“What?” I asked, taking the paper from him, but not looking at what it said. “Why not?” Training service animals was what I’d studied so hard to do. I loved the idea of a dog changing the life of a person with special needs. I loved the thought—after everything I’d done wrong, all the damage I’d done—of contributing something so pure and good to the world. It was the one tiny spot of brightness that shone inside me, a living amends for my sin of taking that child in the park from her mother. For the decision I made to give away my girls.
“Well, you know I’ve been working with a local no-kill shelter, trying to help find homes for strays,” Randy said, snapping me out of my thoughts. I nodded and waited for him to go on. He shifted forward at his desk and leaned toward me as he spoke again. “One of our biggest obstacles has been behavioral issues with the animals. Most of them have had no training, or they’ve been mistreated or violently abused, so they’re exceptionally difficult to work with.”
“Right.” I already knew all of this. I drummed my fingers on the tops of my thighs, anxious for him to get to the point.
“So, what I’m thinking is that you could take these unskilled and wounded animals and teach them how to behave so they’ll have a much better chance of finding a home. You’d be providing an amazing service.”
“But what about the service dogs I’m working with? What happens to them?” There were currently two dogs living with Randy and his wife that he brought in to the clinic on the days I worked so I could further their training to be guide dogs. I’d just finished teaching them obstacle avoidance, the most important safety skill dogs must learn in order to lead their masters along the safest route. Over the next several months, I needed to reinforce this skill in them by using repetition and reward. I wasn’t sure I could do this and work with a dog from the shelter.
“You’ll continue with their training when you’re here. Myer also approved you to come to the clinic four days a week instead of three.” Randy grinned, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not too shabby, huh?”
I shook my head, wondering how the other inmates would react not only to my having a dog with me at all times but to my getting the freedom to leave the prison four days a week. There were other work-release programs in which the women took part—things like highway cleanup and grounds maintenance—but I was the only prisoner who worked for Randy. He’d tried to add another inmate to the program but decided that was too demanding for him and asked that Myer allow me to be the single participant for the term of my incarceration. And because Randy offered to pay for the cost of transporting me to and from the clinic, Myer agreed, as long as I didn’t cause either of the men any problems.
“Come on,” Randy said, standing up from his desk and heading out of his office. “I brought in your first pup this morning. She’s a sweetie, but she’s had a rough time of things. You’re exactly what she needs.”
I followed him as he walked toward the kennel, and Mendez followed me. From the linoleum-lined hallway, I could hear the echoes of the dogs barking, excited as the other vet techs took them out of their pens for their midmorning play sessions in the fenced yard. When we entered the room that housed the animals, Mendez, as he always did, sat down in the chair next to the door, and Randy went directly to the last pen on the right-hand side of the first row. I went with him.
“Here she is,” he said, and I crouched down and looked through the chain-link gate.
The dog was curled up in the far corner, her fluffy, tan tail wrapped around the front of her body like a blanket. She looked to be about forty pounds, and her nose was tucked beneath her hind leg. She was shaking. “Hey, sweetie,” I said, glancing at the tag on the gate to see if she had been given a name, but the space was blank. I made a kissing sound, and she looked up at me, the fear she felt obvious in her big, brown eyes. “It’s okay, baby,” I murmured. “It’s all right, sweet girl.”
“The people at the shelter called her Wendy,” Randy said, “but I thought you might come up with something better. She’s about nine months old.” He handed me the key to the kennel. “I’ve got other clients to see, so why don’t you spend the day with her? Get to know each other a bit. Chandi has everything you need to take with you tonight at the front desk. Food, a bowl, et cetera.”
“You don’t need me to do anything else today?” I asked, straightening back up to look at him face-to-face. “I wanted to check on Winston.” Randy’s face fell, and my stomach heaved.
“He didn’t make it through the night,” Randy said. “I’m sorry, but the infection damaged his heart. He went in his sleep.”
I bit my lower lip as a few tears rolled down my cheeks. Losing animals, bearing witness to their deaths, was part of this job, and yet every time I went through the process, the sorrow I’d worked so hard to push down came rushing back. It never got any easier.