Goodbye My Beautiful Broken Buddy

We saw the signs of abuse and trauma the first day we brought Buddy home, but we never imagined those demons would keep him from flourishing in his new home.  I was sure I could fix him over time and gain his trust completely, but in the end he couldn't overcome those fears and anxieties that controlled his actions.  In a series of escalating, aggressive incidents over a 15 month period, Buddy eventually lashed out in devastating fashion, causing me severe facial trauma that signaled the end of our time together.

After we picked Buddy up from the shelter in August of 2017, we introduced him to his new home and I immediately saw the first signs of past abuse.  I let him run through the front door and he instinctively lifted his leg and began marking the couch.   I lunged for his collar to direct him outside and he immediately flopped to the floor in a motionless heap, scared and anxious.  I was able to get him outside with the use of treats, but that incident stayed with me for the rest of our time together.

As we got to know him better, we noticed he had multiple nicks and scars on his face, likely the result of being a hunting dog, or at least trained to be one.  As we explored his neck, we noticed the unmistakeable puncture wounds of a prong collar, little circles equally spaced.   Although we can only speculate, this certainly pointed towards being tied up for long periods of time with the collar around his neck, or excessive use of force in trying to train a physically strong and stubborn dog.

Buddy first showed signs of aggression in our bedroom, when  I entered the room long after my wife and Buddy were asleep.  As I walked through the door, he sprung to a crouched position, ready to lunge, and gave me the full hound wall of sound.  Treeing Walker Coonhounds are bred to hunt, among other things, bears and mountain lions.  They are fearless, relentless, focused creatures and getting the full treatment from Buddy was alarming.  I had to stand still and wait for my wife to talk him down because any talking or movement from me agitated him even further. Although terrifying, I wasn't overly concerned about this incident because I startled him while he was sleeping and the term "let a sleeping dog lie" was coined for a reason.  This same scenario played out several more times, in several different places.  It was always directed at me and indicated he had a genuine fear of males.

After this incident, we moved both dog beds into our spare bedroom to avoid this stimulus.  One of the most difficult things about adopting a dog is the need to treat both of them the same.  Although Olive didn't have problems, she had to sleep in the spare bedroom with Buddy. He enjoyed this new solitary space, but we noticed over time that Olive was apprehensive about entering the room when Buddy was already asleep, although he never directed his aggression at her.  As a result, we moved both beds down to the living room where there was lots of space and we could still contain them in one area.  The downside is that I had to walk on eggshells for the rest of our time together while walking past his bed to get to the couch.

The first physical contact incident occurred around October 2018 after my wife and I returned from a weekend trip and picked up Buddy and Olive from our friend's house.  When we got home we all laid on the floor for a love-fest that quickly turned ugly.  When I adjusted my position, I nudged Buddy's leg, and he sprung on top of me, mouthed my skull, and then assumed the crouched position I described above.  The speed with which he moved was awe inspiring.  He was on the floor next to me, then he was on top of me.  It was instantaneous.  Thankfully, during this incident, he modulated his bite.  I shudder to think what might have happened if he didn't.

The next physical incident occurred in April 2019 when Buddy lashed out and bit my arm after a rainy walk, leaving bruises and bite marks, but not breaking the skin.  When we returned home from the walk, I took him to the garage and as I began toweling his right hind leg, he whipped around to bite.  Fortunately, I was able to use my arm as a shield.  Again, he modulated his bite. For the last time.

In June of 2019 I was getting Buddy prepared for a walk and couldn't get his collar secured.  As I fumbled around his neck, hovering over his face, he sprung upwards and bit my face, breaking the skin for the first time.  Although he modulated his bite to some degree, he clearly clamped down, causing a laceration below my eye and two puncture wounds.

