Mendez pulled into the driveway, taking the van to the farthest spot in the corner of the parking lot, near the doors where we typically entered. The scrubs I wore for work were similar to the ones I wore on the inside—they were blue, and lacked only the large block lettering announcing I was an inmate at the Department of Corrections. Here, I got to wear white sneakers instead of plastic, slip-on sandals; I kept them in my cellblock and always put them on during the drive. Both Mendez and I climbed out of the van and walked in through the double glass doors that led to the office within the kennel.
“Hey, Jenny,” Chandi, the office manager, said as we entered. Only here was I referred to as Jenny or Jennifer; the rest of the time, I was like any other inmate, known by my last name alone. There were two reception areas in the clinic, one out front for veterinary patients, and this one, in the back, for animals being groomed and/or boarded in the kennel. Since I’d completed my certification, Randy had decided to offer a monthlong, intensive, in-house obedience training program for owners who had dogs but didn’t necessarily have the time to attend weekly classes. Part of my job was to spend several hours during my shift with each of these dogs, working with them on basic instructions and tasks; the other part was to keep the kennels clean and assist with whatever additional duties Randy required. Sometimes that included helping conduct an exam, and others it put me cleaning out kennels, or on the floor with a terminally ill animal, holding it close, scratching its head as Randy gently put it to sleep.
“Hey,” I said to Chandi, who was an East Indian woman about my age. She had thick, black hair and flawless light brown skin. Under different circumstances, we might have been the kinds of friends who went to parties together or shopped at the mall. Instead, we were the kinds of friends who only saw each other when a prison guard escorted me through the door. “Busy morning?” I asked.
“Not really. But Randy asked to see you when you got in,” she said, nodding in the direction of the hallway that led to the main building.
“Oh,” I said. “Okay, thanks.” I glanced at Mendez, who barely bobbed his head and then followed me to my employer’s office. When we got there, I peeked around the doorjamb and lightly rapped my knuckles on the wall. “Morning,” I said.
Randy looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and smiled. He wore his white doctor’s coat and a lime-green polo with the collar turned up, channeling a chubby Don Johnson. As usual, his thick shock of red hair was a mess and his cheeks were pink—from exertion or excitement, I couldn’t decipher.
“Jenny! Good morning!” he said. Excitement it was, then, I thought as he gestured for me to enter. “Have a seat.”
Mendez dropped into a wooden bench outside Randy’s door as I complied, setting my elbows on the arms of the chair and linking my fingers together in front of me. “What’s up?”
“Good news! Myer approved my request for you to bring a dog into the facility.” Randy never called where I lived a “prison,” which at first I thought was ridiculous but now appreciated as a kind, humanizing gesture. He treated me with as much respect as he did any of his employees, and required those around him to do the same. I was incredibly grateful not only for his willingness to teach me but for the chance doing this kind of work gave me to feel like a normal, decent person again.
“No way,” I said. Randy had been trying for the past year to get Myer to allow me to keep a service-dog-in-training with me at all times. This was how other service animals were effectively conditioned—living with their trainers for up to two years after they’d been properly socialized and had mastered all other basic obedience commands, working with them tirelessly to learn to ignore their natural instincts in favor of giving their masters what they needed. Until now, I’d only been able to work with a dog when I was at the clinic.
“Way,” Randy said with a grin. “It took some doing, but he agreed to it, as long as I’m willing to sign a waiver for any damage the dog might do to the facility or the other residents.”
I smiled, too. Despite his doctorate and almost two decades as an esteemed professional in the veterinary field, I’d come to understand that, in many ways, Randy was still just a little boy who’d grown up on a local farm, loving animals. His passion and enthusiasm for his work had proved impossible for me to resist. “Do you have a dog in mind?”
“Actually, I do,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. “It won’t be a service animal.”