Moneyshot: He Never Begged

COP Apache, Baghdad, Iraq

January 2009

 “Moneyshot was the only good dog I’ve ever known.” The campfire illuminates Durk’s face.

“I wonder what he’s doing now?” Bob’s polishing off a can of chili and beans.

“The Iraqi Army probably killed him the moment we left.” My words are dark. 

“Possibly, or a truck, another electrocution . . .” Bob licks his spoon clean.

“Moneyshot will never die.” Durk’s pronouncement comes from the fire.

“They hated him, that’s for sure.” Bob ignores Durk’s decree.

“Nothing could match Moneyshot’s hatred for them.” I’m remembering that glorious bark.

“What a good dog.” Durk is lost in his memories.

“He was a great dog . . . but one time on guard that son of a bitch crept into the guard shack and stole my sandwiches.”

“He may have stole your sandwiches . . .” Durk stares deep into the flames. “. . . but he never begged.”

* * *

“Moneyshot doesn’t look so good.”

“Looks like a zombie. Hey! Get out of the way, Money!” I’m yelling at a slab of meat lying in the middle of the road.

Moneyshot looks awful, doesn’t look for shade, and taunts death. He has the body of an aged warrior; his hide is riddled with scars and open wounds. A monstrous festering gash on his rear leg is infected and molested by swarms of flies. An epic fight with another dog got him a deep cut to his face. His eyes are clouded over and milky gray; they reveal nothing.

The Iraqi driving the shit truck honks impatiently, but Moneyshot doesn’t move. Had this been any other dog, the driver would have already pulled forward and run the dumb beast over.

“Should we move him?”

“You move him, Durk. I’m short-timing.”

“So am I!”

“Well, then . . .”

Moneyshot was electrocuted weeks ago. It could have happened to any of us. It happened to the best of us. For thirty seconds he writhed and screamed and contorted in an electrically charged puddle. He freed himself and survived, but he is a changed dog. Moneyshot doesn’t reply to external stimulus any longer. He’s lost, and we can’t call him back. Moneyshot doesn’t work, and he’s not eating. He doesn’t attack the Iraqi soldiers, and he hates Iraqis. Moneyshot is a zombie.

The truck keeps honking. Someone has to move him. I’ll do it.

“Get up, Money!” Avoiding his open wounds, I give him a little kick.

Moneyshot doesn’t move.

“Get up, damn it! You want to die?” Moneyshot lifts his once proud and fearsome head and stares at me with milky gray eyes. His diseased leg jerks beneath him as he rises. Moneyshot saunters a few feet away before collapsing again. The truck driver laughs at him as he drives by.

“Fuck you, Hajj! Just wait till Moneyshot gets better! He’ll tear your fucking throat out!” Durk’s bloodthirsty cries betray tragic lament over the decay of a living hero. His voice drops. “That’s if he does get better. Think he’ll get better, Goldsmith?”

“I don’t know, Durk, I don’t know . . .” I’m remembering the glory days of Moneyshot. 

* * *

Moneyshot is a proud dog, the handsomest, noblest Iraqi dog I’ve ever known. He is a big golden Labrador with the neck and shoulders of a fighting bull. Moneyshot’s noble spirit exudes strength and poise. He is disciplined and doesn’t allow soldiers to stroke or feed him. Moneyshot stays away from our living quarters, fends for himself, and is beholden to no man. His proud nature compels him to work. He mans the guard point, the buffer zone between the Iraqi and American sections of Apache. 

Moneyshot despises Iraqis—not all Iraqis, just the bad ones. I’ve seen Moneyshot grudgingly accept the caresses of a small Iraqi child, then viciously bite an Iraqi soldier moments later. Moneyshot is respectful to Iraqi women and leaves the Americanized interpreters alone, but Iraqi males have to pay the proper respect.

The dog is particularly adept at the ambush. He’ll vanish for hours until Iraqi soldiers fearlessly roam his grounds. All the victim hears is the sound of galloping; all he sees is a monstrous leaping blur before a mass of snarling, snapping teeth and raucous barking overwhelms him. Most Iraqis are smart and run away. Moneyshot keeps Hajj in a perpetual state of fear.

