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Pen pals - program teams rescued dogs with prison inmates
Pen pals
An innovative private program that teams rescued dogs with Texas
prison inmates proves to be a life-changing experience for both
Posted on Sun, Sep. 02, 2007
By DAVID CASSTEVENS
Star-Telegram staff writer
VENUS, TX - Bradley Waltermire is serving five years for manslaughter.
He has known all kinds in prison. Many convicts are quick studies, but
his new cellmate -- a loner type, quiet, nervous, withdrawn -- was an
enigma. He wasn't sure how they would get along. As the 27-year-old
offender talked about those first tentative days this summer when they
began sharing Cell 12 at the Sanders Estes Unit, his roommate crossed
the 8-by-10-foot cubicle without speaking and, in an egregious breach
of etiquette, even for state prison, began lapping thirstily -- and loudly --
from the toilet. "She doesn't like her [water] bowl," Waltermire said, in
defense of his new best friend.
The happy dog padded back to her favorite resting place, a bathmat
outside her crate next to the inmate's narrow metal bed.
Jenny is part of a program in which neglected, abused and abandoned
dogs are paired with carefully selected members of the prison population
who are taught to train and care for them. Inmates feed, groom and take
the animals outdoors on schedule, four times daily.
Inside the concrete walls, behind high fences topped with razor wire,
dogs that once appeared unsociable -- some cowering, others too
fearful to make eye contact -- respond to the attention and love.
In two months these animals become friendly, loyal, obedient companions.
"Dogs forgive quickly," said Gayle Justice of Waxahachie, the volunteer
trainer. "And love eternally."
Like their prison caretakers, each animal has a history -- a hard-luck story.
Jenny, about 5 years old, is guilty only of trusting others to protect and
provide for her. Rescued by Camp Wolfgang, a dog shelter in Ennis, the
purebred German shepherd suffers from hip dysplasia, a condition that
can cause pain and lameness. For two years she has been overlooked
many times for adoption, rejected because her left ear droops.
"I thought, 'Eight weeks. I won't get attached to a dog,'" Waltermire said.
"I was wrong."
He gives Jenny one aspirin, twice a day. In turn, she makes her handler's
time in lockup pass more quickly.
"She's right there, at the [cell] door," he said, smiling at the image of
the prancing, tail-wagging greeting that awaits him at the end of his workday.
Their time, the inmate regrets, is almost over. Jenny soon will be
paroled and adopted.
Dogs are called "man's best friend" for a reason. For the incarcerated,
they help alleviate feelings of loneliness, boredom and isolation. Inmates
chosen for the program -- a privilege that is lost if they commit any
disciplinary infraction -- feel empowered as they learn a new skill. Many
speak of experiencing a measure of rehabilitation themselves. Some
become more empathetic and caring as a result of being responsible
for another living being.
One offender expressed how a dog named Skye has changed him.
"I've had anger problems all my life," said Michael Hollie, 46, who is in
prison five years for drug-related charges. "In this program, you have
to have patience. These dogs came here with issues. They didn't come
here to be abused further. So you start working on your temperament.
Then, it starts to show with other people. I've honed some skills I haven't
used in a long time."
He smiled at the husky-Australian shepherd mix dozing at his feet.
"Having a dog is about as close to being on the outside as you can get,"
Hollie said. "When I have a bad day -- and we all do in here -- I can just
close off in my room with her. She's a sweetheart. She likes country music.
I'll put it on and [troubles] kind of go away."
Estes Unit is the third Texas prison to implement Paws in Prison. The
program, at no cost to taxpayers, is run by Machelle Gaconnet, K9 manager
with the GEO Group, a private company that operates 20 penal facilities
in Texas. Gaconnet evaluates the criminal history and prison-conduct
record of each applicant and interviews those who qualify for
consideration. All the inmate-trained animals -- more than 100 --
have found new homes.
David McComis, the Estes warden and a pet lover -- his Kiwi is a
3-pound miniature Chihuahua -- first observed the program's success
at a prison in Kyle.
"Other wardens call and tease me. 'You're runnin' a kennel over there,'"
McComis said. "I've had them mail me Kibbles 'n Bits. But I've seen what
it does for the dogs, and I've seen what it does for the offenders.
"People can say whatever they want. The transformation is pretty amazing."
Second chances
Abe was rescued five minutes before he was to be euthanized at the
Ellis County SPCA.
Judy was found running with her mother as a stray and removed from
Dallas animal control before being put to sleep.
Midnight's previous owners were moving. They surrendered the black
Lab mix to Camp Wolfgang.
All six dogs inside the prison came from the Ennis shelter, where most
of the 200-plus residents are full-blooded German shepherds.
After escaping death row, Abe fell ill with distemper, and an upper
respiratory infection developed into pneumonia. The camp's owner,
Wally Swanson, and his staff lovingly nursed the 2-year-old Great
Pyrenees-Australian shepherd mix back to health.
Now Abe lay contentedly at the feet of Donnie Stowe, who is in prison for
violating a protective order.
"He's a good dog," the inmate said. "What I call a hanging-out dog. He likes
to be with you. He learns real fast. I'm the baby sitter. My cellie" - he
acknowledged the inmate next to him - "is the trick master. Abe's learned
lots. He can sit. Lie down. Shake hands. We're teaching him to 'pray.'"
The men smiled at their gentle pupil with big paws and a long, coarse white coat.
A veteran professional dog trainer -- the aptly named "Ms. Justice" --
meets with the handlers three mornings each week.
The inmates attended a two-week training class before the dogs were placed
in their care.
Justice had never been inside a prison and felt reservations the first time
she entered the minimum-security facility, a solemn sterile concrete
structure southeast of Fort Worth that houses 1,000 male inmates.