During this time we worked with a trainer and a behaviorist, and based on their recommendation, we did an X-ray in August 2019 to determine if he had any physical ailments.  The scan showed he had hip dysplasia in his right hind leg and arthritis in his back.   We put him on a regimen of chondroitin, turmeric, and occasional pain killers, when required.  Though not great news, it gave us hope because at least we understood pain was a part of the equation to Buddy's reactions.  It certainly helped explain the leg toweling incident.

Over the next several months, we noticed a decline in Buddy's activity level.  Sometimes he asked to go home, other times he limped around the house after a walk, and in Lake Tahoe in December, he couldn't lift himself off the floor all day after vigorous exercise.  Managing his pain was a challenge because the only thing he truly loved in life was off leash running in the hills.

The final and devastating incident happened on the morning of April 2nd 2020. Olive and Buddy had just eaten and we were having our morning love fest of scratches and rubs.  I long ago learned to only touch Buddy when he came to me voluntarily, without prompting, so I could be sure there was no fear on his side.  Buddy put himself in the "rub my belly" position on the floor, with a goofy, playful face,  and when I bent down to rub him (as I have many times),  he lunged upwards and bit my face.  There was clearly no modulation, he clamped down and tore my lip and cheek to shreds.

Besides the physical devastation, the bite was shocking because I felt I hadn't broken any rules of engagement and approached him at his beckoning.  This bite was completely unpredictable and there was no way we could live like this anymore.  I can speculate about hovering over him, or touching his back, or 100 other things, but this response was completely irrational. We subsequently made the decision to euthanize Buddy with absolute clarity and peace of mind.

The decision is never easy of course, but Buddy was suffering physically and mentally.  Much of his time in the house was spent alone and withdrawn and he was often unsure of himself and anxious.  Running in the hills was the only thing that seemed to bring him true joy, and that was causing him more and more pain.  We could have surrendered him to the shelter, but he would have languished in a crate while they made a determination if he was adoptable, which didn't seem likely. Even if it were possible, I'm certain he would have bit the next person.

I'll always look back on my time with Buddy fondly.  He was a spectacular physical specimen and I was completely fascinated watching him climb trees and hunt coyotes and be a hound.  I'll miss his incessant howling and giant, floppy ears.  He was a genuinely sweet soul, but he couldn't overcome the trauma he experienced before we adopted him.  I'll always be sad that I couldn't fix him like I thought I could, with love and trust.  I'm not mad at Buddy, I loved our time together roaming the hills.  He was extraordinary.

Good night, sweet boy.

Blue Hour Composite

Final, composite shot.

The warm orange glow of halogen lights coupled with a "blue hour" sky is one of the classic complementary color scenarios and shooting at blue hour can result in some of the most aesthetically satisfying shots.   Additionally, this scenario offers the opportunity to use your imagination and create a shot that doesn't exist, which is my favorite part of photography.  When I got the opportunity to shoot this custom mid-century modern home built in 1959, I jumped at it.

In this case, the backyard didn't have any lighting so shooting the existing scene resulted in at least a third of the shot being a big black hole (below).  Knowing this in advance, it's important to envision the final scene and add light accordingly.  

The light was in my favor, actually, because I only had to expose for the interior of the house and wait for the blue sky to drop into my exposure (ISO 400, f6.3, 0.3s).  If there had been flood lights in the backyard, I would have turned them off because they would almost certainly be a different intensity than the interior of the house and that would create a "hot spot" nightmare scenario.  In this case, I simply set the power of my flash to match the camera's exposure settings.  Once the flash was set, I didn't have to change any settings (camera or flash).

Here are the basics for getting the final shot:

1. Compose shot
2. Set exposure for house interior
3. Wait for sky to drop to your exposure
4. Light trees (camera exposure remains constant, so once appropriate flash power is dialed in, it doesn't change)
5. Composite shots in Photoshop

This is the base shot I used for the composite, the combination of blue sky and orange interior I'm looking for.  You can see how much of the photo is complete darkness.

Exposure is set to the interior of the house, waiting for the sky to drop into my exposure.  Meanwhile, I start lighting the trees. I also used this grass in the final shot.  Also notice the reflection in the windows.  That fades significantly once the light drops into a nice blue.

