 Charlie, that's the guy I looked after till he joined the army, comes home on fellow, see, and says to me, Jake, how about you joining up? Well, being a civilian dog ain't such great shakes anymore, so I am not a waste of the suggestion. And the first thing I know, Charlie has taken me down to the induction station. Of course, there is this piece of fluff across the street. A little collie built like a red fire hydrant. But I figure if Charlie can do without it, so can I. So long, Tessie. I'll miss you, honey. And there we are, down at the induction station. I meet the characters I'm to be living with from now on. Some of them are okay, some not too great, and some, well, a little mushy business right at the end. But anyhow, before you know it, you're shoved into the medics for your physical. Right away, I find out that this dog's army ain't going to be no flea circus. They examine you, peeking into places you're surprised they care about. Everything from your choppers to certain parts where nobody but a dog should look. And no shots. Personally, I'll take the rabies. Uh-oh. Here's strictly a 4F character. And I understand he had flat paws besides. But you usually get through all right, and after you pass your gun shy test, it's over to supply for your equipment, which is consisting of a GI collar. You get your name on it, and on your dog tags, and then they fit them together, fasten it up, and, brother, you're really in the army. Next, they ask you questions for classification. Me, they put down as a farm dog, which is what the army calls dogs who ain't exactly pedigree. Well, basic training is about the same as any soldier gets. They put you over the hurdles, and I ain't just chopping my gums. This stuff ain't easy. But I don't grite because I figure back in civilian life, maybe I can save somebody and get my picture in the paper. Of course, it takes all kinds of dogs to make an army. Toodles here was a little, well, homesick. And although he don't look at here, Toodles later turns out terrific in combat, and in Tunisia gets a bunch of ribbons up to here. The most fun of basic is the getting sore course. Charlie always used to give me hell when I got sore. But here, they like it. When a character comes along my trainer don't like, he yells attack. I obey at about 40 miles per hour. You're supposed to sink your rivalries down to the bone. Well, it's a pleasure. The eight weeks are basic whiz by, and suddenly you're crated up and off you go to advanced training. But not in a lower berth like Charlie, who chose to show this army ain't so democratic as it's cracked up to be. Out there, though, they give you private quarters, which ain't bad. All the time you train until you make Rin Tin Tin look like a jerk who knows from nothing. You heal, and you stay, and you crawl, and you learn not to open your yap unless you got business to do with the old grinders and incisors. Being quiet so you can sneak up on the enemy is very important. So you practice signals. I learn about six. Now, these GIs have only been added a couple of weeks. Not bad, huh? Oh, well, a lame brain. But a character like that don't stay around long. We're too important an outfit to goof off. When we got to deliver a message, we deliver it. That's Blue Cheever of Sunnyvale there. Get the handle. Who used to win cups with his name on them. Comes from a very rich Boston family. After basic, we're especially trained for all sorts of work. Dog teams, rescue, sentry, patrol, which is our specialty, and damn near every job which don't require carrying a gun. According to the Army, one of us dogs is equal to a six-man patrol, which frankly, don't surprise me in the least.