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Authors: Paul Griffin

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“I know. So howya doin’?”

“I just said,
school
started. Must I translate?”

“Good news is, I’ve been looking into the dog thing,” Vic says.

“Oh god.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“I hit the salad bar with a few of my buddies from the VFW a couple of nights back. They’re co-sponsoring an application for a dog for Anthony.”

“V
F
W,” I say. “
Foreign
wars. Anthony never made it overseas.”

“Kid, they all know your brother. They know what he gave up for that old man in the truck. They love him. Everybody does. We’ll probably have a dog within the month.”

“Vic—”

“
Hey
. Stop. I’m sorry you had a bit of a rough summer. I am. And it’s okay to be in a bad mood. But it’s not okay to be in a bad mood around other people.”

“What are you
talking
about? A bit of a rough summer? You have no idea what I’ve endured these past weeks.”

“Céce, look, I’m sixty-eight years old. I know what you’ve endured. The time for enduring is over. Now it’s time to be happy. This dog thing: You need to do it. For your mother, kid. For your brother. And you have nothing to worry about here. They come one hundred percent trained, the dogs.”

“You’re
sure
?”

“Specifically for injured soldiers too,” Vic says. “They train them in the jails.”

“The jails.”

“The prisoners are the trainers.”

“Prisoners.”

“Good for the prisoner, the dog, the vet. Everybody wins.”

“Backtrack. Prisoners like Mack?”

“They want the older guys doing it. Here.” He taps the website onto his iPad.

Old Dogs, New Tricks: We look to rehabilitate dogs while giving veterans companionship and prisoners hope. Trainers generally are at least thirty years of age with significant offenses on their records, with the average age being fifty-one. By taking part in the program, older participants often are able to reduce their sentences, achieve early parole, and, upon release, segue to community-service-oriented positions that will sustain them both financially and spiritually in their senior years. Many trainers find post-prison employment at Old Dogs, New Tricks. Dogs are trained individually and to accommodate each veteran’s needs. Trainers visit the prospective adopters’ homes with the dogs to incorporate special needs into training.

“So the prisoner is coming to my house?”

“Absolutely,” Vic says. “Probably sometime in the next few days, the vet who filed the application tells me.”

“Okay
wait
. Again, I know it’s a ridiculous long shot, but Mack is ridiculously gifted—”

“Check the list of training sites there,” Vic says, shaking his head no. “You’ll see that, unfortunately, the island hasn’t been approved as an official site yet.”

“It says ‘application pending.’ ”

“Exactly,” Vic says, “which is why I’m having all my buddies from the VFW write letters of support to get it there. A few years from now, Mack comes of age, they’ll hire him. Won’t be long after that when he’ll be running the show, just you watch.”

“Why do you keep investing in him?”

“Investing?”

“Your hope. You taught him to cook. You were willing to send him to school. You trusted him, and then he goes and—”

“Nah, now look, none of that. Horrible things happen. They do. But you move on stronger. This Old Dogs thing is a great program. In the future, Mack can be a big part of it. He
needs
to be a part of it. Look at the testimonials link there.”

I’m studying the site. All these older inmates say Old Dogs, New Tricks saved their lives. I’m starting to soften. And I’m too drained to fight Vic anymore. “You’re unrelenting.”

“Indefatigable even,” he says.

“How’d you find out about this thing anyway?”

“Remember that kid Cameron who used to work over at the original Vic’s a few years back, used to do delivery at the Too once in a while? Maybe you were too young, but your mother will remember him. Good kid. Anyway, he’s in this alternative to prison program, and for his parole, he asked me to be one of his sponsors. He’s trying to be a journalist. I turned him onto this site looking for animal rescue stories. He tapped a few of his contacts from the old days, went out and dug up the Old Dogs story, and they published it. Here, click that link, the one that says
A Spin With Cosmos
. It’s a potent little piece.” He heads off with his crossword.

The link redirects me to this animal rescue website that Vic was pushing on Ma a few weeks back. A side banner asks readers to send in interesting animal rescue stories.
A Spin With Cosmos
is featured on the front page of the group’s newsletter:

Zeke made a mistake. Cosmos was a throwaway. They live in a small but clean room, and they are each other’s everything. Bars and razor wire surround them, but when they are together, they are free. “This dog has taken me places I didn’t dare dream,” Zeke says, throwing a knotted stick into a mound of chopped branches. We are in the prison’s grounds maintenance yard. Recent storms felled many trees. We watch as Cosmos digs through the branches for the one his trainer threw. “I used to lock into the past,” Zeke says. “I used to fear the future. But Cosmos has taken me into living in this minute. I never thought I’d get here. He just wants to be happy, and you can’t stop him from doing that. That’s his job, having a gas with himself. He doesn’t care where he is or who he’s with—he even loves the guards. You can’t be sad around him. He won’t let you. I know what peace looks like now.”
Cosmos retrieves the very stick Zeke threw and sits on his trainer’s feet. “Pit bulls like to do that,” Zeke says. I wonder if the dog is guarding Zeke. “No,” Zeke says. “He just has to be touching something alive all the time. I’ve trained him not to jump up, so anything above the knees is off limits, unless I squat and call him to me. Then he’s allowed to curl into me. It can be a hundred degrees out, and he will still try to climb inside my shirt.” Zeke and Cosmos demonstrate. “If you take the time to train a dog, he’ll teach you what you are and where you can go. How you can be calm and strong at the same time. This Cosmos is special, though. He catches houseflies with his mouth and brings them outside and spits them to set them free.” Zeke buries his head in the dog’s neck. He turns away and runs with the dog.