Lighting the tree on the left.  You can see the sky is starting to drop into my exposure.

  

Lighnting tree on the right.  The sky has actually gone a little too dark in this shot.  No worries, I already have the base shot established.

A little more light on the tree.

My Worst Photography Experience

I saw a dramatic sky developing and quickly rounded up my camera and gear from the office and headed downstairs to get the dogs ready.  Thank goodness the rain finally stopped, I thought, as I finished putting their collars on and headed out the door.

It was much colder than I thought when I reached the access gate.  I released Buddy and he scrambled under and through the barbed wire like an elite athlete as if it weren’t there.  I’ve never understood how he gets his body low enough to sprint under the lowest wire at 6”.  If I try to make him wait while I open the gate, he jumps into multiple wire strands like a WWI soldier on the battlefields of Somme.  After witnessing this several times I concluded it was safer (for him and I) to let him go under.  I reached for my beanie as I watched Olive chase after Buddy, who had a 5 second lead.  When she caught up to him and chomped his neck I chuckled at the thought that I used to be the target of her biting bitchiness. 

When I reached the halfway point up the hill I noticed the wind had picked up quite a bit and was thankful I brought the small umbrella with me. The gigantic one I used last week would be destroyed in 3 seconds, I thought to myself.  I made my way to the top and began unpacking the gear at my favorite spot, excited at how great these shots would be with the dramatic skies.  I hooked up the lighting gear and as is often the case when I focus on something else for 30 seconds, Buddy was gone. 

He disappeared for the first time a month after we adopted him. When I called him back using his e-collar he back-tracked to our starting point, underneath the barbed wire, and to our house.  Our neighbor picked him up and called me to let me know he was safe.  (I’ve since learned that Buddy has a terrible sense of direction and may be the reason he’s a failed hunting dog).

I jumped up, beeped the collar, and started looking for him.  Almost immediately I saw him only a few yards away and was relieved he hadn’t gone back to the gate.  I’d never seen him roll in the grass like that, but I instantaneously knew why.

Dogs roll in shit for a number of reasons.  One of the most popular theories is that it masks the dog’s scent for hunting purposes.  They all do it, it’s universal and natural, but a muscular, energetic hound dog fully covered in fresh cow shit makes most humans irrational and angry, even if only for a few seconds.

Fuuuuuuuuuu…I screamed from the hilltop (literally) and scolded Buddy like a third grader who has torn his pants before class on picture day.  Lots of  “I can’t believe…….what are you doing……why…..get over here now……sit down”  nonsense came out of my mouth.  For 5-7 seconds I was my mother until I regained composure and realized I was talking to a dog.  I walked back to my gear and disgustedly ordered Mr. shitty pants and Olive to sit on the rock.

I picked up my gear and lowered the light into place at the same moment a gust of wind caught the umbrella and blew it 90 degrees to the right.  Olive promptly jumped down and ran to my pocket for a treat.  Every shutter click means a reward and she’s a genius at starting her forward motion a nanosecond before the shutter clicks.  Her movement caused Mr. Fecal Fur to amble over as well, his manure covered collar coming within inches of my face, causing me to stifle a gag. I got them set again and got into position so we could continue. 

Moving Just Before the Shutter Clicks

At this point, I think It’s appropriate to step back and take a snapshot of what being “in position” and ready means.

Whereas there are three distinct roles in this endeavor, there is only one of me in these hills and I must dutifully cover all three in order for a photo to be taken.  In no particular order these duties include photographer, lighting assistant, and dog wrangler.

