A decade ago, my 7-year-old son and I roasted marshmallows at our backyard firepit. We were celebrating. After months of searching, we had found the perfect puppy for our family — a chocolate Labrador retriever with a bent tail. In two short weeks, we were set to pick her up from the breeder. 

We spent the evening discussing pet names around the fire, and eating too many sweets. 

The following Monday, I was arrested. 

A year after I went to prison, my facility started a program that allows incarcerated people to train service dogs, which are then sent outside the prison to help others. The animals live with their trainers 24 hours a day. It is a program that sometimes has a long waitlist of applicants. 

I am not part of the program, but I live on the same unit as the service animals and their trainers. The dogs have provided people with a newfound sense of purpose, and helped some navigate trauma and stress. For me, I’ve appreciated the benefits of the program, but it has also reminded me of the dog that my son and I never adopted.

Less like prison

U.S. Army veteran Paul Reyes has seen how the program helps others like him who battle post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Reyes served two tours in Iraq. His service ended after he was injured by a blast from an improvised explosive device in 2011. After the Army, he struggled with PTSD and substance use disorder, which he said contributed to his incarceration in 2015. 

He has been a trainer since 2018 and said the program provides a sense of purpose he never would have expected in prison. 

Reyes said being around the animals makes prison feel less like prison, and more like life on the outside. 

“Sometimes we lose sight of the outside world and what it’s like,” Reyes said. 

Some of the canines Reyes has trained have gone on to help other veterans with PTSD. 

At any time, there are between 10 and 20 service animals working with trainers like Reyes. Incarcerated men work with puppies from birth until they are 2 years old. The trainers develop a bond with the animals before passing the leash on.

“It can be hard when your dog leaves,” Reyes said.

Barks as bridges

Federico Jimenez was one of the first incarcerated people to be part of the program when it began in 2016. One of the most experienced trainers on the unit, he wants to continue working with service animals after he is released in 2026.

“The dogs have helped me get through [my prison sentence],” Jimenez said.

The influence of the service animals extends beyond trainers. Staff frequently visit our unit in the weeks after a litter of puppies are born. 

“It’s an opportunity for an at-ease conversation,” said office specialist Jaylene Stewart. 

Stewart said the program allows staff to interact with incarcerated people in a way they normally would not have the opportunity to. 

“I see a lot of newer staff go see the puppies and talk to the trainers,” Stewart said. “They have a face-to-face interaction about something they have in common, and they would never have that without the puppies.” 

Stewart is a dog owner herself. She has a shih tzu-and-Yorkie mix. 

“When I come home, [my dog] is so excited to see me with those little brown eyes,” she said. “The trainers get to experience some of that because they live with the dogs. Plus they are reducing the time it takes for a person in need to receive a service dog. It’s an incredible program.”

Guilt and unfairness

Despite the good that comes from the program, I have never applied to be a trainer. I often feel guilty when I spend time with the animals, especially the puppies. It feels unfair that I would get to raise a puppy when I selfishly robbed my son of that experience.

My son turned 17 in May. I talk to him on the phone frequently and see him through video calls. Sometimes we talk about the dog that wasn’t.

I have reminded him of the names he liked: unexpected ones like Zelda and Marshmallow, and more conventional names I preferred, like Scout or Bella.

I still remember that night so well, his face brightened by the fire and his eyes filled with joy. When I ask him about the dog that never was now, he tells me he is happy and that I am forgiven. 

But I can see in his eyes that, in some ways, he was happier then. He was happier when the background noise of our conversation was the crackle of fire, not the hiss and static of a prison phone call. He was happier when he could see my face without it skipping across the video call from a poor prison internet connection. He was happier when I lived with him, and when we were about to get our first dog together.