Moneyshot single-handedly fights off packs of wild Iraqi dogs. His aggression and intimidation keep the disease-ridden thieves and scavengers away from us. Moneyshot protects his hunting grounds and his people. He mentors our pets, the puppies. Moneyshot brings them to the gate, trains them, and safely escorts them back home again.

He is nothing like the typical Iraqi dog, an ill-bred mongrel covered in mange and filth. The hostile environment, sun exposure, poor diet and hygiene, and lack of care from human masters result in malnourished, dirty, treacherous creatures. In the summer, feral dogs seek cooling relief in shit pits. An Iraqi dog is not an animal welcomed into the home. He is a creature best served by a shotgun blast. Moneyshot was a native-born Iraqi dog that adopted us. This makes him all the more extraordinary. The typical Iraqi dog is detestable; Moneyshot is the consummate warrior.

Moneyshot is indispensable to the soldiers on guard duty. His ambushes are hilarious and incite great admiration. We want to be Moneyshot. He has no rules, and his nature compels him to engage the enemy. The diametric opposite of the soldiers of Apache, who work from compulsion, Moneyshot is alert and motivated. He is a professional. The soldiers want to go home. We lament our lot in life, berate our enemies, and rail at the gods. We are lazy and don’t pay attention. Moneyshot makes up for our shortcomings, fights the good fight, and keeps the evil at bay.

Now Moneyshot is in trouble. He fails to bark at the Iraqi soldiers, doesn’t even show rudimentary signs of life and intelligence. The enemy has lost his fear of Moneyshot; he is a vestige of his former self, a joke. The Iraqi soldiers jeer and bully him. When they think we’re not watching, they kick him. The men of Apache, who love Moneyshot, give him days before he succumbs to heat stroke, starvation, truck, or bullet.

* * *

“Not this guy—this is just what I needed . . .”

“Hello, mistah!”
“What’s up? Got your ID card yet? Hawitak?”

“Hawitak? No, mistah.” The Iraqi soldier shakes his finger in my face, then points to a splotch of gray in his black hair. He keeps pointing, jabbing at the spot.

“I know, I know, the guy with the spot. I see you all the time. You think I’m a fucking idiot?”

He gives me the empty stare, “I don’ . . .”

“Yeah, you don’t understand. Hawitik or no enter. ID card or you’re not getting in.”

“Yesterday, hawitak . . . today, hawitak . . . No have!”

“No have, no enter. Get out of here! Emshee!”

The Iraqi soldier keeps jabbing fiercely at his spot.

“Emshee! Emshee! Get out of here!”

He walks brazenly past me. Damn it, Moneyshot, where are you when we need you? I grab the soldier’s scrawny shoulders and throw him back over to his side. I give him one final push.

“Motherfucker, go!”

“No good! No good, mistah!” He’s angry and about to cry, but he retreats.

I slump down into the guard chair. “These people, Durk, these people.”

“You’re telling me, Goldsmith.”

“Every day, same old . . . What was that?” There’s a blur in the trees beside us, “Was that . . . ?”

Gray Spot jumps the wall of his compound and dashes through our area.

“Motherfucker!” I give chase, make the tackle, then drag the Iraqi by his neck. 

“You piece of shit! I tell you, ID card; every day I tell you, hawitak.”

“Mistah! Mistah!”

“No, ‘mistah’! Fucking dirt bag! So you want to make a run for it today? This is all a big joke for you, isn’t it? We’re all a joke!”

Durk’s watching apprehensively. “Goldsmith? You gonna be all right?”

“I’m going to be fine once Hajj fears us again, when we’re not some joke.” I move towards the razor wire.

“No, mistah! No!”

“This will teach you a lesson, motherfucker!” I envelope his thin body in a bear hug.

“No!”

I throw him into the wire. Gray Spot falls into the metal thorns and is entangled and cut as I yell in triumph. He nurses his scratches on the Iraqi side of the base while his friends laugh at him. He curses in Arabic and slinks away.

“It’s not over yet, Goldsmith.”

“I know Durk, I know . . .”

* * *

“Did you throw this man into the wire, Sergeant Goldsmith?” Command interrogates me.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t have his ID card, because he jumped the wall and ran through our area, because I see this guy every day and it’s the same bullshit.”