In this scenario my left arm is the lighting assistant, holding a 5’ light stand at a downward angle with a 5 lb weight and windsock attached to the top.  Despite Lefty’s best efforts, he’s failing at keeping the windsock directed into the wind at the dogs.  My right hand and legs are the photographer.  This gaggle of limbs is holding the camera with one hand, while doing deep knee bends for 30 seconds at a time to get the correct angle.  Lefty is screaming in the photographer’s ear like a distressed boat captain that he can’t take much more and we’re about to have a catastrophic light failure.  Meanwhile, my dog wrangling consists solely of my voice and I can vaguely hear it screaming at Olive and Mr. Dung Diver to please “Just sit the f&ck down and stay”!! (Not approved by the National Association of Dog Trainers).

I think we lost the light, Captain

Suddenly I hear Lefty Scream “She’s coming down!”

A gust of wind had caught the umbrella and it swung to the right, striking my face. 

“Are you OK?” he screamed again.

“Yes, a small flesh wound, but we have a severely wounded soldier”, I replied.

The light stand had fallen and the umbrella took the brunt of the impact, the spines bent and splayed like an octopus gasping for air out of water.  I must have clicked the shutter because Olive and Mr. Manure man came running over for a treat.  Another gag.

Time for a treat, right?

“What did I tell you guys about sitting and staying?” I said, channeling my mother one more time.

I did a quick assessment and decided it was time to leave.  I packed up the camera gear and realized there was no chance the umbrella could be sheathed in its mangled condition, making it impossible to carry out.  I gave a quick invocation and then abandoned it like a dead hiker on Mt. Everest.

As I made my way down the hill and the rage began to dissipate, I had a chuckle about the whole experience.  There was Buddy gleefully running about, sniffing the drainage inlets.  There was Olive, nudging my pockets for treats, stopping for a quick bite of shit, then making her way towards the gate.   Seeing their joy quickly brought things back into focus and reminded me of why I go into the hills in the first place.  It would have been nice if they’d sat on that rock for a photo, though.

Tree Walker Coonhound

"Are you shitting me, he's stuck again?", I thought as I ran towards the scrub oak I saw him disappear into.

A week before, Buddy climbed 15 feet up into a tree and found that he couldn't get down without my help.   I thought it was a one-off and had a good laugh about it while relaying the story to friends and family. The second time made me realize this behavior is way down deep in his canine DNA and I'd have to watch him closely moving forward.

We adopted Buddy several months ago and as far as we know he's a 3 year old TreeING Walker Coonhound which are bred specifically to tree raccoons (Purist owners get pissed when you suggest they have a "Tree Walker", but this is exactly what Buddy is).  His behaviors and physique lead me to believe he was, in fact, trained as a hunting dog and wasn't just a pet.  His outward appearance is very typical of a coonhound, but he's pure muscle from his neck to the floor.  In fact, he's so thick we often joke it appears he's wearing a child's hulk costume.  He also has a v notch on his left ear, indicative of being branded. He doesn't like dog play or toys and he's intensely focused on the horizon (often siting and watching for hours). The moment I put a training collar on him, I learned he has perfect recall.  He was bred to hunt.

As I approached the tree I could see he was in the canopy, some 10 feet off the ground, surrounded by smaller, protruding branches that might impale his body if he tried to jump down.  He let off a small whimper, letting me know he was stuck, but his relentless DNA informed him to look upwards and continue the never-ending pursuit of critters.  I spoke to him in my calmest voice, hoping to keep him from panicking and jumping down.  I cleared out most of the small branches to give myself a window and prepared to ascend.

I grabbed a branch as high as I could and started pulling myself up, immediately lamenting all the days that have passed since my last triceps workout (345?) when my arms gave way just slightly.  Climbing trees didn't factor into my fitness matrix in year 47 yet here I was, in a tree, rescuing a goddamn 70 lb. muscle-head with limited planning skills. When I reached his level I grabbed his collar and he immediately welcomed me up and asked me to join in the hunt by breaking into a deep, joyous, hound song, the one his tribe has sung for millennia.

If you've never had the joy of listening to this song from a distance of 6 inches, I'll try to give you an idea of what it's like.  Do you remember the band Metallica? It's like pressing one ear against a 35 foot stack of marshall amplifiers turned to 11 and having James Hatfield scream in your other ear while they play Master of Puppets. Peaceful, really.

