'They train us, too'

“I was in segregation all the time,” he said.

But during the past couple of years or so, Russell said, he began to change and stay out of trouble.

Then last year rolled around, and Russell, 43, had to deal with health issues. And he was turned down for parole — again.

“I may have been angry, bitter and gone back to my old ways,” said Russell, who is serving 22 to 71 years for assault and robbery.

But that’s when a yellow lab/retriever/chow named Reba came into his life.

“She relies on me for everything — gives me a sense of pride,” Russell said. “When things … come up where I’d lose my temper, I think about the dog first.

“If it wasn’t for Reba, I’d probably be in the hole right now.”

Reba was one of nine dogs that called the Nebraska State Penitentiary home from Oct. 23 to Dec. 21 as part of the K-9 PenPals canine obedience training program.

Inmates chosen for the program care for and train dogs selected from humane societies in Lincoln, Beatrice and Grand Island.

For the most part, the dogs are like Reba, said Capt. Lynn Wright, who coordinates PenPals at the prison.

“The larger-breed dogs are more difficult to adopt,” he said. “It’s a second chance for that dog to be trained, to be … a pleasant addition to any family.”

Like the men who train them, some of the dogs have demons that go beyond the need for obedience training.

“She was abused real bad,” Russell said of Reba.

The first day he took her to his cell, he said, “she dropped down on all fours.”

So whenever he could, Russell got down on the floor with her.

“Anytime I dealt with her, I was on her level,” he said. “That’s what this program is all about.”

That’s something else the men have in common with the dogs.

“A lot of the guys, it’s their last chance,” Russell said. “I think if I was to go out and screw up, I couldn’t have another chance, so this is my one and only chance.”

K-9 PenPals began at the penitentiary in September 2004 with three dogs, three primary handlers and one alternate handler.

Gene White, a Lincoln veterinarian who had heard about similar programs, went to then-Warden Mike Kenney with the idea.

“I was pretty lukewarm when he came to me,” Kenney said. “A lot of times we get offers from programs that come from well-intending people in the community, but they don’t understand the limitations in terms of resources and the complexity of introducing a program behind the walls of prisons.”

But the people behind the program were willing to do anything to make it work, he said.

M.I. Industries, a Lincoln pet food manufacturer, donates  dog food, and White contributes veterinary supplies on behalf of the Nebraska Veterinary Medical Association.

Lisa Norton from the Central Nebraska Humane Society in Grand Island and Kim Ostermann and Julie Thornburg from the Beatrice Humane Society volunteer to help the inmates train the dogs. Don Swanson and Bob Van Valkenburg, along with White and Wright, make up the board of directors for the program.

“It’s very positive,” Wright said. “After all, this is prison — to have a dog is pretty special.”

In mid-October, the program marked its two-year anniversary during a graduation ceremony.

“We thought by starting this program we’d save a few dogs … from an uncertain future,” White said during the ceremony. “Yes, we’ve saved a few dogs, (but) it’s turned into so much more than that.”

Inmate C. Michael Anderson, who has been involved in the program since the beginning, said no one knew what to expect.

“Most were simply shocked to see dogs in the yard,” he said.

And people were even more shocked to hear “allegedly hardened convicts sound like little girls when they talk to dogs — which I never do,” Anderson said as people in the room laughed.

“(It’s) good to know (the dogs) go on to help others or make a family more complete,” said Anderson, 55, who’s serving a life sentence for murder.

That doesn’t make it any easier for the men to say goodbye to the dogs.

Former warden Kenney said part of his initial reluctance stemmed from the complicated nature of life in prison.

“Doing things behind the walls of a prison, from a plumbing job to visiting, is far more complicated than it would appear to be to a person on the street,” he said.

Many penitentiary staff members were wary as well, Kenney said in an interview from Olympia, Wash., where he is assistant deputy secretary of the State Department of Corrections.

“There’s no lack of skepticism in our line of work, and it’s based on experience,” he said.

But then it occurred to Kenney that the program might be a way for the prison to give back to society.

“Prisons absorb community resources — we are takers,” he said. “The only thing we give back is inmates who are hopefully better reformed, and, of course, public safety.”