“These are our friends, our Iraqi brothers in arms. We have to work together.”

“This guy only comes through to go to Hajji Shop. He doesn’t do anything but stand around—”

“Enough, Sergeant Goldsmith! You are to treat all Iraqi soldiers with respect. If I ever hear of anything like this happening again, it’ll be your ass.” Command, always after our asses.

“Roger.”

Guard is castrated. Gray Spot walks freely through the gate and sneers at us. He buys cigarettes from our side several times a day to spite us. Without Moneyshot, we are powerless, and no one has seen him for days. Everyone thinks he’s dead. The Iraqi soldiers shame us, and our hands are tied by Command. We stare submissively at the ground.

* * *

Gray Spot brings a friend to the gate—an Iraqi in civilian clothes I’ve never seen before. Gray Spot points at his hair, his VIP access card, and proceeds to march in.

“Hold on a minute.” I stop them both. “Who is this guy? Hawitak?”

Gray Spot answers me. “No, no have.”

“Then, no enter.” I move to push them both back, but Gray Spot checks my hands.

“No, no!” He points to his spot.

I’m tired, so tired of all this, and soon I’ll be home. I don’t have energy for another battle, for another loss.

“Fine, go in.”

They’re both laughing at the stupid American as they walk through. Gray Spot walks backwards as he continues to degrade me. Through the shame and anger I hear galloping, and feel an undeniable presence.

Moneyshot leaps off the hood of the Humvee and descends, bristling and snarling, in front of the two Iraqi soldiers. He bares his monstrous jaws and barks his hellish roar.

“Moneyshaw!” The two terrified Iraqis leap back in terror. The friend runs to safety as Gray Spot slips and falls on his rear. Moneyshot turns on his downed opponent and snaps at his flailing limbs. Gray Spot can’t find his footing and repeatedly tumbles to the ground. The whole time, he’s screaming, “Moneyshaw, no!”

When at last he gets to his feet he circles Moneyshot. Gray Spot makes a desperate move and throws a tremendous soccer kick to Moneyshot’s head. He is too slow. Moneyshot dodges low and comes upwards with his jaws, and Gray Spot falls on his ass again. Durk and I cheer the champion. “Get ’im, Money!”

Moneyshot stands over his opponent, stops barking, and dares Gray Spot to get up. Moneyshot looks to us.

Has he had enough?

“He has, Moneyshot, let him go.” Gray Spot scrambles to his feet and runs away.

“And tell your friends!” Durk yells, exultant. “Moneyshot is back!”

Moneyshot is a champion. He tasted oblivion, wallowed long in the shadows, but Moneyshot came back. After the electrocution, we numbed ourselves to his inevitable death. No one remembered Moneyshot the warrior, scourge of the Iraqi soldier. His friends forgot, the Iraqi soldiers forgot, but Moneyshot never forgot who he was. The battle with Gray Spot reaffirmed his place in the natural order. Moneyshot was better than ever, stronger because of his struggle. They who taunted him in his weakness would again know fear.

* * *

The birds are coming; it’s time to go home. Soldiers carry their possessions on their backs, in their arms, and slung across their shoulders. Duffel bags, rucksacks, and footlockers clog the way to the helicopter landing pad. We’re going home and bringing our junk with us: weapons, clothes, computers, books, movies, and souvenirs. None of us carry more than a few rounds of ammo. We’re still in Iraq, but our fight is over. A few flights, a couple more days, and this country will be just a painful memory. Another year spent in ancient, bloody, beautiful Iraq, and no one says good-bye. The parting is distant and detached, devoid of meaning, and unreal.

One friend sees us off safely. Moneyshot trots down the line of soldiers and their gear. The soldiers stop grumbling and carting equipment long enough to say good-bye to a friend. For our final farewells he lets us pat him on the head, but only a little. “Good dog, Moneyshot, good dog . . .”

As the helicopters lift off, a lone figure is silhouetted in Iraq’s darkening night sky. It is a noble figure, strong and beautiful. Our tour is done, but Moneyshot remains. This is his fight, always has been. We were just visitors along for the ride. Some soldiers never stop fighting. To Moneyshot and the other warriors who will never find rest, we won’t forget you.