My Hero Theo

COPYRIGHT

Certain details, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect privacy.

HarperElement

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperElement 2020

FIRST EDITION

© Gareth Greaves 2020

Cover design by Rhys Willson © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover and picture section photographs courtesy of the author

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Gareth Greaves asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008385224

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008385255

Version: 2020-06-02

DEDICATION

For Ben:

Thank you for teaching me to be a dad. You’ve shown me what true bravery means

For Eryn, my Little Bird:

Fly high, dream big and stay brave. I love you more than you’ll ever know

For Theo:

I’d give the world to work alongside you again. I’d follow your paws until I could follow no more. You gave me hope and a future. I owe you more than I can ever give you, now it’s my turn to look after you. State 11, son

CONTENTS

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents

6  Note to Reader

7  Prologue

8  1

9 2

10 3

11 4

12 5

13 6

14 7

15 8

16 9

17 10

18 11

19 12

20 13

21 14

22 15

23 16

24 17

25 18

26 19

27  20

28  Acknowledgements

29  Picture Section

30  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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PROLOGUE

Screaming for backup was hopeless. My radio was within reaching distance, near a drain by the kerb, but rather than reach for it and issue the familiar ‘6143, urgent!’ shout, I was trying desperately to stop Theo’s neck from snapping.

‘Bite him, George, bite his ear off …’

They weren’t talking about me.

Minutes earlier, the two men I was trying to subdue had been driving at 90mph in a car they’d just stolen. A high-speed pursuit ended with them abandoning the vehicle and making off on foot. Their attempt to escape had come to a swift end when Theo, my five-year-old German Shepherd police dog, chased them from their abandoned car through an urban housing estate in Manchester and cornered them. On my command, he’d bitten one on the arm, which usually signalled the end of the altercation and the start of an arrest – not this time, though.

Theo had gripped his arm but, high on drugs, George Marshall had wrestled him into a headlock and was bent double, using all his weight trying to break Theo’s neck. Theo didn’t whimper or release his grip when I heard the stomach-churning sound of cartilage being ripped in two as his ear was bitten right through.

Seeing him dripping with blood, I raised my knee with all the force I could straight into Marshall’s face, making sure I missed Theo completely and hoping it’d make him release or at least loosen his grip.

It worked how I intended and Theo was free. I knew he wouldn’t leave me but while I tried to subdue the man who’d tried to kill my dog, he swung at me and split my lip wide open. Both of us now covered in blood, I wrestled him into a headlock. All I could hear were a series of deafening thuds and all I could feel was Marshall’s body rocking back and forth as I fought to detain him. I knew he was kicking Theo as hard as he could and later, I’d find out the kicks badly bruised several of Theo’s thirteen ribs. Still not a sound from Theo while we battled on for minutes in the fight of our lives. When help finally arrived, we were exhausted.

Leaving other officers to make the arrest, I patched Theo up, washing his wounds with a bottle of water I had in the van. I used the doggy first aid bag I always carry in the van to stem the blood while I called the emergency vet, letting them know we were on our way. My own split lip stung as I spoke, the dried blood cracking as I explained his injuries. When I hung up, Theo licked my hands and gently nuzzled my leg while he whimpered in pain.

Exhausted and sore, I crouched down to his level, then sat and leant against the police van. He rested his head against me and at exactly the same moment we let out the same long, low sigh.

‘I’m sorry, son. You alright?’

I avoided his ear which had stopped bleeding and used the bottle of water to try and rinse some of his bright red blood from his head. I could see he couldn’t lie down, it was clear he was in pain, so I gently helped him up into the van and we drove to the vet. While he was being patched up, I ran through what had happened in my head.

I’d never trained him to stay and fight if I was in trouble. Dogs have a natural self-preservation instinct; it’s been in them for thousands of years and has ensured they survive as a species. Anyone with a dog will know they rarely get themselves into a scrape they can’t get out of. Every fibre in him must have wanted to run off, but he stayed and took a battering because in addition to self-preservation, German Shepherd dogs have a huge loyalty gene: when they love you, they’ll never leave you.

I hadn’t once trained Theo to override that natural instinct, but he had and I guessed I was still standing because of it.

He hadn’t known not to whimper and he must have been in excruciating pain. Dogs have three nerve centres on their bodies and one of them is their ears – it must have been agony when it was bitten and when his ribs broke, but he’d ignored the pain and undoubtedly saved my life in the process.