With the program, “we feel like we’re contributing finally rather than absorbing state resources,” Kenney said. “It’s one of the ways we can contribute proactively to the community.”

Of course, prison staff had to prepare for potential risks.

“To be candid … we thought there’d be jealousy among inmates because we only picked certain inmates … we worried about inmates creating trouble for another inmate,” Kenney said. “The honest truth is, we just didn’t see that.

“I suspect the inmates protect the program as much as they can. (They) appreciate it at a level where they’re going to protect it and they’re not going to mess this up.”

And the dogs soak up the attention.

“I don’t think the dogs know they’re in prison,” Kenney said, laughing. “Making it into this program at the pen is like some form of parole.”

It’s Oct. 23, and nine new dogs arrive at the penitentiary early in the morning, nervous and excited as they walk through the visitor entrance and into the prison.

The animals seem to sense that even though they’ve traded one prison for another, they have been given a newfound freedom.

Inmates in brown coats and stocking caps wait in the yard, cold puffs of breath escaping into the chilly October air. They smile as the dogs crowd to the door, looking out into the yard, tails wagging.

The first morning of a new rotation is always crazy, Christopher Masters says as the group heads for the kennels in a building that used to be storage.

“Look at how excited they are,” says Masters, 34, who is serving a life sentence for murder. “They’re all getting out of kennels, so it’s like freedom.”

Once the group reaches the kennels, they form a semicircle outside, and the training volunteers from the humane societies in Grand Island and Beatrice introduce the dogs: Sable, Bosley, Reba, Chris, Farley, Ralph, Shasta, Duncan and Bear.

After the dogs are put in their kennels, Chris, a yellow lab/retriever mix, and Bear, a lab/rottweiler mix, run the length of their outdoor cages, teeth bared, barking at each other through the metal.

“No,” says Hap Wells, 31, who is serving four to eight years for burglary. “You done?”

That’s pretty common behavior for new dogs in the beginning of a rotation, Joe White says.

“When they first come in, they don’t know each other and they smack talk to each other,” says White, 44, who’s serving life for murder. “Part of the program is learning to socialize with people and other dogs.”

It takes about a week for the dogs to figure out they’re in it together and for the pack mentality to kick in, says Clifford Privat, 32.

“A lot of these dogs have probably been in kennels or pens a good part of their life and don’t know how to act outside,” says Privat, who has been behind bars for 11 years of a life sentence for murder. “They’re probably used to seeing each other through fences.”

Chris continues to bark, and Wells calls Bear to him.

“Good boy,” he says. “You ignore them troublemakers.”

The dogs bring “a sense of joy to this place that is sorely lacking,” says White.

“They get a chance at a better life. We get a chance at a better us.”

The animals wait anxiously in the outer cages of the kennels early the next morning. As their handlers approach, the dogs bark, jump, run and wag their tails. When they see the men go into the building, they run in through their doggy doors.

Inside the kennels, the inmates begin the morning routine: feeding, cleaning, grooming and letting the dogs out of their cages.

“They really need exercise in the morning,” says Anthony Mitidiere, 41. “It’s crucial because they could be really unruly the rest of the day.”

The night before, the men and dogs played under the bright lights of the prison yard, says Mitidiere, who is serving 10 to 12 years for being a felon in possession of a deadly weapon and driving under suspension.

“It’s like for an hour, you’re not in prison,” he says. “It’s like you’re in your own backyard with the floodlights on — except for the razor wire kind of gives it away.”

Back inside, Russell gives Reba a morning bath. She crouches in the tub, terrified to move.

“It’s OK, sweetie,” he says as he gently runs the warm water over her, shampooing her dirty yellow fur. “Get that doggy kennel stink off you, huh sweetie.”

When Reba begins to paw at the side of the tub, he soothes her.

Afterward, Russell takes Reba outside to dry her. She cowers, unmoving, and Masters has to half drag, half carry her into the kennel.

The men begin finding leashes, getting ready to take the dogs with them for the day.

More than eight weeks have gone by, and Reba waits confidently as the handlers approach.

“She’s queen bee,” Wells says.

After finishing the morning chores, the men take the dogs with them for the day, to work, class, the yard or back to their cells.

Most of the men in the program live in Housing Unit One, says Corrections Officer Jeremiah Tripp, who handles the PenPals program day to day.

