Randy set a comforting hand on my shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and then a moment later, was gone. I put the key in the lock on the gate, and slowly opened it. Again, the dog lifted her head, gazing at me with a worried intensity. Her tail lifted once, twice, wagging a nervous warning. That was something I’d learned early on working with dogs, that when they wagged their tails, it could mean any number of things: fear, excitement, or hesitance. It could also mean they were about to attack.
“Hey there, puppy,” I said in a low, soothing voice. How you spoke to a dog was just as important as what you said. She needed to know I wasn’t a threat, so after I locked the gate behind me, I got down on my hands and knees, to be at her level. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s all right, sweet girl.”
She tensed, and tucked her tail between her back legs, eyeing me. I was just a couple of feet away, so I lifted one arm, holding my hand out, fingers curled under so she could sniff me. In six years, I’d never been bitten, and I didn’t want to start now. Randy wouldn’t have given me a vicious animal, nor would Myer have approved it.
The dog lifted her head and stood up, tail still tucked between her legs as she took one hesitant step, then two, toward me. “That’s it,” I said, in a singsong tone. “Good girl. That’s a good girl. Come here, you sweet thing.” I kept completely still, allowing her to make the decision to come to me.
Finally, she stretched out her neck and sniffed my hand. She took another step, moving her wet nose to my arm, allowing my fingers access to her neck. When I scratched her, she startled but didn’t pull away, allowing me to move my hand up and over her head, down her back and side to her belly. There wasn’t a dog I’d met who didn’t succumb to a good belly rub, and this girl was no exception. As my hand touched her there, her body softened, and she rolled to the ground, over onto her back to give me better access.
“Good girl,” I said again, looking her over as I loved her up. She was tan with black markings, likely some kind of shepherd mix. Her fur lay flat against her body, and though her tail was full, it had a wiry texture that reminded me of a Labrador retriever.
“What should I name you?” I asked her as I ran my fingers through her fur, giving her a full-body massage. She grunted and wiggled on her back, encouraging me to continue. “Wendy doesn’t work, does it?” I paused, thinking. “What about Jazz? Or Trixie?”
Her ears perked at the sound of the second name, so that’s what I decided to call her. With the long “e” sound at the end, it was similar enough to the name she’d been given by the shelter that she would still respond to it, but Trixie had more personality. More pizzazz.
I smiled until my fingers hit something raised and rough along her rib cage. “What’s this?” I said, using two hands to move her fur out of the way so I could see what I had only felt, and my eyes landed on several thick red scars that ran the length of her left side. My bottom lip quivered, and then I leaned down to rest my face on her warm body. Someone had beaten this poor pup, with something big and hard enough to break her skin.
“It’s okay,” I crooned as I righted myself and looked her straight in the eye. “I’ll take care of you now. No one will hurt you again.”
She looked at me like she’d understood exactly what I’d said, as though she knew that promise was as important for me to make as it was for her to hear. Then she climbed into my lap, sitting on the tops of my thighs while resting her head on my chest. She let loose a low, contented groan, melting her body against mine. I wrapped my arms around her, continuing to pet her, hoping she knew that whatever had happened to her in the past was over, and from this moment on, a new kind of life had begun.
? ? ?
Within two months of my having Trixie with me twenty-four hours a day, she had lost all signs of quivering shyness and blossomed into a confident, sweet animal who curled up in my bunk with me each night. She took to obedience training as though she’d been waiting for it all of her life. She was a quick study, picking up on the basic training I provided, and even showed signs of having the qualities of a good service animal candidate, something I planned to discuss with Randy later that week.
It was a Tuesday evening in early July, and I was walking with Trixie down the long hall toward my bunk when a voice I didn’t recognize called out to me. “Hey!”
I kept walking, keeping a firm grip on Trixie’s leash. “Heel,” I said in a low tone when she started to trot past me. I gave her collar a quick, gentle tug to the right, and she responded by bringing her pace back in sync with mine.
“Hey!” the woman said again, and I glanced over my shoulder, seeing her lumber toward me. I only knew this woman by reputation—she was serving time for being the getaway driver when her boyfriend robbed a corner store. Since she’d entered the prison a few weeks ago, she’d gotten into two fistfights in the cafeteria and threatened to beat up anyone who came near her in the showers. I’d done my best to stay out of her way, but there I was with her in a side hallway, having just returned from my shift at the clinic with Mendez. There was no one else around.