Rescuing Finley (A Forever Home Novel Book 1)

by Dan Walsh

  “Can we go out there now, even though it’s already started?”

  “No. The only door into the yard from here is right near where the podium is. We’d catch it for being such a distraction. But the main training room down this hall is closer to where everyone’s sitting. There’s several windows in there. You can pretty much see the whole thing.”

  “Sure, I’d like that.”

  They entered a large open room. Against the far wall, trays of subs, desserts and bottles of soda were laid out on folding tables. As Rita said, there was a row of windows along the outside wall on the left. Through the shears you could see the whole ceremony.

  They stood there a while and watched.

  “So how long you in for?” Rita asked.

  “Got a three-year sentence,” Amy said. “Served two. Waiting to find out how much gain time I’ll get being accepted into this program. But I think I could be getting out in six months or so.” It was hard to believe, even hearing it out of her own mouth.

  “That so? You might only have time to work with one or two dogs then, depending on what kind of training they get. You ever trained one before?”

  “No. The truth is, I never even owned a dog. I’ve always loved them and always wanted one, but my brother had bad allergies growing up, so we could never get one. When I got out on my own, I always lived in apartments that didn’t allow them.” She looked at Rita. “They’re going to teach me how to train them, right?”

  Rita nodded. “They’ll show you everything you need to know. When I first started, I was clueless. But it’s amazing how much these dogs can learn when they get the right kind of training.”

  They got quiet again as they looked out the window. Talking about her brother’s allergies made her feel sad. Last she heard, he was better now, but she’d pretty much lost all contact with him and her parents three years ago when they threw her out.

  She’d written them a few times when she got to the prison. For the first time in a long time, she’d have a stable address for a few years.

  They never wrote back.

  The only letter she’d gotten was from her brother’s new wife, Cassie. She didn’t even know he and Cassie had gotten engaged, that they were even a couple. Cassie was one of her friends back in high school. Another casualty of Amy’s meth addiction. But her letter had given Amy a little hope. Cassie had become a Christian, urged Amy to try and hook up with a prison ministry she’d read about. One that helped drug addicts get freed up while inside.

  So Amy did.

  Those people had helped her get right with God again, and turn her life around. She was sure God had opened up the door for her to get into this dog training program. The only sad thing was…that was the only letter she’d gotten from Cassie.

  Months later, Amy had written her back to thank her and tell her how she was doing, but the letter came back with a sticker saying no one by that name lived at that address.

  Guess she had moved. That was almost a year ago.

  11

  After the graduation ceremony, most of those in attendance piled into the room where Amy and Rita stood, including all the female inmates with the dogs they had trained. Standing with them, Amy supposed, were the veterans who would soon bring the dogs home. None of the vets wore uniforms, though a few wore camo pants. The dogs were all excited but did their best to behave and remain seated beside their trainers.

  Several of the vets were squatting down, engaging their new pets. Talking to them, patting their head, itching behind their ears. The dogs were certainly friendly and responded well to them, but it was also obvious most of their attention was centered on their trainers, not their new owners.

  Although there were plenty of smiles in the room, Amy could feel the inmates’ tension and see it in their eyes. A few of them blinked back tears.

  Just then, Captain Bridget Cummings, the woman in charge of the program and the emcee during the ceremony, spoke up in a loud voice. The inmates called her either Miss Bridget or Boss Lady. “Excuse me everyone. As you can see, we have some wonderful food laid out on these tables for lunch. The subs were donated by a local deli. There are three or four different kinds. We cut them in smaller sections, so feel free to try a few different ones. To start off, let’s have the trainers hand the leashes to the dogs’ new owners, then get in line for their food. Then you can switch places.”

  Rita walked up to Amy and said quietly, “You better get in line, too. This is our lunchtime.”

  Amy followed Rita’s cue and got in at the end of the line. “I can’t remember the last time I ate food brought in from the outside.” Several of the other inmates already in line greeted Rita with a nod or a few words. They all looked at Amy, but no one said anything.

  Halfway through the line, an inmate with dirty blonde hair standing in front of Rita said, “So, you’re the new girl. Wallace, right?”

  Amy nodded.

  “She’s taking Hogan’s place,” Rita said.

  Amy didn’t know Jenna Hogan personally, but she did know she had been released from prison recently after serving seven years of a ten-year term.

  “Hogan was good people,” the inmate said. “You’ve got some big shoes to fill. She was especially good with the dogs.”

  Amy picked up two small sections of a turkey and swiss cheese sub. She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know the first thing about training dogs. When the captain had interviewed her, she said that didn’t matter, that they would train her themselves. A retired couple who’d worked with dogs all their lives, the Maloney’s, were actually the ones who’d put this program together. They were supposed to be the ones who trained Amy. She hadn’t met the Maloney’s yet, but she knew who they were. Miss Bridget had introduced them during the first graduation ceremony.

  Right now, they were sitting in two metal chairs close to the front door, talking with a veteran. He held the leash for a mostly-white pit mix with big brown spots. Amy had always been afraid of pits. Not from any personal experience, just from their reputation. The captain had told her she needed to get over it if she wanted to be in the program. At least a third of the dogs were pit mixes. She’d also said much of their bad reputation was undeserved, and that the ones that they brought in the program had all been thoroughly evaluated.

