Paroled
by
Phebe Jewell
Dogs came to Latrice with crooked legs that had never been set, necks ringed with missing fur. Meeting a new dog, she would
crouch down at nose level, speaking in a low voice. They had lots of time to get to know one another.
Her first dog, Chance, had been dumped near the Point Defiance Zoo in Tacoma. Jimmy, a mini Aussie whose octogenarian owner died surrounded by boxes of magazines and newspapers, arrived two years later. Her latest charge Scout was surrendered by a local man because the playful black lab was no good for hunting.
Latrice taught each dog to sit, come, and lie down. Holding a treat an inch from the dog’s nose, she would walk a few paces,
stopping as soon as the dog’s attention drifted away. Her dogs learned quickly. One word, one look was enough to make a dog obey. For once she set the pace.
She had been here 17 years and still had another eight before she was released.
If anyone asked Latrice why she was here, she would say she’d been with the wrong people at the wrong time. The details didn’t matter anymore.
Some of the newer women would giggle or point when they saw her stride along the courtyard by the Medium Security Unit, treat bag at her hip. Latrice paid them no mind. She had always kept to herself.
Besides, she had work to do. Training or grooming a dog, she saw only what was in front of her. As she detangled mats dangling from rumps or hiding behind ears, she let go of the random searches, the guards who made her wait because they could.
The younger women in her unit were angry all the time. They dropped trays in the cafeteria and swore at the guards most likely to write them up for an Infraction. They started fights just to forget that prison would be home for years. Resting her hand on top of a dog’s head, Latrice couldn’t remember what had set her off, why she spent most of that first winter in Segregation.
After living with Latrice, Chance went to a family with acreage. It took some work, but eventually shy Jimmy moved on to a therapist in Seattle. Latrice liked to imagine him resting his muzzle on someone’s knees as they held a cushion and sobbed.
Scout stayed with Latrice for over a year before leaving to live with a middle-school kid with autism in Yakima.
Before each dog left with its new owner, Latrice would walk them along the barbed wire fence, reminding them to behave. Don’t come back, she would whisper. I never want to see you here again.
crouch down at nose level, speaking in a low voice. They had lots of time to get to know one another.
Her first dog, Chance, had been dumped near the Point Defiance Zoo in Tacoma. Jimmy, a mini Aussie whose octogenarian owner died surrounded by boxes of magazines and newspapers, arrived two years later. Her latest charge Scout was surrendered by a local man because the playful black lab was no good for hunting.
Latrice taught each dog to sit, come, and lie down. Holding a treat an inch from the dog’s nose, she would walk a few paces,
stopping as soon as the dog’s attention drifted away. Her dogs learned quickly. One word, one look was enough to make a dog obey. For once she set the pace.
She had been here 17 years and still had another eight before she was released.
If anyone asked Latrice why she was here, she would say she’d been with the wrong people at the wrong time. The details didn’t matter anymore.
Some of the newer women would giggle or point when they saw her stride along the courtyard by the Medium Security Unit, treat bag at her hip. Latrice paid them no mind. She had always kept to herself.
Besides, she had work to do. Training or grooming a dog, she saw only what was in front of her. As she detangled mats dangling from rumps or hiding behind ears, she let go of the random searches, the guards who made her wait because they could.
The younger women in her unit were angry all the time. They dropped trays in the cafeteria and swore at the guards most likely to write them up for an Infraction. They started fights just to forget that prison would be home for years. Resting her hand on top of a dog’s head, Latrice couldn’t remember what had set her off, why she spent most of that first winter in Segregation.
After living with Latrice, Chance went to a family with acreage. It took some work, but eventually shy Jimmy moved on to a therapist in Seattle. Latrice liked to imagine him resting his muzzle on someone’s knees as they held a cushion and sobbed.
Scout stayed with Latrice for over a year before leaving to live with a middle-school kid with autism in Yakima.
Before each dog left with its new owner, Latrice would walk them along the barbed wire fence, reminding them to behave. Don’t come back, she would whisper. I never want to see you here again.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
