My morning started out as it always had. Woke up. Washed up. Coffee. Read. Breakfast. Watched videos on channel Revolt. By 7:30, Doechii’s “Anxiety” was blasting from my TV while I was doing my best imitation dance montage.
In my groove, I barely heard an officer yell: “Last call rec!” I scurried frantically, trying to find my ID and sweater. A minute later, I was harangued by the unit sergeant for being late. I was upset about being scolded, but I managed to make it out of the pod and head out to the yard.
To get outside, I still needed to cross through the pallid and peopleless concrete gym, a place I hate. But before I reached outside, I spotted a dog in the corner of the gym. Its coat was dark and shiny, like a panther.
The dog was tied up to a cart hauling toiletries and hygienic supplies. I could see brown spots on his face, and his brownish eyes bulging like a frog’s throat. The dog noticed me and started wagging its tail and pacing the length of its leash.
I have long been skeptical of furry creatures. When I was a young boy, a pug mauled two of my toes. So I hesitated when I encountered that dog in the gym. But some innate, unresolved part of me pulled closer. Approaching, I looked for its handler.
“You gonna bite me?” I asked the animal. “Well, are you?”
I expected it to answer back in human speak but instead there was silence, then more tail wagging and prancing paws.
As I reached out my hand, the dog grew calm, maybe a little scared. We both were. I patted the dog’s head, but that was it.
Soon the dog’s please-pet-me-energy became unmistakable. I couldn’t help but smile at its playful persona. In a small offering of introduction, I went for the caress, kneeling as I patted its head, working my tattooed fingers behind its long, tapered ears.
I think it sensed my uneasiness because its tail sporadically went haywire, flinging up and down and side to side, like a child throwing a tantrum. Then, in an instant, it was all over me, burying its head in my chest, licking my arms, sniffing all around my head as I scratched its back and between its shoulder blades.
I felt safe petting its soft and shiny fur, and pretty soon I relaxed. Never in my adult years had I caressed an animal. I remained quiet. A kind of heaviness took hold inside me. While the dog nuzzled its head into my body, I became motionless.
“Oh man! She likes you!” I heard someone say.
It was the dog’s handler, who managed to creep up behind me.
“Dude, she’s cool,” I finally managed to say.
Her primary caretaker was Manuel. The sweet pup, a German shepherd-husky mix, was named Stacy. She was a character. Manuel had taught her how to shake hands, bow for a treat and play dead.
While Manuel and I were talking, she collapsed on the floor and sighed as if she was bored. We both laughed.
Manuel told me that primary caretakers are paid $80 a month. But he said it isn’t about the money.
“My compensation’s companionship,” he said.
Pedro, another primary caretaker who walked by as his dog played outside, agreed: “For me it’s liberating to be a guardian for my dog. It’s its own reward.”
I asked Pedro about the bonding part of the experience.
“Guys in the program are lifers,” he said. “Some ex-gang members — it’s changed them.”
Without him saying more, I understood immediately. My own meeting with Stacy was overwhelming. It was more than just man meets dog, dog then jumps on man; it was transcendent.
For the next hour we bonded. She let me guide her through handshakes and showed off with a couple rollovers, for which she was rewarded with doggy treats. Her personality brightened my day, and helped me tend to the fearful boy inside me who was afraid of dogs. I never did make it to the yard that day.