Then there’s this bit about Cosmos being in love with a mouse, and my ESP is making a comeback. It’s tickling hard: I think we’re going to get a really good dog. Yeah, I
feel
it.

THE NINETY-FIRST DAY . . .

(Thursday, September 10, morning)

MACK:

“Mister Morse, you will recall I told you publicity is most important to our program.”

“I do recall that, Mister Thompkins.”

“That was a statement, not a question. Eye contact please. Good. A member of a prominent VFW organization read your interview. On behalf of the membership, he has applied for a dog, specifically the Cosmos mentioned in the article. This is an exceptionally strong submission. Sixty-one letters from veterans accompanied the application. The recommendations are unanimous in their praise for the wounded soldier. We are grateful for the opportunity to work with enthusiastic sponsors, and I personally would very much—
very
much, Mister Morse—like to work with this group again. It’s extremely important that this site visit go smoothly.”

“What visit?”

“You will assess the living situation, the physical plant, its layout, for special needs and considerations. You will tailor the remaining training time you have with the animal accordingly. I’m saying you’ll have to go to the
house,
Mister Morse.”

That’s what I thought he was saying. A field trip? A day in the free air, no bars or barbed wire? “Well, I guess if I have to.”

“Indeed,” Thompkins says. “You will be cuffed and shackled from the moment you step from this cell to the moment you return. You will be blind on the way over and back. You will have no contact with these folks after the visit. You are not to give them your name, nor are you to ask for theirs. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

I look to Boo. Dopey tongue sticking out, tail whirling on my look. “Mister T., does this mean Boo passed training?”

“Not yet, but he would not be placed,
tentatively,
if we did not suspect that he
might
pass.”

“That mean I’m a suspect for passing too?”

“I can be nothing less than honest with you. Some of your training methods are entirely unorthodox and certainly not in the manual my team and I worked so very hard to develop. You are under review. We’ll see how you do with the site visit.”

“Whatever the vet needs, I’m sure I can make it happen.”

He crosses his arms and nods toward the chair. “Sit.”

Me and Boo sit.

Thompkins takes off his glasses, rubs his tired eyes, and hides his left hand under his right arm. “Boo’s prospective adopter was wounded in an explosion. He—”

“Car bomb, right?”

“Something like that, and Mister Morse at this stage of our association, do I really need to remind you not to interrupt me?”

“Sorry.”

“May I continue, then?
Thank
you. The soldier lost his legs. Boo can’t be knocking him out of the wheelchair.”

“He doesn’t pounce anymore. I trained it out of him.”

“Did you train him to respond to whisper commands? The young man’s voice box is partially compromised secondary to shrapnel. There’s a chapter in the manual—”

“Boo, down,” I whisper.

Boo flops over to offer up his big fat belly for a scratch.

Thompkins frowns.

“I interrupted you again, Mister T. I’m toast, right?”

Thompkins looks at me for a long time. I have to say one thing about him: He never rolls his eyes at me. He glares straight on. “Look, these site visits are almost always emotional for the family. You have to be strong. You must remain calm. Your job is to keep your focus on what you can control, and that is the dog. After that, your job is finished.” He leaves.

“Boo, we found you a home, boy. You’re gettin’ there, bud. You’re almost free.”

(Two days later, Saturday, September 12, late morning of the ninety-third day. . .)

Me and Boo huddle in the backseat of the beat-up Department of Corrections van. I’m in a bright orange jumper, cuffs at my ankles and wrists. The shackle chain threads a ring on the floor. Handcuff chains tie into a chain belt around my waist.

Wash signed up this other guard to be the driver. I seen him around. He never says much, but he’s all right. Him and Wash go back pretty far, Wash told me. They’re both wearing guns today. Wash readies the hood. “Sorry, son.”

“I understand, Wash.”

Boo’s asleep and snoring in my lap before we’re two turns into the ride. I give up trying to figure north, south, east, west after the fifth turn. Sun flickers through the gauzy mesh hood. The windows are open, the breeze soft. I smell cheap perfume, crackling chewing gum, cinnamon, vanilla incense, pizza, chicken gyro smoking on a cart vendor’s grill. I hear birds. A street preacher rages. Trucks bang over potholes, bass beat booms, talk radio, planes, sirens, a car door shuts, a dribbling basketball, a sneaker squeak, the ball rattles the rim, a skateboard scrapes a rail, a jackhammer far off, shopping bags rustle, pigeons fuss, flapping wings. The elevated train rumbles, then a long squeal of brakes. A trash picker’s cart clicks over sidewalk cracks. Bottle glass tinkles. The clinks ripple out and melt into the bricks of buildings. Somebody drops his keys.

“Pizza smells pretty good, huh, Wash?”

“It does.”

“I hope they have lots of hydrants.”

“Hydrants you say?”

“On Boo’s new block. Dogs need their hydrants.”

“Yes they do.” Wash chuckles and I chuckle too, because I copy people like that sometimes, I don’t know why.

“Wash, you ever had pineapple on a pizza?”

“Nope.”

“Me either, but I heard it’s pretty good, though.”

“Doesn’t sound too good.”

“Boston told me he had it all the time. He was like, ‘You got to try it, you got to try it. Don’t judge it before you eat it.’”

“Hmph,” Wash says.