Page 8 of Road Refugees

Chapter Four

Townshend

When I got out of the service, I drove around Fort Carson and Colorado Springs, astonished at the buildings. Compared to the crumbling colonial or beehive mud buildings of Syria, they were fancy and opulent. For the first few weeks I wouldn’t stop taking hot showers. The wonder of it soon faded, and before long it took me an hour to screw up the spirit to walk to the liquor store.

Straddling my Road Glide, the closer I got to Denver, the bolder and more self-assured I felt. It seemed I was reversing the miserable trajectory I’d plunged into when I’d finally discharged from the army. By the time I turned the corner toward the Puppies Behind Bars outpost training facility, I was giddy as a dancing puppet. I forgot about my fractured vertebrae, which in two years with no medical help had developed wedge deformities. When I whipped one leg over my bike’s saddle to dismount—I’d spied a fellow vet several parking spaces away and wanted to greet him—my bootheel hooked on the fuel tank and twisted. Man, did I need my cane then. I was now physically as well as mentally disabled. But it didn’t dampen my excitement as we all convened in the gym-like room where the dogs had been training.

I sat flanked by Eloise, who had lost the majority of one leg thanks to an IED, and Gunther, another victim of PTSD. They had already been paired up with their dogs, having met them in a prison atmosphere with the inmates who had trained them. Then the animals had arrived in Denver for more training until today, when they met their people.

Gunther told me, “I didn’t feel any different from those prisoners. I felt like I was finally back with my brothers in arms. I was probably the biggest murderer there.”

I doubted it. I would have been the biggest murderer there, by definition. These men were imprisoned for doing what we were urged and paid to do. After awhile, the conflicting directives made you feel like you’d beamed down and back one too many times. It’s easy to think of myself as an inmate. One little mistake marks the difference between inmate and soldier.

My situation was a little different from my two brothers in arms. I wanted that Goldendoodle, Linus, who had chaperoned me through so much misery in my condo. His heart-melting photo greeted me when I’d twisted the cap off a rum bottle, and I didn’t remember him saying goodnight when I passed out. He’d been there fresh as a new death metal song the past two weeks, which I’d endured without a drop of liquor. Slappy and some other men came over during that time, and I was honest about what I was doing. They pretended to be envious of me, but really, I could tell. Their faces said “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” and they didn’t believe themselves capable of anything similar.

I did have trouble racking out for a few weeks. I’d toss and turn with little half-dreams flitting through my skull. I’d always lose my phone, my wallet, didn’t know where to report for duty, couldn’t find my car, and especially the bathroom. But I made it through and spent my drinking time lifting weights. I felt pretty damned fit for the first time in ages when I got on my Road Glide.

There was another twist with Linus. He was already hanging out in the Fishkill Correctional Facility in New York. I’d been waiting to meet him for months. And now with his trainer paroled back into an unchained outside world, they were willing to give Linus another chance to sucker in someone like me. So they drove him to Denver to be with me.

“You’re finally going to meet Linus,” said Eloise, beaming. She had a smile that would not quit. The three of us had been texting nonstop, sharing dreams and fears.

I said, “I just hope he isn’t traumatized by having another person abandon him.” I referred to the inmate who, when paroled, would choose what they called freedom over a measly dog who needed training. We paid homage to these prisoners every day.

Gunther said, “You can see it in their eyes. They’re smart, heartbroken.” He was getting his second therapy dog, the first having died of lymphoma. “Three months training with someone doesn’t seem long, but it is to a dog. It’s like they wonder what they’ve done wrong to lose a person like that.”

“Fucknuts,” I muttered under my breath.

“It’ll be fine,” Gunther reassured me. Was he telling the truth? Would it be fine? “They also forget quickly, if put into a new atmosphere, and Doll’s been training him with her people here.”

I simply could not overlook that Linus needed a “special match.” The trainer, Doll Strikeleather, had told me on the phone that Linus was a good boy. He had trouble paying attention to commands, sometimes going off the rails on basic stuff, like heeling. Over here, they taught dogs not to depend on one certain trainer. That way, they lost the consistency of bonding with one human. The guy at Fishkill had been Linus’s second inmate trainer. Doll knew it was possible Linus could be despondent. But he was perceptive and sensitive, and Doll saw his capacity for learning. He was sweet, kind, and smart. You couldn’t help loving him.

“I hope you’re right,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I could take another kick in the face.”

Eloise looked at me sideways. She was waifish, large sunken eyes in a skull dusted with thin hair. Today she wore a prosthetic leg and stood with a cane, like me. She had started out in the Raqqa Offensive in Syria, just as I had, later moving to Operation Inherent Resolve. I believed I’d literally bumped into her on a couple of occasions. “Linus will love you. You’re an amazing statue of bravery.”

Was I? What made her think that? Was she impressed with my medals, my ten years of service, my six tours of duty? I felt as though I should be pleased with myself, yet I wasn’t. I was only depressed, like the two soldiers standing next to me.

Eloise’s yellow lab was brought out first. Doll put him through his paces, demonstrating how adept and alert he was as he paid attention to every tiny hand motion. A couple other trainers came into the arena, and the dog impressed us even farther by going to each one as he was called. He picked up various items from a lineup of items on the floor. By his grand finale, actually pulling a person in a wheelchair, we were overflowing with joy. We cheered like morons, me blowing loud, forceful whistles between my fingers. They had to calm the dog down before Doll led him to Eloise. A tear of joy squeezed from the corner of her eye as she buried her face in the dog’s neck.

A sliver of unease fluttered in my stomach as they brought out Gunther’s dog, another yellow lab who performed with similar accuracy.

I was worrying about Linus. He’d been a washout, a worthless oxygen thief. No one thought he’d be a success except his first trainer, Ian. He didn’t train him the usual way. He would lay with him in his bunk, gently touching Linus’ paws and ears. When he got up, Linus would follow. He’d drape himself over Ian and intertwine their necks in an embrace. In the courtyard, he’d squash himself against Ian on the bench. Everyone pointed and laughed at Linus’ sad eyes, the perfect image of yearning, of purity before it discovers evil. People gave Ian hell for having such a softie, a wuss for a dog while they walked their hulking Labradors.

Ian didn’t care. His previous dog had graduated as an explosives detection dog. He was a lifer, just as I’d been before the army failed me. He had time. He’d seen prisoners overwork dogs because they had nothing better to do all day. Linus would look on sadly as if thinking, “Who gives a shit? I’ve got nothing to prove.” To accept the training of someone else, you need to want to. You need to aspire to the teaching. Linus knew all the commands. He just wasn’t motivated.

One day, someone from Puppies Behind Bars tossed a large plastic swimming pool into the yard. The pool was chock-full of dogs, but Ian gave it a try. Ignoring the splashing, teeming mass, Ian calmly said, “In.”

Linus jumped in.

“Out.”

Linus jumped out.

“In. Come. Go get it.”

Linus performed flawlessly, disregarding the flailing of his companions.

“Out. Down. Side. Stay.”