Barnett and Jackson are the only K-9 unit in the county, and she’s one of just three female K-9 handlers in the state.Mark Woodward
It’s sometimes just easier talking to the dog. At the end of a shift, as she walks back into the building from the parking lot, Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Deputy Vanessa Barnett often hears “What’s up, Jackson?” It’s not her nickname. Her fellow officers’ eyes are fixed closer to floor, where they land on Jackson, a striking 80-pound longhaired German shepherd who was born five years ago and is the four-legged member of the department’s single K-9 team.
Jackson is trained in patrol and narcotics and works with just one person, Barnett. Though he lives with another German shepherd at home, unlike most other dogs in Santa Fe, when his harness goes on, he snaps to and heads out to work.
Time and again, as I've travelled across the country during the last nine months, documenting K-9 units, this is a scene that's played out. People find it much easier to talk to the animals than each other. As a coarsened, seasoned deputy crouches down to greet a peer's K-9 at the start of a shift, I sense something much more significant, perhaps directed at someone else.
Barnett’s night starts at a briefing with the other sheriff deputies, where they talk about events that occurred in the day and that might play out into their evening. It’s 10 pm, the beginning of the graveyard shift, and I trail her through the dark lot to a new Ford SUV. This is Santa Fe 61, a vehicle specially equipped for Barnett and Jackson. Its back doors open automatically with the touch of a button on Barnett’s belt, at which point Jackson is trained to jump out and respond to her command. Next to the first aid kit that all officers carry for human medical needs, there’s a second kit with medical supplies for canines. The vehicle is equipped with an emergency temperature system; if the temperature rises past a certain level with Jackson inside, Santa 61′s alarms and sirens go off, notifying Barnett immediately. Also onboard is a selection of Jackson’s favorite toys.
Barnett and Jackson are very much sheriff deputies before they are exclusively a K-9 team. All kinds of things happen on these shifts, all over the 2,000 square miles of the county. As well as running the only K-9 unit in Santa Fe, Barnett is also only one of two women in the Sheriff's Department, and at 5'4" and around 100 pounds, she has big shoes to fill.
Barnett patrols her "zone" south and west of the Santa Fe City Limits on the evening that I ride along. The Pojoaque native knows all the patrol zones well; she's been with the department for 11 years. But even if she's in Madrid, when the call comes for help from the K-9 unit near Chimayó, she gets there.
Jackson was trained as pup in Schutzhund, the discipline for working dogs required for police-type work. Born in a German kennel called Zwinger vom Waldhäuser Schloss, he's from a strong line of police and protection dogs. Jackson has been busy in Santa Fe, seizing drugs, detaining suspects and finding hidden perpetrators. He helped last year when a man on an inmate work crew from the state pen escaped custody on Cerrillos Road. When it's really hot in July, he is "rewarded" with buckets of water being poured over him.
In April 2013, a private donor gave Jackson a bulletproof vest. He didn't wear one before that because of budget restrictions. A bulletproof vest for a K-9 can cost over $1,000. Only when a situation feels hostile does Barnett strap Jackson into the vest, to then go face the situation together.
Their strength as a unit is in each other. They are partners. From cuddling on the couch together, to finding heroin in a vehicle, to biting down on a suspect, it seems about as rich and complex as a relationship can get.
"He found a guy that almost ran over a Santa Fe PD detective. He was a burglary suspect, he fled into some houses, and we were doing a yard to yard search, and Jackson kept pulling," Barnett tells me as she bounces along a back road behind the wheel of Santa Fe 61. "This was early on when, at first, I didn't even know Jackson that well, not as well as I know him now. And he had pulled us into this yard and into this shed. And it had this big huge carpet over the top. I then sent in some guys that were on my search team. And sure enough, there was some guy, hiding wrapped up in a tent. And he was right there. He was telling me that somebody was there. That was a big moment for me."
