Farmerrob’s Weblog

Are Youe a Sheepdog? Really??

On Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs – Dave Grossman

By LTC (RET) Dave Grossman, author of “On Killing.”

Honor never grows old, and honor rejoices the heart of age. It does so because honor is, finally, about defending those noble and worthy things that deserve defending, even if it comes at a high cost. In our time, that may mean social disapproval, public scorn, hardship, persecution, or as always,even death itself. The question remains: What is worth defending? What is worth dying for? What is worth living for? – William J. Bennett – in a lecture to the United States Naval Academy November 24, 1997

One Vietnam veteran, an old retired colonel, once said this to me:

“Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident.” This is true. Remember, the murder rate is six per 100,000 per year, and the aggravated assault rate is four per 1,000 per year. What this means is that the vast majority of Americans are not inclined to hurt one another. Some estimates say that two million Americans are victims of violent crimes every year, a tragic, staggering number, perhaps an all-time record rate of violent crime. But there are almost 300 million Americans, which means that the odds of being a victim of violent crime is considerably less than one in a hundred on any given year. Furthermore, since many violent crimes are committed by repeat offenders, the actual number of violent citizens is considerably less than two million.

Thus there is a paradox, and we must grasp both ends of the situation: We may well be in the most violent times in history, but violence is still remarkably rare. This is because most citizens are kind, decent people who are not capable of hurting each other, except by accident or under extreme provocation. They are sheep.

I mean nothing negative by calling them sheep. To me it is like the pretty, blue robin’s egg. Inside it is soft and gooey but someday it will grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful.? For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators.

“Then there are the wolves,” the old war veteran said, “and the wolves feed on the sheep without mercy.” Do you believe there are wolves out there who will feed on the flock without mercy? You better believe it. There are evil men in this world and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial.

“Then there are sheepdogs,” he went on, “and I’m a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf.”

If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? A sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero’s path. Someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed

Let me expand on this old soldier’s excellent model of the sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs. We know that the sheep live in denial, that is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe that there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kids’ schools.

But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid’s school. Our children are thousands of times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep’s only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they chose the path of denial.

The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheep dog who intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb will be punished and removed. The world cannot work any other way, at least not in a representative democracy or a republic such as ours.

Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land. They would prefer that he didn’t tell them where to go, or give them traffic tickets, or stand at the ready in our airports in camouflage fatigues holding an M-16. The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog cash in his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, “Baa.”

Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lonely sheepdog.

The students, the victims, at Columbine High School were big, tough high school students, and under ordinary circumstances they would not have had the time of day for a police officer. They were not bad kids; they just had nothing to say to a cop. When the school was under attack, however, and SWAT teams were clearing the rooms and hallways, the officers had to physically peel those clinging, sobbing kids off of them. This is how the little lambs feel about their sheepdog when the wolf is at the door.

Look at what happened after September 11, 2001 when the wolf pounded hard on the door. Remember how America, more than ever before, felt differently about their law enforcement officers and military personnel? Remember how many times you heard the word hero?

Understand that there is nothing morally superior about being a sheepdog; it is just what you choose to be. Also understand that a sheepdog is a funny critter: He is always sniffing around out on the perimeter, checking the breeze, barking at things that go bump in the night, and yearning for a righteous battle. That is, the young sheepdogs yearn for a righteous battle. The old sheepdogs are a little older and wiser, but they move to the sound of the guns when needed right along with the young ones.

Here is how the sheep and the sheepdog think differently. The sheep pretend the wolf will never come, but the sheepdog lives for that day. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep, that is, most citizens in America said, “Thank God I wasn’t on one of those planes.” The sheepdogs, the warriors, said, “Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference.” When you are truly transformed into a warrior and have truly invested yourself into warriorhood, you want to be there. You want to be able to make a difference.

There is nothing morally superior about the sheepdog, the warrior, but he does have one real advantage. Only one. And that is that he is able to survive and thrive in an environment that destroys 98 percent of the population. There was research conducted a few years ago with individuals convicted of violent crimes. These cons were in prison for serious, predatory crimes of violence: assaults, murders and killing law enforcement officers. The vast majority said that they specifically targeted victims by body language: slumped walk, passive behavior and lack of awareness. They chose their victims like big cats do in Africa, when they select one out of the herd that is least able to protect itself.