  Amy hoped so. Glancing at the dogs in the room, at least a third of them were pits, and their faces and body language looked anything but fierce. The facial expression of the brown and white pit sitting next to the vet by the front door almost resembled a human smile.

  She and Rita finished getting their food and found two empty metal chairs to sit in. Amy said, “Have you ever trained a pit?”

  “Sure, I have. Amber was a pit mix. She had the sweetest disposition a dog could possibly have. And they’re smart, too. Way above average. And loyal. You can’t find a more loyal pet.”

  “Where does their bad reputation come from? Seems like every time you hear about someone being attacked by a dog on the news, it’s a pit.”

  “I know that’s how it seems,” Rita said. “But it’s not really what’s going on. You’re too young to remember this, but when I was your age and even younger, Dobermans were the bad dogs. They were the ones always attacking people in the news. I was terrified of them. I saw one coming down the sidewalk, I crossed the street. Back then, you never heard of pits attacking people. Now it’s all you ever hear. So what happened, Dobermans started being nice and pits started being mean?” She took a big bite out of her roast beef sub. “Brenda showed us a video about it,” she said, still chewing.

  “About pits?”

  She nodded. “About the bad rap they always get. In the video, there was a World War I Army poster of a pit in uniform. He was, like, the military mascot back then. The video showed all kinds of clips from old black-and-white movies. Pits in every one of them. Did you ever hear of Spanky and Our Gang?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a kids’ show made back in the thirties. We used to watch reruns of
it when I was a kid. The main dog in the show was a pit. Can you imagine people using a pit in a kids’ TV show today? Some people want to ban them altogether, because they think they’re so vicious. But they’re not. Not unless they’re raised that way.”

  Amy thought about it. What Rita said kind of made sense. She just figured pits were some new kind of breed, and that’s why you never used to hear about them before. But if they’ve been around all that time… “So, why do you only hear about pits anymore? Why are they the only ones in the news?”

  Rita set her sub back on her paper plate. “Because a bunch of jerky guys started breeding them to fight, so they could make money betting off the dogs. Think the video said it started back in the eighties. As the reputation for being fight dogs grew, other jerky guys, like drug dealers and gang members wanted them for guard dogs. And they all had this attitude about them. You know, my dog can take your dog. So these dogs, bred to be mean, got out of the yard sometimes and do what they were trained to do. But if you look at these dogs in here, they couldn’t be any sweeter. And none of the dogs we’ve ever trained, pits or otherwise, have ever come back because they attacked someone.”

  Amy felt relieved to hear this. She looked around the room at each of the pits. They acted just like every other dog here. Affectionate, calm and obedient. It was hard to think, as ignorant as she was now, that she’d ever be able to get a dog to act this way.

  Still, she had to admit if she was being honest…she hoped her first dog wouldn’t be a pit.

  12

  Chris

  The sense of danger was palpable.

  All around him, people went about their business as though everything was fine. Maybe for them, it was. They didn’t know what Chris knew, hadn’t seen what he’d seen.

  In a single moment, everything could change.

  Snipers didn’t wear a uniform. They dressed like everyone else. As he crossed the intersection, his eyes involuntarily scanned every window and doorway, especially in the upper floors around him. Looking for a curtain that moved, a shadow out of place, or even the barrel of a gun.

  On the sidewalks, it wasn’t just the men you had to watch out for. In this war, the women, children, even the elderly could turn on you, would turn on you. This kind of religious fanaticism transcended rational boundaries. War was always terrible and scary, and there were plenty of ways a soldier could get killed. But at least there were some basic norms in other wars you could count on, a few things that made sense.

  Not anymore.

  “Hey man, you getting on?”

  Chris turned his head toward the voice. A teenager with long blonde hair holding a skateboard.

  “The bus is here. You getting on?”

  Chris looked at where the kid was pointing. At the curb, a city bus had just pulled up and opened its doors. Some people were beginning to board. “Yeah, I am. Thanks.”

  The kid went ahead of him.

  Chris remembered where he was; the tension and sense of impending danger temporarily subsided. He looked both ways, then behind him. It seemed okay, so he carefully climbed the bus steps.

  Steps were still a challenge with his prosthetic leg. He knew it was firmly attached, so it wasn’t going anywhere, but lifting it so high made him nervous. He quickly surveyed the scene on the bus, individually checking out the handful of passengers.

  “You have to take a seat,” the bus driver said, “so I can get going.”

  “Sure,” Chris said. “Sorry.”

  The teenager with the skateboard sat in one of the front rows. The aisle was clear now, so Chris headed all the way to the back. He was relieved to find the back row empty. Made him feel a little more secure. He hated leaving his back exposed. Anything could happen behind you.

