, we returned to pick up Mum and the girls and took them out to dinner.  No, I didn’t feel like cooking that day.

However, the work of the day was not yet complete.  My diary for that day closes with the following entry:  “Then to Delta to see a dog called Max that might be up for adoption.”  Such a casual note to signal what was in store.

Next:  Max Arrives.

A PLAY ON A PLAY: “The Agatha Principle” and The Mousetrap

ChristieSince my new mystery book opens with a story titled “The Agatha Principle”, it seems only appropriate to make my first blog a tribute to Agatha Christie, the Queen of Crime.  I have a special fondness for Christie’s work, because she was the writer who first introduced me to the murder mystery.  It is probably because I discovered her books as a teenager that I am writing murder mysteries today.  Since those early years reading Agatha Christie, I have moved on to enjoy many other wonderful mystery writers, but it was her books that got me started on my love affair with the genre.

Over the years, I have read all of Agatha Christie’s mysteries and have seen the films that were based on her books.  I have enjoyed the various television series made from her stories and I have seen several of her plays on stage.  I also directed a production of The Mousetrap with my high-school drama students, so the only reason that Agatha Christie is now merely a ‘good’ as opposed to a ‘great’ read for me is that I know all the endings.  However, I still occasionally get nostalgic pleasure in going back to one of her books and seeing the way she laid her trail of clues and red herrings to aid and divert the reader.

agatha principle coverI was extremely flattered when the very first review of my first book said that I had written “Classic murder mystery stories reminiscent of Agatha Christie” and I am always irritated when literary or theatre snobs downgrade her work.  Naturally, with such a huge volume of work, some pieces are going to be more engaging than others, but what other writer has set so many intriguing puzzles, loaded with clever twists and turns, for the mystery lover to solve?   I have to admit, though, that I prefer the books and the television adaptions to the stage plays.  I think the medium of film is better suited to generate suspense and put across the more reflective moments of the characters, whereas the stage plays, depending so much on dialogue, lose some of the tension that comes across so well in the books and on screen.

Still, if well-directed, the plays are tremendously entertaining.  My favourite is Witness for the Prosecution, though, unfortunately, it is rarely performed, due to the large cast and the demands of the set.  Ironically, since it is the only one I have staged, The Mousetrap is my least favourite, probably because the second act is long on interviews and short on action, making the script a considerable challenge for the director and cast.  Given that the play has run for such a long time, many people talk of it as if it’s an institution rather than a mystery drama.  Some of my theatrical friends consider it more of a farce than a mystery, a piece as innocuous as the game of Clue designed to please the middle-aged and the middle class.  I don’t agree with that point of view.  Yes, there is some humour, but the subject matter is serious and extremely topical—today’s newspapers frequently cover stories of social worker’s tragic mistakes, of foster-care gone wrong and officialdom passing the buck—and when played straight, The Mousetrap can be compelling.   I’m a traditionalist, like my fictitious director, Jordan Hope, in my story “The Agatha Principle”, and I get extremely irritated when I see productions that veer into parody, with the actors descending into caricature in the search for cheap laughs instead of playing the characters for sincerity.  I believe one of the real strengths of Agatha Christie is her understanding of human nature and the needs, passions and ambitions that govern people’s actions.  However much the exterior trappings may date a story, those things never change.

bedside-christieThe Mousetrap certainly has an impressive history.  It was first performed in Nottingham in October, 1952.  Most of the reviews were good, although the critic from the Sunday Dispatch disliked the play.  According to the 1984 biography by Janet Morgan, Christie herself thought it “quite a nice little play” but did not believe it would run for much more than six months.  Nobody could have realized what the future was going to hold.  The play celebrates its 60th anniversary this year and two local productions have been part of that celebration.  One, directed by my good friend, Dwayne Campbell, had a highly successful run at Vancouver’s Metro Theatre in April.  Another followed soon afterwards in White Rock.  These are only two of the many productions mounted world-wide to celebrate the milestone.  However, I was not thinking about this special anniversary when my own story went into print.  The timing was purely coincidental.

I wrote the first draft of “The Agatha Principle” in 2009 after re-reading Agatha Christie’s short story, “Three Blind Mice“.  This was the story on which she based the play, The Mousetrap.  After reading the story, an idea occurred to me, a twist that was a play on the plot of the Christie story.  I hesitated at first, because of the issue of revealing the plot, but given the sixty-year record of public performance, and having scrolled the Internet and seen how the solution is so readily available on a variety of sites, I decided to go ahead, hoping that my story would be perceived in the spirit it was intended—as a tribute to Dame Agatha herself.  However, this blog can serve as a spoiler alert:  If you are anticipating attending one of the countless productions of The Mousetrap being mounted this year and you don`t know the ending of the play, you might want to wait before reading my story.  And for those who do know the solution and intend to read my book, I hope you have as much fun trying to solve “The Agatha Principle” as I had weaving a tale around a clever plot devised by the ingenious Queen of Crime.

Mousetrap set
Photograph by Dwayne Campbell