Getting Jackson and the K-9 unit up and running was quite a project. "When the last dog here retired in 2005, the handler soon ended up retiring himself, and then we didn't have any dogs. I had wanted to do it, and I said to myself, You know what? Let me just ask them," she says. "I wrote a memo to the sheriff that I wanted to start a K-9 program. They said, 'Absolutely—but we don't have any money in the budget.'"
Barnett didn't give up. She received a donation from a citizen for whom she had been able to recover some property stolen in a burglary. Three years later, in 2012, after a lot of perseverance and a whole lot of patience, budgeting was finally approved for a K-9 unit. Barnett says she is grateful to the sheriff and everyone else who helped her establish the program.
"We got our dog," Barnett says, smiling. "I was so happy. They called me up and said, 'You're going to K-9 School.' I was so excited. I think it means more when you actually start something from nothing."
Barnett became a deputy at the age of 21, after having worked as an emergency dispatcher.
"I kind of knew a little bit—not a lot. When I first started working, I knew a lot of them looked at me like, 'What's this little girl going to do?' … So I had a lot to prove, that I knew what I was doing, that I wasn't afraid to get into anything. And I did. I jumped every single call that I could. I went to every in-progress thing. A lot of the times, I just had to handle stuff by myself, and you gain respect from these guys. They're like, 'Wow, she can kind of handle herself,' and you just get a reputation: 'Don't let her size fool you, she's …" Barnett trails off.
I suggest, "She'll kick your ass," and she laughs, saying, "Exactly."
She applied the same determination to the K-9 training, and now, at 32, she's one of just three female handlers in New Mexico's law enforcement agencies. "I had to prove to these K-9 trainers that I was able to do it. And something as simple as picking up an 80-pound dog, carrying him on your back up a flimsy ladder up to an attic, and then bringing him back down the same way, you know—that gained a lot of respect," she says.
Even so, Barnett lives a bit in Jackson's shadow. And she's OK with that. She laughs as she talks about catching a burglar in the act, detaining him and bringing him into custody without the assistance of other deputies. The next day, her superior praised Jackson's courage, although he was not involved in the detaining and, in fact, had remained in the vehicle during the event.
Barnett and Jackson completed their first Basic Handler School Certification after a six-week program with former Bernalillo County Sheriff's Deputy Kevin Sheldahl, who runs K-9 Services in Edgewood. An additional certification test is required for both handler and K-9 every year.
"Training is constant for the rest the dog's working life," Barnett says. "We train almost eight hours every week, and this needs to continue for the rest of his working life."
Barnett and Jackson work together five days a week, primarily on graveyard shifts, from 10 pm to 6 am. It's a slow night tonight. Jackson is quiet in the back of Santa Fe 61.
We find a truck on the side of a dirt road on the Southside of town. A teenage boy is inside truck, fast asleep. He’s been kicked out of the house, and his truck’s broken down. He can’t stay, so Barnett calls another deputy to take him to a friend’s house for the night. The other deputy arrives: a big, old-school dude. They stand right by the driver’s door while the kid gathers his things and gets out of the vehicle, lights flashing, painting the scene. Both deputies have hands on their pistols. I zoom my camera in and focus in on this tense moment. The kid is wearing a Cardinals beanie and a blue flannel shirt. He looks like he’s freezing. As soon as he exits the vehicle, the hands come off the pistols.
I film the reflection of the side mirror as the kid walks past Santa Fe 61 and climbs into the other deputy's vehicle. Jackson barks. And continues to bark, until Barnett is back in the driver's seat.
No doubt, at the start of the next shift, the other deputies will ask Barnett how Jackson's last shift was and how he's doing.
I wonder if the reason they focus on Jackson more than Barnett is it's the path of least resistance. Like Barnett, it could be one of them on that ladder, not knowing what, or who, may be waiting at the top. The kid in the truck might have a gun. He might get a shot off first. To speak to Barnett is to speak to themselves. To speak to the proximity of their own mortality. This is too much to face directly. Not today. Not now. At least not every day.
Still, through these conversations directed at dogs, I hear vulnerability, relief, the camaraderie of complex relationships. Sometimes, it’s just easier talking to the dog.