  Thankfully, he rarely had to take the city bus. He was on his way to pick up his car, which he’d dropped off yesterday to his mechanic. Like his nerves, his brakes were shot. It was a hassle, in some ways, going to this guy. But he’d known him since high school. Chris knew little about car engines. He could trust this guy not to take him to the cleaners. But his shop wasn’t big enough to offer the use of a rental car while you waited. That morning, he’d gotten the call. His car was ready to pick up whenever he was.

  Just a few more miles to go until they reached the street. He should be fine until then. Everybody in the bus seemed legit.

  Since he’d come home, he didn’t venture out too much. Going out and mingling with the general public always made him tense. His conscious mind knew he wasn’t in any harm. Not anymore. But these feelings would come over him. Some days worse than others.

  But for now, he was doing all right. He’d pick up his car, maybe drive-through a McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries, and just make it in time for his job interview at the golf course.

  Suddenly, the bus stopped. The doors opened.

  Chris sat up, eyeing the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of who was getting on. Maybe he’d get lucky, and it would just be an old lady. Somebody he didn’t have to worry about.

  13

  Summerville Oaks Golf Course

  Chris was starting to tense up as he sat in a straight back chair waiting for his interview to start with the Maintenance Manager. He needed this job. Not so much for the money. These days it was just him and he lived simply, so he could pretty much make it every month on his disability pay alone.

  He needed the job for sanity’s sake.

  Between his physical therapy sessions, he mostly sat around all day with nothing to do but think. Thinking wasn’t healthy. Not these days. It never led him anywhere but down.

  The inside door to the manager’s office opened, startling him. Another thing he couldn’t seem to control…overreacting to sudden noises. He did it all the time. He’d had some counseling and watched a number of videos, enough to know he was wrestling with PTSD. They hadn’t determined his final rating yet, but his physical therapist said it was often high among vets with amputation injuries. He was told his disability check would increase once the rating was finalized. But Chris didn’t want a high rating. He didn’t want to stay dependent on the government, or become even more so.

  He wanted to beat this thing.

  Chris looked up into the smiling face of Tom Korman, the man he was there to see.

  “You ready?” Tom said.

  Chris nodded. “Sure.”

  Tom waited a moment. Chris understood he was supposed to get up and follow him into the office. He did his best not to limp. He’d been working on smoothing out his stride for months. His physical therapist assured him he was getting closer every week. The goal was that no one would know he even had an artificial leg if he wore long pants.

  Tom walked around his desk and sat in his chair. It squeaked as he leaned back. “Have a seat.” He lifted a manila folder and opened it. “I’ve been looking over your application. You filled in all the blocks, but your answers were a little short.”

  “Short? There wasn’t a whole lot of space to write. At least with some of them. Feel free to ask me if you want any more info.”

  “I will. Actually, I need to.”

  Chris wondered what he meant.

  “Before we get into this, I want you to know most of the guys that work here are ex-military. Those two guys you passed on your way in here, for example. One was an Army ranger, the other used to work on A-10s.”

  The office they were sitting in was actually an enclosed area tucked in the corner of a larger, metal maintenance building. To get here, Chris had walked by a guy washing golf carts and another guy repairing a large ride-on lawn mower.

  “You don’t have to be from the military to work here,” Tom said. “It’s not a requirement, of course. I just said that to put you at ease. The golf course owner’s a retired Marine colonel. For a lot of good reasons, he prefers to hire vets whenever he can.”

  That was reassuring.

  Tom sat up a little straighter. “I was a tank commander in Iraq during Desert Storm. Retired from the Army
in 2010, started working here shortly after.”

  Chris guessed that Tom was in his mid-forties. He spoke like he was still a commander.

  “Quite a few of the guys on our maintenance crew have some measure of disability, mostly varying levels of PTSD. You’d be the first one missing a limb. I know it’s probably hard to talk about, and I won’t ask you to talk about it much beyond this interview, but I’d like to know what happened, at least a little. And maybe a little about what you’ve been doing since. Looks like this’ll be your first job after your medical discharge.”

  “It is,” Chris said. “And I don’t mind you asking. I don’t like talking about it much, but I know talking’s supposed to help.” Chris didn’t particularly get this aspect of the therapy. He knew lots of guys with injuries far more severe than his, who talked about it freely. Even displayed their war wounds openly as badges of honor. He wasn’t quite there yet.

  Really, not even close.

  “I lost the leg stepping on a mine two years ago. We were on patrol in Helmand Province, near Marjah. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. We weren’t in the mountains or the desert. It was mostly poppy fields, where they grow their opium. Worst part of it is, I was a minesweeper. I was actually using my detector when I stepped on the mine.”

  “It wasn’t working?”

  “No, it worked fine. Problem was, it’s a metal detector. The Taliban started making mines with plastic.”

  “So you were the one who actually stepped on it,” Tom said. “I thought maybe you were just nearby, since you only lost the one leg. I’ve talked with guys who lost both, some even an arm from taking the full hit from one of those anti-personnel mines.”

  “I know. I got to know some of them pretty well when I first got home. Compared to them, I was lucky. You asked what I’ve been doing since I got home. They sent me to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. Stayed there for over year. I think I was the only guy there who’d stepped on a mine and only lost a leg.”