Some people may be destined to be sheep and others might be genetically primed to be wolves or sheepdogs. But I believe that most people can choose which one they want to be, and I’m proud to say that more and more Americans are choosing to become sheepdogs.

Seven months after the attack on September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer was honored in his hometown of Cranbury, New Jersey. Todd, as you recall, was the man on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania who called on his cell phone to alert an operator from United Airlines about the hijacking. When he learned of the other three passenger planes that had been used as weapons, Todd dropped his phone and uttered the words, “Let’s roll,” which authorities believe was a signal to the other passengers to confront the terrorist hijackers. In one hour, a transformation occurred among the passengers – athletes, business people and parents. — from sheep to sheepdogs and together they fought the wolves, ultimately saving an unknown number of lives on the ground.

There is no safety for honest men except by believing all possible evil of evil men. – Edmund Burke

Here is the point I like to emphasize, especially to the thousands of police officers and soldiers I speak to each year. In nature the sheep, real sheep, are born as sheep. Sheepdogs are born that way, and so are wolves. They didn’t have a choice. But you are not a critter. As a human being, you can be whatever you want to be. It is a conscious, moral decision.

If you want to be a sheep, then you can be a sheep and that is okay, but you must understand the price you pay. When the wolf comes, you and your loved ones are going to die if there is not a sheepdog there to protect you. If you want to be a wolf, you can be one, but the sheepdogs are going to hunt you down and you will never have rest, safety, trust or love. But if you want to be a sheepdog and walk the warrior’s path, then you must make a conscious and moral decision every day to dedicate, equip and prepare yourself to thrive in that toxic, corrosive moment when the wolf comes knocking at the door.

For example, many officers carry their weapons in church.? They are well concealed in ankle holsters, shoulder holsters or inside-the-belt holsters tucked into the small of their backs.? Anytime you go to some form of religious service, there is a very good chance that a police officer in your congregation is carrying. You will never know if there is such an individual in your place of worship, until the wolf appears to massacre you and your loved ones.

I was training a group of police officers in Texas, and during the break, one officer asked his friend if he carried his weapon in church. The other cop replied, “I will never be caught without my gun in church.” I asked why he felt so strongly about this, and he told me about a cop he knew who was at a church massacre in Ft. Worth, Texas in 1999. In that incident, a mentally deranged individual came into the church and opened fire, gunning down fourteen people. He said that officer believed he could have saved every life that day if he had been carrying his gun. His own son was shot, and all he could do was throw himself on the boy’s body and wait to die. That cop looked me in the eye and said, “Do you have any idea how hard it would be to live with yourself after that?”

Some individuals would be horrified if they knew this police officer was carrying a weapon in church. They might call him paranoid and would probably scorn him. Yet these same individuals would be enraged and would call for “heads to roll” if they found out that the airbags in their cars were defective, or that the fire extinguisher and fire sprinklers in their kids’ school did not work. They can accept the fact that fires and traffic accidents can happen and that there must be safeguards against them.

Their only response to the wolf, though, is denial, and all too often their response to the sheepdog is scorn and disdain. But the sheepdog quietly asks himself, “Do you have and idea how hard it would be to live with yourself if your loved ones attacked and killed, and you had to stand there helplessly because you were unprepared for that day?”

It is denial that turns people into sheep. Sheep are psychologically destroyed by combat because their only defense is denial, which is counterproductive and destructive, resulting in fear, helplessness and horror when the wolf shows up.

Denial kills you twice. It kills you once, at your moment of truth when you are not physically prepared: you didn’t bring your gun, you didn’t train. Your only defense was wishful thinking. Hope is not a strategy. Denial kills you a second time because even if you do physically survive, you are psychologically shattered by your fear helplessness and horror at your moment of truth.

Gavin de Becker puts it like this in Fear Less, his superb post-9/11 book, which should be required reading for anyone trying to come to terms with our current world situation: “…denial can be seductive, but it has an insidious side effect. For all the peace of mind deniers think they get by saying it isn’t so, the fall they take when faced with new violence is all the more unsettling.”

Denial is a save-now-pay-later scheme, a contract written entirely in small print, for in the long run, the denying person knows the truth on some level.

