Archer's Story
A bond forged in mud, sweat, and tears, Aaron's and Archer are an inspearable duo. Aaron Tucker is a retired firefighter paramedic, police officer, tactical medic, and cadaver K9 handler with over 2 decades of real-world experience. Aaron is often a guest speaker at K-9 training schools for his experience and knowledge in the field of emergency K-9 care. He lives in Florida with his service dogs Archer, Aaron suffers from PTSD.
This fact is a part of my life, but having PTSD doesn’t mean I’m broken; it just means I’m molding into a new person rather than being who I used to be. I’m not the same person I was 5 years ago, but I like who I am now – the new me. For 20 years I was a part of a team – police officer, firefighter medic, SWAT medic, Cadaver K-9 handler – but that came to a grinding halt when I was diagnosed. Gone were the days when I worked out for SWAT and trained combat medics. My diagnosis meant I was no longer a part of a team. This new reality left me trying to find myself and figure out where to go and what to do. The only thing that was certain was my dogs. I had always wanted to be a dog handler and I was before this new version of my life. Being a dog trainer was never on my short list, but it was a natural fit. So as I carved out a new path for myself, I trained other people’s dogs as well as my own dogs. In doing so I was making a name for myself, but I still craved what I was missing. And then I happened upon an obstacle race and thought, “What if…” and from there Aaron and Archer was born. Getting back into racing gave me a purpose. It’s my new mission. And I now have a new team.
Archer, a Belgian Malinois, came into my life in 2018. He’s a phenomenal sentient being, and when he was still a puppy, I knew he had it in him to be a PTSD dog. It’s crazy though, since I’m a trainer and I trained him, that we have such an intense bond. He’s become a part of me as much as I am part of him. I believe racing has forged an unbreakable bond between us with every carry, bead of sweat, and splash of mud. When we race, our mutual trust grows and deepens. And it has to because the obstacle races we run are grueling, combining a trail running with 20 obstacles, held on off-road terrain featuring water and mud. We climb walls, crawl under wire, traverse monkey bars, aim a spear throw, and more. Now imagine doing that with not only a dog having your back, but having your dog on your back.
My affinity for these races is simple: They are an outward example of my inward struggle. When you run the race, it’s a physical manifestation of the symptoms. There is no way to get out of it without getting muddy and dirty because the only way out is through it. The different between a race and my reality though is that my PSTD never over. There is nothing to heal, the goal is to always make forward progress as I discover the new me. Part of that new reality is knowing that PTSD creeps in when you’re at home and alone. But I’m never alone with Archer. He’s my constant. So, it’s only natural that he would race with me.
When we first started racing when Archer was one year old, we were unknowns in the circuit. In fact, the first time we raced together, Archer was pretty blasé about the whole thing. We had trained by practicing carries, I’d hoist him in the air, have him dive and jump into water, running trails on the soft Florida sugar sand, as well as all of our usual training. Understandable I was a little scared. I’d never run one before. Definitely never run one with Archer. However, that quickly changed as we delved into this world of racing. I loved it. He loved it. Now every time I take him to a race, he can’t wait to start. In fact, I have to keep him away from crowd and the starting line until the very last minute to control my inward jitters and his outward display of excitement. It’s an adrenaline rush, to say the least.
While the excitement is an enticing factor to keep us returning, what truly brings me back time and time again are two things: what happens to me once the race starts and my bond with Archer. Just like anyone else who prepares for a race, you go inward and focus. For me, those can lead to times when my PTSD is triggered. Yet it never happens during a race. From the very first step of the race, tunnel vision takes over. I am responsible for my teammate. There is no room in my mind for anything except for mitigating every obstacle and ensuring both Archer’s and my safety. It’s a quiet reprieve. The other return is a parallel to this focus. All of the hours of training and patience culminating in this race have forged a bond between me and Archer. Each obstacle reinforces that his trust is well-placed, and when we cross that finish line, our bond has transcended to a new level.
Every time I scale an A-frame, cargo net, or something vertical (but not a rope climb), Archer is right there with me. The carries are important for so many reasons. Not only does it mean he can complete the race with me, but it is a constant reminder that I am responsible for my teammate. When I strap him to me, I know I have his absolute trust. He completely relaxes, knowing I will ensure his safety. We’ve tested and tried a multitude of harness variations to have the best aeration and support. We both know he’s securely attached to me. I check and double check my hand placement, where I can put my feet. Because if he falls, he gets hurt. If I fall, we both get hurt and might hurt another runner. It’s an unspoken trust like what I had in my previous life – and I missed it until Archer. When I carry him, it’s my turn to take the lead. But the moment we step back on solid ground, he’s rearing to go like a bullet. And if my energy falters and I start to fall behind, he keeps me going. Like a true team, there is give and take. The truth is we carry each other.
If I were to try to encapsulate where I am today versus before I ran my first race with Archer, I would first and foremost talk about my connection with Archer. It is so much stronger than I could ever think possible. This dog knows me. He knows my triggers and understands me. Since he came to live with me, we’ve never been apart from me more than 3 hours. But proximity is not what has bred this bond. He’s a service dog who has developed an ever-increasing reciprocal trust in me. We’re in tune to the point that he can sense any change, be it behavior or physiological, in me. Often way before I could ever recognize that I have been triggered. He knew things were coming before I did. Archer will dance and nudge me. And that is the difference between a service dog and emotional support dog. Service dogs recognize triggers. Emotional support dogs helping you feel better is secondary to service. He has his tasks and knows his tasks. Because of who I am and Archer’s personality, it was inevitable that we would have a connection. But the depth of this connection has surprised and continues to surprise me. Doing these races is part of the reason we have such an extreme level of trust.
Every race is a constant evolution of training and agility. The obstacles are always different, so I have to be prepared to think on my feet, knowing Archer will respond. On the course, I’m not thinking about anything other than what’s in front of me. Predesignating foot holds and hand holds. But it’s not just an evolution in how I train with Archer. I get an emotional and mental break while I race. Everything turns off. Of course, there is a physical pain aftermath in the days following a race. Funnily enough, I welcome the pain. It’s a relief and validation of life. And then I’m pushed to train harder for the next race. If I’m not getting sore, then I’m not pushing enough. Looking back and realizing I can say these things, live this life, is affirming. It doesn’t mean there aren’t hard days and that I don’t get triggered. The fact is that it will happen, but each and every time, I will have Archer by my side and there is no room for these thoughts when I’m racing.
Archer is first a service dog, but he’s also my teammate. Whether we’re 30 feet in the air during a carry or in a scenario that triggers my PTSD, I know he has my back. And I have his. A brotherhood forged in mud and carries will last a lifetime.