After a lot of coaxing (and promising to join him in the trees on the next hunt), he agreed to come down, jumping into my arms like a 70 lb sack of muscle participating in a game of "Trust". As I turned to set him down I saw a neighbor standing in her driveway and I waved sheepishly.  It seems she also heard Buddy's 6:45 a.m. vocal solo and rose to witness the spectacle. When I turned back to to Buddy, he was already way off in the distance, on another scent, a slave to that desperate drive to track, a joyous prisoner to his DNA.

A Big Bad Ass (Mexican) Rancher

Rancher Sanchez on his tractor. A retired Lt. Col., Jerry is a fiercely proud Mexican American.

I drove down to Cheyenne, Wyoming last week to check in on the Big Mexican and see how things are going 2 years post-retirement from the Air Force.  I knew he had cut the flowing locks since the last time I saw him, but the pain of that disappointment was replaced by the joy of knowing he owns a tractor, chickens, mature bees, and a badass blue tick hound named Chief. In other words, he's a true Wyoming rancher.

He told me to meet him at T-Joes, a local bar and restaurant near his house.  When I walked inside I found him sitting at a full table, holding court with a group of Minnesotans.  That's Jerry, always with a group, always entertaining, always drinking tomato beer.  I remember the first time he ordered a beer and a side of tomato juice.  We were in Pueblo and I thought he was bullshitting when he said he was going to combine them. It turns out it's not so bad.  Hell, Budweiser sells cans of it now. I looked around the bar and realized this could be somewhere in Pueblo circa 1993. It had the same look, the same vibe, the same banter.  He's always been true to those Pueblo roots and true to himself, it's what made him a great leader and friend.

One of the guys at the table said, "We've got a white stitcher!" in a thick Minnesota accent.  Jerry laughed and pointed to my brand new boots.  "You don't have a mark on those things", he said.  I'd been identified as a true suburbanite, an urban cowboy.

When I visited last year the bees on his property had just arrived and weren't producing honey yet, but it looked like they were thriving now. I asked him how they were doing and he quickly donned the bee suit and extracted a  honey comb to harvest.  He was surprised to learn that I was a bee keeper as well, though in a less formal manner. I looked over at his apparatus and noted the multiple combs in my ceiling didn't look anything like that when they were extracted from the drywall.

"Why the hell did you have a colony in your ceiling?", he asked.

"My bee eradication techniques didn't work", I shot back.

"What did you use?"

"Hockey gear and the hose", I deadpanned.

"Ah, common mistake", he replied.

My extraction equipment was a little different from his.  When I asked where his plastic tent and dremmel tool were, he gave me a confused look.  I explained to him how the guy I hired set up a plastic barrier, saw cut the drywall, and vacuumed out the bees.  After much discussion, it learned that's the "dumbass" way to raise bees. I can definitely certify mine as "organic", I thought.  There's nothing more natural than a biblical swarm of bees taking up residence in your rafters.

When we tasted the jar of honey a few hours later,  I surmised his method of obtaining honey was superior to mine since my jar cost me $800 in extraction fees. After being shamed for my bee raising philosophy, I asked him how the chickens were doing.  He nodded over to the right and told me to go check them out.

He pulled out a comb and made a jar of honey while I was visiting.

Very rigid and precise

My comb was free form, more artistic

When I got up near the chicken coop he built himself, I thought, "Where the hell did this skill come from?  This is not the guy I knew 20 years ago."  Everything was precise, neat, and well done.  This is not what our capstone engineering project looked like.

"How did you learn to do this?" I asked with equal parts awe and dismay. 
"I don't know, YouTube, I guess."

I'm constantly amazed by people who can build things because it's so foreign to me.  My father made it clear that I was cursed when it came to mechanical things.  He broke the news gently when I was 5 and made sure to let me know it wasn't my fault, it was simply genetic. Our broken screen door was propped open by a rock for 15 years, our own family cross to bear for having been born without the mechanical allele in our double helix.