We’d been in some scrapes together up to that point and we’d be in many more to come, but replaying what had just happened to us both, I knew I’d never work with a police dog like Theo ever again. Looking into those big brown eyes while he was fixed by the vet, I got goosebumps. His eyes are the most beautiful of any dog I’ve ever seen and when we look at each other, it’s like we connect on an incredible level, a bond that can’t be put into words.

I didn’t need to thank him more than I had. He understood. Our bond became unbreakable at that moment. We’d both fought for our lives but hadn’t even considered leaving each other’s side. We weren’t a handler and a dog, we were one.

Manpol Theo,* my boy, my son.

* Police dogs owned by the Greater Manchester Police Force are referred to as ‘Manpol’, a shortening of Manchester Police. Each force across the country has its own version of the name – for example, Merseyside Police Force dogs are called Merpol.

1

I grew up in a place called Clayton in Manchester. It was a really rough estate with plenty of crime and neglect. Kids left school at fifteen with few prospects and half of them there lived in poverty. Dad was a coach driver and Mum was a part-time cleaner. I’m the third of four and we had a tough childhood. Times were tight and, to put it bluntly, we had sod all! Mum wanted the best for us, though, and from when we were tiny she was adamant she wanted us all to go to private school. Fees aren’t cheap and Dad worked long hours to afford it for us. He’d take any overtime he could on evenings and weekends, determined we’d have a better shot of making it in life than he’d had.

My older brother Janade, younger brother Gavin and older sister Suzanne all happily toed the family line and enjoyed a private education at St Bede’s College in Whalley Range, Manchester, with Latin lessons and access to sport, but I refused point-blank to go. Despite my protestations, Mum and Dad insisted that I at least sit the entrance exam. I dutifully agreed to this, then spent the next ninety minutes refusing to even write my name down on the piece of paper. They went mad when a teacher told them what I’d done but I didn’t want to follow the same path as my siblings; it didn’t interest me. Being the stubborn child I was, I attended the local primary and comp while my siblings were carted off in their posh uniforms every day.

I always had an affinity with dogs and knew from a really young age I wanted to be a police dog handler so it seemed pointless to go to private school when I knew I didn’t need degrees or exams to join up and apply to the Police Dog Unit. I’d seen plenty of dog handlers on our estate when a family row had got out of hand or a stolen car had been dumped. I’d watch intently as the handlers would let the dogs get a scent then give them space to work. They seemed so in tune, not a dog and a human working together but one unit, one entity. It was fascinating and I loved watching them from my bedroom window on the occasions they’d be on the estate.

My two brothers and I shared a room and my sister had one to herself, which never seemed fair, but that didn’t change, no matter how much we boys protested.

Mum and Dad were like all the other working-class parents on the estate; theirs wasn’t the happiest of marriages. I remember arguments and rows over money, but rather than let it affect me, I was in my own happy world with Rufus.

I was four years old when Rufus first came into my world. He was imaginary but that didn’t matter. He was a mongrel, and Mum and Dad would ask what he was but the best my four-year-old mind could manage was to describe him as ‘a gingery dog’. I can still picture him now, though, and these days he’d be a Spaniel cross with shaggy ears. He was lovely and was my best friend. He never came out, he was only ever in the house, but I needed that dog so much. I’d talk to him about everything, spend hours playing with him and training him, and he never left my side.

Rufus soon made way for Cindy – a real dog – when I was around seven years old. A little grey Staffie, she had the loveliest temperament. She belonged to a neighbour, but I’d ask if I could walk her, such was my obsession with these four-legged creatures. Our neighbour agreed and soon enough Cindy started showing up outside our house a few minutes before it was time for us to go for a walk. Her dedication to me continued and the more affection I showed her, the more she showed me. I’d fuss her and give her treats, and while she’d always had the softest nature, if Mum or Dad were shouting at me then she’d start to growl at them. Eventually, Mum made me swear I’d stop spending time with Cindy in the hope her protectiveness towards me would wear off, but we were a unit until my parents moved house half a mile down the road when I was ten and I couldn’t see her anymore.

