Somewhere Out There(54)
“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.”
“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.