I walked in the pen and took a closer look.  There were at least a dozen chickens and several roosters.  Inside the henhouse there were several eggs ready, which the children grabbed periodically.  I noticed the chickens roamed freely around the house and among the dogs and wondered if he had any concerns for their well being.

"Do you worry about Chief hunting these chickens?", I asked.

"Not really.  I mean, not the hunting part. He just waits for them to walk up to him and takes them down.  He's a really efficient killer.  It's random, though. We don't know when it will happen", he said.

 "Can I have him?" I asked.

"It depends on how many more he kills, but you have dibs."

I had a laugh and then walked over to the porch for a beer.

Evenings on the ranch are magical.  There's lots of food and lots of beers, bourbon, bows, and  reminiscing.  Jerry broke out the bow, handed it to me and told me to launch a few at the deer target downrange.

"I'm pretty sure I could be an Olympic shooter if I practiced for 48 hours", I said as I steadied the bow.

"OK. Just make sure you don't curl your forearm when you release the arrow", he smirked.

I pulled it back, put the sights on target, released the arrow, and realized I may have been too quick to announce my superior bow shooting abilities. I was shocked at how quickly a grotesque welt can swell up on the forearm, a bruise I would carry around for another week after leaving.  I did not, however, leave before driving the tractor.

"Here's the throttle, here's forward and backward", he said as he pointed to the knobs and pedals.  "Oh, and that over there is your Bud Light holder".  

I started the engine and immediately began laughing like an 8 year old child.  It's playground equipment with an engine.  I rolled around the open acreage, first forward, then backward, lifting the bucket up and down willy nilly.  Surprisingly I didn't damage anything like I did on that Zamboni so many years ago.

As the sun dipped down below the horizon I parked the tractor and walked over to the porch to refresh my beer.  I handed Jerry the keys and told him to take a look at my boots.

"What?", he said.

"The stitches are brown and the toe is scuffed", I said.

"Cool. I'll see you in a year Urban Cowboy", he laughed as we settled in for a night of drinking.

Live Snack

Chief , big badass Bluetick Coonhound that occasionally snacks on the live chickens.

A Big Bad Ass Mexican

"If you grow your hair out for a year, I'll fly in to Cheyenne to take some photos", I told Jerry when I couldn't make his retirement ceremony last year.

"You're on", he said.

In order to understand Jerry, you have to understand the city that forged him.  He was born and raised in Pueblo, Colorado, the "Pittsburg of the West", founded on railroads and steel mills.  It's a hard core, blue collar city built by fiercely tough men and women.  Jerry, born in 1971, grew up in a time that is described by the Pueblo.org website like this:

"The 1960s and 1970s saw good working conditions for the people at the mill but globalization began to stress American steel manufacturers. Latent racial tension also boiled over into a prominent La Raza movement among Hispanic residents in the 1960s and 1970s, creating tensions that have only recently subsided."

 

For Jerry, Pueblo was (and is) a stratified zone of neighborhoods where it's critically important to know which side everybody is from.  An East sider wandering into the West side, for instance, is likely to take a beating.  Every unknown male in Jerry's territory was scrutinized and challenged like a lone wolf wandering into the wrong area.  No perceived insult, in any circumstance, was left unaddressed. The offender (usually) had the option of submitting, but it had better happen quickly or the fight was on.  I've seen the wolf eyes myself and it's unsettling to watch.

We first met in 1990 when we were randomly assigned as roommates at the Air Force Academy Preparatory School.  I had just tried on my standard issue athletic shorts and found to my chagrin they fit like Daisy Duke shorts, barely containing my grapes.  I was just about to take a peek inside the bag labeled "Sanchez" to see if there was a better option when the Big Mexican blustered in and walked over to introduce himself.   He leaned in tight, uncomfortably close, looked me in the eye and said "Hey, I'm Jerry".  Our friendship may have been over before it started if he had walked in a few seconds earlier.