While I missed Cindy massively, Denver came along when I was around thirteen. Denver was a Rottweiler cross. I found him in the street and he had mange, a skin disease caused by parasites. I can’t remember when I first saw him and no one in our neighbourhood ever knew who he belonged to, so I’d feed him and he started to follow me around. He’d come in the garden and Mum would swear, shouting that the ‘scabby-looking thing’ wasn’t allowed in the house, but little by little, as he wormed his way into my affections, I could also see him worming his way into Mum’s. With hindsight, I’ll admit he was absolutely gross, but he was my first living and breathing dog that belonged to me and I loved every single thing about him.

Denver must have been a few months old when he came to live with us permanently and while Mum and Dad were at first utterly against me having him, I was undeterred. After ongoing negotiations, we reached a compromise, agreeing that Denver would live outside and not be allowed in the house. He was my first experience of having a pet and he was hilarious.

What Mum didn’t know was that whenever she was out, I’d sneak Denver inside and upstairs to my bedroom. Like most families, we had routines and every Saturday my brothers, sister and I would have to help Mum clean the house from top to bottom and change all the beds. She’d put her Billy Joel album on the record player and we’d all muck in together to get it done faster. I was stripping the beds upstairs one Saturday with the melancholic tones of ‘Piano Man’ ringing up the stairs. Mum had popped to the shops to get something and I’d let Denver in while I finished cleaning. He was being really quiet and, suspecting he might be up to something, I went out onto the landing to see where he was.

I set foot out of the bedroom in time to see the final few white feathers cascading like snowflakes onto the hall landing. He’d grabbed one of the pillows from Mum and Dad’s bed and had wrestled with it, completely destroying it. The entire landing was covered in white feathers. It looked like a down factory and in the middle stood a triumphant Denver, breathless and wagging his tail, proud of his accomplishment and expecting me to share in his joy. When she got back, Mum was understandably livid and turfed him out of the house, saying he was never, ever allowed to cross the threshold again.

Denver’s destructive streak continued unabated, though, whether it was snaffling food off the kitchen counter or eating homework – yes, really, he had the most lovable nature but couldn’t resist a nibble and a play. By the time I was in Fourth Year, I was 80 per cent absent from school because of that dog. Denver’s traits had made a rod for his own back and he was definitely an outdoor dog after Mum lost one too many things due to his exuberance. He had a kennel but I desperately wanted him in the house with me.

I’d get on the bus to go to school because Dad was the bus driver but then I’d dash home and spend the day in the house with Denver, sharing cups of tea and biscuits with him. I couldn’t cope with him being outside all day on his own so I’d go home and keep him company.

Despite the fact the internet didn’t exist in those days, and I had no clue what I was doing, I’d spend hours training Denver. I was starting from scratch and, by trial and error, we got to a point where I could walk him to the shop off the lead to get something for Mum and he’d stay by my side and wait patiently outside while I went in and got what was needed.

I didn’t like him crossing roads so I’d walk him to the main road. I then had to cross and get him to sit and wait. I’d cross over and go through a 30-metre alleyway, get what I needed and he’d wait for me. He couldn’t see me and I wasn’t in his line of sight, but he trusted me to come back and I’d trained him to trust me. I was so proud of how responsive he was – I didn’t know back then how accomplished that was for both of us. I didn’t need to put him on a lead. If I had done, he’d probably have taken me off my feet – I was never exactly a strapping lad – but he’d do what I asked and a mutual respect grew between us.

Being a handler and owner isn’t about power and owning an animal, it’s about a mutual respect and good treatment. How could I expect Denver or any other dog to do as I wanted if I didn’t treat him well and praise his successes? I didn’t know it at the time but when I joined the Dog Unit, a lot of those lessons I’d taught myself came back to me. No dog will do what you tell it to do if it’s not respected. I might be Theo’s handler, but we’re very much a team in the way Denver and I were.

I spent many of my formative years obsessed with a fairly mangy mongrel as my peer group were getting up to all sorts and Denver was my escape. On our walks, we’d often go past the police station and so my fascination with dog handlers grew. I’d see them coming on or off shift and they looked so commanding. Spending time with Denver was my favourite thing to do and it seemed these men and women got to spend their working lives with dogs – they didn’t just have them as pets at home. It seemed such an appealing path to follow.

I left secondary school with a handful of GCSEs intent on being a dog handler, but at sixteen I was too young to join the police so I started out as a maintenance apprentice at a health club in Manchester. Denver finally became an indoor dog when I earned enough money to rent a little place for the two of us near work.