And so the warrior must strive to confront denial in all aspects of his life, and prepare himself for the day when evil comes. If you are warrior who is legally authorized to carry a weapon and you step outside without that weapon, then you become a sheep, pretending that the bad man will not come today. No one can be “on” 24/7, for a lifetime. Everyone needs down time. But if you are authorized to carry a weapon, and you walk outside without it, just take a deep breath, and say this to yourself…

“Baa.”

This business of being a sheep or a sheep dog is not a yes-no dichotomy. It is not an all-or-nothing, either-or choice. It is a matter of degrees, a continuum. On one end is an abject, head-in-the-sand-sheep and on the other end is the ultimate warrior. Few people exist completely on one end or the other. Most of us live somewhere in between. Since 9-11 almost everyone in America took a step up that continuum, away from denial. The sheep took a few steps toward accepting and appreciating their warriors, and the warriors started taking their job more seriously. The degree to which you move up that continuum, away from sheephood and denial, is the degree to which you and your loved ones will survive, physically and psychologically at your moment of truth.

Cancer Version 2

What an absolutely soul demolishing word.  One minute you’re on a boat- sailing with your best friend.  The next, you’re in a doctors office, hunched over like a chimp- wiping petroleum jelly from yer not seriously sweating swamp-ass while a nurse walks in the door to tell you the doctor has scheduled surgery for the day after tomorrow.

The ultrasound showed little miniature mountains on my testicle.  Ol Lefty was going down for the count. The Irish doctor was smooth like coarse sandpaper when he announced, “ I don’t know much but I know this much, you got cancer!”.  My heart sank. My father had passed at the age of 44 from the shit. I was just graduating from college and beginning my teaching career.  It’s  interesting how life happens.  When I lost my father, we were barely speaking for the first time in years, and I knew it was coming. Hell, the last time we spoke (in person) he begged me to end his life so that the pain would stop.  He died about 6 hours later.  I remember thinking how powerful cancer had to be to kill that mean bastard… Now, instead of waiting for a biopsy, I had to trust the opinion of a mean ass leprechaun and go “play hospital” for umpteenth time in my life.

The first thought I had was not for me, but my wife.  How would I tell her? How would I tell mother to brace up again for another round?  I had gone through this once before, at birth. A miracle to be alive as they had removed a tumor at the base of my brain.  It had caused me to slowly bleed to death from the inside out (Subdural hemotoma w/ a left & right cranial strip)- a helluva deal for kid just 6 weeks old in 1967.  To lay on a table for 11 days, brain open, waiting for a miracle.  Rolled the dice and came up sevens. Lucky me.  I had enjoyed my fair share near misses since, a broken neck at 17, several near fatal bicycle crashes, a severely bad skydiving day, some interesting accidents to be sure… But non compared to hearing that damn word in that desolate office.  So how would I tell my wife?  Not like that evil prick told me, that’s for sure.

After the nurse realized she had humiliated me enough, she offered to leave me alone for 10 minutes to finish getting cleaned up (that petroleum jelly is a bitch to clean to be sure).  I quickly decided that this was my chance, my chance to be alone and deal with the news, my chance to be sad and morose, my chance to be mortal.  As I dressed, I let it go – Screw emotion and self loathing, I was not going to let anyone suffer from my circumstance.  Fuck Cancer.  Fuck excuses.  Fuck being sick. I tightened my belt and out the door I went.

I didn’t tell her right away. I asked how her day went, the drive, and so on.  She finally asked how the doctor appointment went. I told her not to worry but I needed a ride to the hospital on Thursday, a small procedure would be needed to secure our future- lol.  She freaked and I thought it was funny.  That Thursday I found out that the cancer had spread and was working its’ way up my intestinal track towards my stomach.  Good news, Chemo doesn’t work on free radical aggressive moving cancers.  Bad news, radiation burns everything. Everything. Nipple to kneecaps, they cooked me like microwave damn popcorn.  There was a giant keyhole burned into my back-spine for 4 years afterwards.

One of the first mornings at the radiology center, as I lay cold & naked on a table while they “arranged” my kibble n bits, I figured out that daily I would receive a Radiology Tech’s clinical exposure rate for 430 years each and every day for 6-7 weeks.  Aint life grand? I’m a lucky guy….  To protect my “vital bits” from being burned, they “arranged” me each morning with a cast iron grapefruit between my legs that they would gingerly place me into.  Best part of this fun factiod is two part; A> I volunteered to let the meds students practice on me – and some of them were really cute! B> Some of them were guys… Who am I kidding, they were cute too.. LOL.  I also got a really cool four-dot tattoo (N-S-E-W), not to be down w/ my Norteno homies, but rather to align up the laser guidance system on the radiation arm to nuke me each morning.