"Oh, my goodness. It was gloomy. Intimidating," she recalled. "I thought
'This is going to be very tough on the dogs.'"
Inmate Stowe said, "A dog's feelings are probably no different from a
human when you get locked up. It's a new place. You don't know what's
going to happen."
The dogs slowly adapted to prison life. They grew calmer and more
responsive. Each learned to obey basic verbal commands.
"We got Abe to roll over on the sixth try," said the dog's co-handler, an
inmate who asked not to be identified.
During a training session seven weeks into the program, the six students
lined up in a row in a hallway and lay down, a few feet apart. Each dog
took turns playfully hurdling over the others. It was like a circus act. The
inmates, beaming with pride, rewarded the dogs with reinforcing praise
and pure affection.
Near the end of the two-hour period, Justice glanced at her watch.
"You guys want to go outside now?" she asked. "It's past potty-break time."
Accompanied by a uniformed guard, the inmates and dogs exited a thick
door that opened onto a fenced rectangular yard. Moments later they
returned to X-pod, a 40-inmate housing unit nicknamed the "Dog House."
Since the animals moved into X-pod, it has seen a 63 percent drop in
disciplinary incidents, McComis said.
Graduation day
The graduating class of Paws in Prison didn't wear mortarboards and gowns.
Still, there was an atmosphere of formality in the prison's visitation room.
The warden, dressed in a starched white shirt and necktie, was all smiles,
even though a week earlier he privately had expressed mixed emotions
about the impending graduation day.
"Some of these guys," he had said, "are going to be distraught when they
have to give their dogs away."
Deputy warden Michael Ringer welcomed those present -- prison staff,
families of the offenders, Camp Wolfgang's director (who provided
bowls, food, collars, leashes and crates for the program), and the
guests of honor, the adopters. The program's adoption fee ranges from
$150-$200. All the dogs except Jinx, who suffers separation anxiety,
would go to new homes.
Ringer then introduced the graduates seated together, dogs at their sides.
"Offender Mario Perez ..." The roll call continued. "Offender Paul Dixon ...
Offender Rodney Ryker ..." As each man stood, he was greeted with applause.
In the back of the room was a refreshments table, with a tray of cookies
and a decorated sheet cake that read "Bone-afide Graduate!"
One by one, the inmates stepped forward and asked their dogs to
perform, demonstrating the results of obedience training. Each man
received a certificate with a photograph of himself with his dog. Dressed
in institutional orange and unaccustomed to expressing themselves
publicly, they overcame their self-consciousness and shared what the
program has meant to them.
"I've been incarcerated three years," Perez said. "You get into a routine.
With these dogs, it's new every day. I find myself waiting sometimes for
Midnight to wake up, so I can have something to do, whether to train
him. Or groom him. Somebody to talk to.
"These guys are pretty good listeners," he said, drawing laughs. "They'll
listen all day long."
Jennifer would be taken to Dallas to partner with a woman who is confined
to a wheelchair.
Waltermire put his thoughts in a one-page printed letter to the woman,
which said, in part, "Jenny's favorite snack is Cheese Nips. I know, I know.
I can't resist ... She's a good pooch who snores at night." Finally, "I hope
you will enjoy her as much as I have."
The men who befriended Abe spoke briefly, with feeling.
"We're going to miss Abe," Stowe said. He affectionately described the
dog they fostered as that "big lump" of comfort who slept on their cell
floor. "But I know he's going to a good home. That makes a big difference to me."
In the audience, Aaron and Sarah Farmer sat up in their chairs and took in
every word. The Fort Worth couple has three young children. They decided
to get another pet after their 16-year-old dog died. Three months ago
they saw Abe's photo on an Internet Web site, petfinder.com. "We fell head
over heels in love," Sarah said.
They chose the Camp Wolfgang dog, not knowing Abe would be
entering a correctional facility.
So they bided their time. Now, finally, the wait was over.
"Did you bring a leash?" Stowe later asked the Farmers.
"He likes his food dry," the inmate told them, sounding like a parent
leaving instructions to a first-time baby sitter.
Sarah Farmer knelt and lovingly buckled on a new collar with "ABE"
engraved on his silver tag shaped like a bone. Stowe, the 60-year-old
offender who once kept dogs on a small farm, presented the new owner
with a handful of dog treats. Then, the dreaded moment arrived. Steeling
himself, his jaw set, Stowe stared at the floor in silence as the shaggy
friend at his feet was led away.
The Farmers moved along a hallway, Aaron Farmer feeling the gentle tug
as he held Abe's leash.
"He's big enough to walk me," he said with a grin.
The couple waved goodbye. Then, in celebration, they walked through
the double doors and out of the gray prison -- the three of them -- into
the fresh air and sunshine.
They crossed the parking lot.
Excited, her heart full, Sarah Farmer couldn't contain her joy.
"Mister Abe," she sang out, "you're free! You're freeeee!"
Adopting the dogs
Interested in adopting a Paws in Prison dog?
At least eight dogs will be selected this month for the second training
session at the Sanders Estes Unit in Venus. After spending eight weeks
in the care of inmates, the dogs will be available for adoption, about
Oct. 30, said Machelle Gaconnet, K9 manager for the GEO Group, a
private company than manages the state prison.
Adoption fees range from $150-$200.
For more information, contact Gaconnet at mgaconnet@thegeogroupinc.com or 512-426-1794.
Camp Wolfgang, a nonprofit rescue shelter in Ennis, has more than 200
dogs that need new homes. Most are purebred German shepherds. Photos
and profiles of the animals are available. An adoption fee of $200 includes
a one-year supply of heartworm medication.
For information, contact Wally Swanson at wally@campwolfgang.org
or 214-535-6600.
Posted on SHARE Yahoo group - Sept. 6, 2007