My fascination with the police force continued, though. Mum and Dad had done everything they could to give us kids a leg-up and get us a successful career but they didn’t have the money for us to fall back on. They had love and food on the table, but I knew when I got my first job I’d be financially responsible for myself for the rest of my life. I wanted a financial stability my parents didn’t have and, as well as offering me my dream job, the police force had great benefits and a good pension. The adverts and everything I read about the force convinced me that it would be the family unit I wanted: once you were in, they looked after you. The camaraderie and teamwork appealed and, at the crux of it, I’d get to help people, something I liked the thought of doing.

I was twenty-one when I applied to join the force. I’d attended an open day to attract new recruits. They had firearms officers, dog handlers, the drug squad and special operations. The choices were vast, but I was set on the dog-handling unit. It’s not a role you walk straight into, though. When you complete your sixteen-week training, you’re on probation for two years as a bobby on the beat before you can apply for any jobs that become available in the different branches of the force.

In June 2002, I was accepted onto the training programme for Greater Manchester Police and it was one of the best days of my life. I called Mum and Dad instantly when I got the letter and they were delighted for me. Mum knew it was a childhood dream realised and, while she’s never been one for effusive praise, she told me I’d done a good job and that she was proud of me. Dad was bristling with pride too; I’d made good on my word and worked hard to get there. They’d always worried about me because I didn’t access the same education my siblings did, so for them my job offer into the police was proof the risk had paid off, that I’d succeeded despite not wanting the same opportunities as my brothers and sister. By then Suzanne was at medical school and Gavin was sixteen and starting college, doing A-levels he hoped would give him the grades to get to law school.

I told Denver the good news too and because he was a dog he shared my excitement, his tail wagging but clearly unsure of what we were celebrating.

The four-month training would start at Sedgley Park, Greater Manchester, a huge, sprawling purpose-built centre that saw thousands of recruits pass out every year. Training then moved to Bruche in Warrington. The site is now closed but tens of thousands of officers from fifteen constabularies across the UK all trained there. It was the centre of the majority of UK police training in the sixty years it was open before closure in 2007, a few years after I’d passed through there.

The night before the course started, I spent the entire evening getting everything sorted. I polished my shoes to within an inch of their lives, pressed my suit and shirt three times over to make sure everything was perfect and neatly laid out everything I’d need. This was the first day of the rest of my life and I was determined to make a good impression.

I had an early night and, despite not much sleep because I was too excited, when my alarm went off the next morning I sprang out of bed like a kid at Christmas. Walking downstairs to get my suit before I showered, a smell I wasn’t familiar with started wafting up the stairs and a sheepish-looking Denver refused to hold my gaze: he’d puked up all over my suit and shoes. I could have cried. I didn’t have any spares as I hardly ever wore a suit, only for weddings, and so I didn’t have a plan B.

An hour later, after I’d intended to make a good impression among the trainers and the other 399 new recruits, I rocked up in trainers, a jumper and jeans slightly smelling of the dog sick I’d spent an hour trying to clean off the floor. I could tell my wardrobe hadn’t gone unnoticed despite no one saying anything out loud until lunchtime.

The officer in charge gave a series of introductions to the training staff and told us a brief history of Sedgley Park – it was where Moors murderer Myra Hindley stayed when she was taken up onto Saddleworth Moor to identify the graves. Steeped in history, it was the place where we’d go from civilians to serving police officers.

There was a quiet hum while everyone ate lunch until my name was called. I stood where I was and the training inspector who’d done the introductions dressed me down in front of all the other recruits because of my wardrobe choices. I tried to explain but was greeted with the truth that part of being a police officer is learning to adapt. The training officer was right and all I could do was take his criticisms while silently cursing the mongrel who’d caused them.

While my clothes most definitely put me on the training staff’s radar, I didn’t do anything to help myself after lunch. All new recruits were put in a huge horseshoe shape and the inspector in charge of training went round us all one by one asking what branch we wanted to specialise in. I was the only one who said dog handler and, at this, he burst out laughing.

‘That’s dead man’s shoes, that is, lad! Good luck with that. Is there anything else you want to do?’

‘No, I want to be a handler,’ I insisted.

We crossed paths a few years later after I’d started as a handler and I asked him to explain what he’d meant that day.