There are two funny parts to this weary tale. First one occurred when I got the cool idea to make a T-Shirt that read “FUCK CANCER” and proudly wore into the clinic the next day.  The mean ass nurse behind the desk immediately gave me an earful about being it being disrespectful to the other patients.  The old guy dying of colon cancer who was sitting next to me nearly pissed himself, he was laughing that hard at it.  Nurse Cratchett got angrier and went to get the lead oncologist.  When he saw the shirt, he started chuckling, pulled me aside and confided, “That’s funfuckingtastic Rob”.  I made him one that night.

The other shining moment for me came when Nurse Cratchett, about 3 days later, asked to talk to me and my wife.  She asked us into a private room because, “We need to talk.”.
I figured the shirt for the doc really wet her Wheaties.  Boy was I wrong.  Get this… She sits us down and begins to explain how some men feel “unbalanced” after a procedure like mine (radical orchiemdectomy )sp?))and that there several “options” that we could assess to make me feel more “comfortable”.  Soon the word “prosthetic” was tossed about,  and she produced a `lil wooden box that held six prosthetic testes. “What??!! A rubber nut??! Are you serious!!”, I erupted in laughter.  “Holy shit, are you serious?? Can I get a racquetball up in there?  How about brass- so I can clank them together??”! I was on fire.  It was the first deep laugh I had enjoyed since before starting this process.  The nurse was mortified and just walked out.  I bragged to anyone who would listen how I was going “elephant size” just to screw w/ people.

I was back on track.  Fuck Cancer.  Fuck excuses.  Fuck being sick.

Life is hard.

I love the blues..

BOXING DAY

The stench of alcohol was strong as he slammed the door in my face. “Leave now! Come back later!”, he growled.   I was tired of listening. I was tired of the pattern. I was tired of not acting. Youth has a wonderful way of disguising stupidity with bravery.  I launched myself through the door and aimed for the weak spot, the knees… Ring the bell, Round One.

The United States Marine Corps takes great pride in its’ FORECON group.  Bob was a member of the 1st  Force Reconnaissance Group and exuded that pride  through the art of hand to hand combat. The Marines had spent considerable time and effort into refining his skills and making them instinct.   He was their weapon and they had taught him well. Instinct is the inherent disposition of a living organism toward a particular behavior; inherent fixed action patterns of responses or reactions to certain kinds of stimuli.

It was this patterning, this pride, this inherent disposition that caused the man in the doorway to spin away from the blow to his knee.  He had taught me that the secondary strike should be to the elbow, or throat if available , as the opponent drops to a prone position.  Take out the legs, then the arms, then the head.  Pick up a rock, brick, anything to gain an advantage.  I had none of those things.  My blow glanced off of his hip, instead of the elbow, as he stood instead of falling.

Bravery was revealed for stupidity.  His instincts were true.  The blow to the solar plexus stole the air from my lungs, stealing my thunder before it had started.  His hands shot for my throat and as I  realized that my feet were now dangling two to three inches from the floor – the fight was over, the lights went out.

What I didn’t realize was that the house was sheet-rocked, not plastered like our old house.  I discovered this by looking at the bits of it lying about my Raggedy-Andy body.  Everything was blurry in my field of vision because (evidently) there was a chunk about ¾” from my face.  As I slowly crawled to a sitting position, I marveled at the hole in the wall as they argued away in another room.  It was fairly symmetrical and even though my skull had made it, I didn’t really feel that bad.  I was still in shock that the drunk bastard had spun around that fast.  Forty years old, out of the Corps for about 17 years and old man still had it.  I felt stupid for thinking that this was going change anything.  The fog of disorientation was lifting, and despite having just been damn near dead, the same thoughts entered in my head…

I was tired of listening. I was tired of the pattern. I was tired of not acting. Youth has a wonderful way of disguising stupidity with bravery.  Take out the legs, then the arms, then the head.  Pick up a rock, a brick, anything to gain an advantage.  I stumbled into the garage and found my aluminum softball bat…

Ring the bell Dad, Round Two.

Life is hard.

I love the blues.