“This is our dog gallery,” he says.

Chris Masters is just waking up.

“I haven’t been doing too well the last week or so,” he says.

Both Masters and 26-year-old Jonathan Janousek, who is serving 25 to 40 years for robbery, have been kicked out of the PenPals program for misconduct since the session started, Capt. Wright says.

“Inmates have to be free of misconduct reports,” Wright says. “Most remain that way.

“They know the expectations going in.”

Back in his cell, Masters, who was kicked out of the program for taking medication with him to chow one day, says it’s really easy to get into trouble in prison.

“You don’t even  have to try,” he says. “So you have to really put forth a conscious effort to stay out of trouble.

“Sometimes it feels like a lot of effort for nothing.”

Across the hall, Russell and Reba wake from a nap in Russell’s dimly lit cell. “The Andy Griffith Show” is muted on the TV.

“Good girl,” he says, feeding Reba pieces of food from a plastic coffee jar. “Such a sweetheart.”

Russell has one milk bone left, and he says he’ll probably give it to Reba the last day.

Graduation is coming, and the dogs will leave the prison to join their adoptive families.

“She’s gonna be the hardest to let go,” Russell says. “Because of the condition she was in when she came here, I had to give her a lot more TLC.”

Down the hall, Tom Cole, 49, sits in his cell with Bosley, a black lab/boxer mix. The program has given Cole a sense he’s giving back to society.

And the dogs give the men a chance to experience something they may never have known before.

“They’re not like people — not demanding and everything else,” says Cole, who is serving 26 years to life for murder. “Sometimes I wish I had been like that growing up, like a dog … unconditional love.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be in here.”

Two days later, Cole and Bosley and Russell and Reba walk with a group of inmates and dogs back to the kennels in the early afternoon.

The dogs sit on command, waiting for the gate to be unlocked. Inside, Russell gets ready to clip Reba’s nails.

“No,” he says as she squirms uncomfortably.

She looks away like a child getting a shot.

Reba’s come a long way, Russell says.

And PenPals has helped him, too. The program is particularly good for people like him who are serving long stretches, he says.

“It gives us a piece of the free world, a piece of something out there. It’s like I’m getting a piece of freedom.”

After the program began, Mike Kenney and the rest of the staff kept hearing one word: humanizing.

“By and large, the population as a whole appreciated the program and even came to the administration and said, ‘Thanks for doing this,’” Kenney said. “‘It’s humanizing for the pen to have this in here.’”

The program seems to help inmates see themselves, he said.

“If … we believe in rehabilitation and correction … if we believe in correcting behavior and redeeming a person because they have value and they can make positive contributions — and we believe all of that, by the way — then it makes sense to have the inmates involved.

“Some have said that, in the middle of training, caring for and disciplining this dog so it knows to do right, sometimes you look into the mirror and say, ‘Oh, this is a parallel to my life.’”

Graduation time arrives, days before Christmas.

This time, the ceremony is smaller and more informal.

Pride and sadness and the distinctive smell of dogs permeate the room as inmates and staff members gather in a classroom.

It seems to be tradition now for some of the inmates to stand and say a few words about the program.

“(It) really helps us become better people, learn social skills through the dogs and become more compassionate in our day-to-day lives,” says Rocky Quick, 25, who is serving 8 to 12 years for manslaughter and is new to PenPals. “We train dogs, but they train us, too.”

Michael Caddy, 57, who has been in PenPals since its beginning, says it helps change lives.

“It helps break down the ‘us versus them’ mentality,” says Caddy, who is serving 15 to 55 years for murder. “We’re a part of the community.

“The inclusion feels kind of good.”

Ostermann, one of the volunteers from the Beatrice Humane Society, tells the men they each can pick out a toy to send home with the dogs, who will be meeting their new families later that day.

“We done decided we’re not letting them leave,” Wells says.

“Sorry,” Ostermann says. “We are bringing some new dogs.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier,” Wells says.

Later, the men take turns posing for photographs with their dogs.

As the end draws near, the men are sad, but they manage to mug for the camera.

“Say parole.”

Reach Hilary Kindschuh at 473-7120 or hkindschuh@journalstar.com.