I witnessed Jerry give the wolf eyes several times in that first year, all of which went unchallenged by the offender.  One kid had the temerity to say he could kick Jerry's ass in the pool (water polo player), and he was quickly pinned to the wall by his throat with Jerry's nose an inch from his.  The kid received a stern lecture while in that position about how things work in Jerry's world.

Another time we were in a bar in Denver with Jerry's friend Danny and there was a standoff with some rather large dudes.  At some point in the conversation, Jerry informed them he was from Pueblo and the standoff  immediately ended based solely on Pueblo's tough reputation.

I suppose it was inevitable that I would be directly involved at some point, and it finally happened one night in Colorado Springs with a group of us.   We've had a lot of laughs over the years about Steve's "laceration" and Jerry demanding to speak with a non-existent Chuck Fucking Rodeo. I asked my long-time roommate, Steve Sanders, to describe that evening and here's how he remembered it:

"The scene:  Travis Pacheco, Jerry Sanchez, Chris Mills, Steve Sanders, and I can’t remember his name… some big guy named Mike (I think) went out for a nice evening in the 1982 Red CJ5 (cool ride thank you very much…and I still have it) and ended up at the rootin tootin, line dancing, Brooks n Dunn (over) playin, western jean too tightenin, bar “The Rodeo”. The sequence of events:

-        All is normal: Buckets of beer, shots of whiskey, a little dancing, and a lot of laughing

-        All becomes abnormal: Chris Mill pisses on Alan Jackson in the bathroom and is asked “nicely” to leave the fine establishment.  (Why is there a cardboard cutout of Alan Jackson in the men’s room anyway?  Seriously, why not Shania Twain)

-        Jerry Sanchez begins “negotiations” with the bouncer at the front door to get his friend back in the “fine” establishment.  Bouncer tells Jerry it’s not happening.  Jerry inquires if he can speak with the owner.  The bouncers (notice it’s plural now) tell Jerry the owner is not available.   NOTE: at this point a LARGE crowd is gathering at the entrance…including all 5 of us.  Jerry, who must have read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, insists on speaking with Chuck “fucking” Rodeo because his friend didn’t do shit and deserves to finish his beer in this “fine” establishment. 

-        At this point something happens.  I’m not sure…a little push, a crack at the door, a wink …whatever it was it was the Tipping Point and all hell broke loose for the next few minutes.  I got hit with a bottle, you got hit in the face, Jerry is beating the crap out of some dude, Chris is at it somewhere too, and so is mike.  It broke up in the parking lot…all five of us standing there looking at a bunch of cowboys.  A bottle flies from out of nowhere and hits Jerry in the forehead and breaks.  It’s like he didn’t even feel it…even though I see his head turning blue.  He just stares at the one Mexican cowboy and says “I thought you were Mexican…bro”

-        We leave…Jerry notices his finger is bleeding profusely.  I drive us to the Hospital downtown.  We walk through “Labor and Delivery” on the way to the ER.  Funny…they gave us a little verbal lashing b/c of that.  They bandage it up and send us to the AFA clinic.

The result:  I suffered a “half centimeter laceration to the scalp” and receive one staple.  Your glasses are scratched because they were knocked off your face.  Chris and Mike are free of any scars.  Jerry, the toughest dude we all know (National Champion Boxer, Big Bad Basic, etc) loses part of his index finger."

Jerry Chimed in with his version:

"I go to take a piss and Steve is getting hassled by the bouncer for pissing on a poster. I start arguing with the bouncer, who kicks us out. I continue to argue as we get escorted. Guys in line engage in the argument. I must have told them to F-off and they proceeded to follow us outside. We start to dance and all I recall is rushing one guy getting him in a head lock followed with a flurry of uppercuts while his buddies were teeing off on me. Next thing I remember is bouncers finally separating us and at this point all you guys come outside and through the mob and I recall someone hitting you as you pass. Mf-ers.

I look at my finger and about at the same time I get hit by a thrown beer bottle. We get in vehicles and you all drop me off at the emergency room.

One week before retiring from the Air Force the dentist added some tooth to my incisor that was kicked in that night, after all these years."

It wasn't uncommon for Jerry to return to base on Sunday night with blood on his pants, the result of a last second weekend brawl.  Amazingly, within the same year, he returned with a bandage on his nose and peeled it back to reveal a large, bloody flap of skin that was bitten off during another fight.  This one he kept under wraps until the skin fell off so he wouldn't be punished by his commanding officer.  Officially, Jerry had been "jumped" in the finger biting incident, but a second offense might prove to be too much. Subsequently, Jerry was a great officer in his career because he understood these types of things happen to good people and kicking them out actually hurts the mission.  He told me the story of a young, bright E.O.D. (bomb squad) studentof his who was busted for a D.U.I, a potential career killer.  Jerry went to bat for the guy and he went on to become a talented N.C.O. 

Once a shoulder injury derailed his football and wrestling career, Jerry went on to become a two-time Wing Open Champion and a national champion boxer.  Nobody was surprised, as we had all witnessed him become "Big Bad Basic" in boot camp with the pugil sticks.  I was thrilled when he revealed an anecdotal story to me after we had faced each other in the competitive round.

"I could see you had that look in your eyes and were ready to fight so I just wanted to end it quickly by jabbing rather than brawling", he said.  

My intent was to swing for the fences and see what happened.  I was happy to be acknowledged as a competitor.

Despite his tough background, Jerry also has a big heart and is fiercely loyal to those he considers friends or famliy, whether they are his closest, brutally tough Pueblo allies Ramon and Danny, or the outsiders and cast-offs because he's befriended because he finds them interesting.  He's extremely generous and nurturing, and always makes sure his guests are comfortable and their glass is always full.  He's the same way with his kids, demanding hugs and kisses and making sure their needs are taken care of, but demanding their compliance and respect.  It was always apparent to me that he would make a great officer in the Air Force, both as a Civil Engineering officer and E.O.D. officer.  He always had a natural ability to lead people.

Once we graduated, the Air Force took us our separate ways and we didn't see each other for 20 years, with only intermittent e-mails and updates about our lives along the way. In those 20 years he went to numerous places and did three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq with an E.O.D. unit and with RED HORSE, the baddest ass Air Force Civil Engineering unit, where he regularly took mortar fire while acting as Squadron Commander rebuilding the area (see bottom for full deployment history).  Sitting on his porch in Cheyenne, we reminisced and picked up right where we had left off in Colorado Springs 20 years ago.  At some point in the conversation I asked him why that tough Mexican kid from Pueblo befriended a white dude from Northglenn.  

"I think maybe it was because you had this "Fuck You" attitude, some spunk, and you were athletic", he said.  I told him I connected with him because I recognized his personality from my dad.  In a lot of ways, I had grown up with this person.  

We sat there for hours shooting, talking, and drinking.  It was comfortable and comforting to be with an old friend with shared experiences only a few can relate to.  After all the years that had passed, I found he was still the same.  Still tough, still loyal, still Jerry:  A Big Bad Ass Mexican.

Belize, SA / Civil Engineer / JTF (Humanitarian Mission)

Saudi Arabia / Readiness Officer / Operation Southern Watch

Oman / Civil Engineer / Operation Enduring Freedom

Iraq / EOD Officer / Operation Iraqi Freedom

Iraq / EOD Officer / Operation Iraqi Freedom

Iraq / Civil Engineer / Operation Iraqi Freedom (Joint Area Support Group – 1 yr Army tasking)

Afghanistan / Civil Engineer (RED HORSE – 809 ECES SQ CC) / Operation Enduring Freedom

Afghanistan / Civil Engineer ( RED HORSE – 809 ECES SQ CC) / Operation Enduring Freedom