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 1

‘Sit!’ said the woman, so forcefully that Cookie almost dropped his own arse to the ground. Nigel, on the other hand, was totally unmoved. He went right on gnawing the fur from where his tail met his bum. It was obvious the dog trainer lady was losing faith in him and even more so in Cookie’s ability to get things back on track. And to be honest, Cookie shared her assessment of the situation. If he could make it to the end of the session, he’d put Nigel in his crate and scrounge a beef bone from the kitchen. It was the only thing that might prevent the crazy mutt from attempting to devour his own body. He just needed to get through the next hour and a half.

‘You must stop him doing that,’ said the woman. Her voice was stern, but her face was calm.

Cookie looked down. ‘Stop chewing, Nigel,’ he said.

The dog ignored him.

Cookie tried again. ‘Come on, Nige, be a good boy  and stop—’

 ‘Do not use the words “good boy” when he is self-mutilating,’ the instructor interrupted. ‘They are a reward. You must not praise him for his bad behaviour.’

Cookie had noticed that this woman always used complete words. Never ‘don’t.’ Always ‘do not.’ Like she was reading a list of rules and regulations. ‘Sorry,’ said Cookie. ‘I was just trying to explain—’

‘You do not explain to dogs. Dogs do not understand sentences. A swift tug on his leash sends a clear message.’ She demonstrated with the invisible lead attached to her invisible dog. ‘Use his name to get his attention. Only when he obeys your command should you use the reward words.’

It was true that Nigel wasn’t keeping up, but Cookie thought it was a bit harsh not to encourage him for trying. After all, it was only the first day of hands-on lessons. Not surprising the new commands and expectations would throw him a bit. He was never going to get the whole thing right off the bat. Why couldn’t he cut the dog a bit of slack rather than constantly reminding him what a loser he was? Chuck him a ‘good boy’ from time to time and maybe he’d start believing it. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Cookie had heard people use that expression about him back in the day, though not in a positive way.

-

When they’d announced the dog program two months earlier, a screw the prisoners called Old Joe (though to his face he was Mr Coard or ‘boss’) was dead keen for Cookie to apply. He’d been around for decades, but wasn’t like the other old-school screws. While most of them talked at you, Old Joe was one of the rare officers who talked to you. He was a big believer in the power of education, always trying to get the men into new programs.

Cookie wasn’t all that interested to begin with. Not because he didn’t like dogs. He did. He just wasn’t overly keen on group programs—literacy, art, theatre, that type of thing. Too much talking involved. Too much ‘interacting’ like they said nowadays. At the time he had only six months left before he was up for parole. If all went well, he’d be out in November. Old Joe said he should try to make the most of his remaining time. And this program was one of the best they’d ever had in Middleborough. It was the first time they’d run it, so it was a big deal. The authorities were talking it up. The minister had done a press release on the pilot of the 1997 ‘Pawsitive Outcomes’ dog rehabilitation program. They’d got some coverage in the local newspaper and a two-minute segment at the end of the ABC News. According to the Department of Corrections, the program would benefit the inmates as much as the dogs. They liked the symbolism of it, no doubt. It was the last chance for dogs who didn’t meet society’s expectations, with their behavioural issues, violent tendencies and all that. One last chance to reform—just like the prisoners—or be put down. Only they’d stopped doing that to humans a while ago.

‘So are you going to apply?’ Old Joe had asked Cookie the day before applications closed.

 Cookie was sitting at his usual table in the garden working on a necklace. His apple seed jewellery had proved an okay money earner and he was currently pretty cashed up. Other inmates bought it to give as presents to their wives and girlfriends. Cookie made key rings too, which some of the blokes bought for themselves. They thought it was hilarious. Obviously not much use for them in there.

‘I dunno, boss,’ said Cookie. ‘I don’t think I’d be much good at all that discipline stuff.’

Old Joe picked up one of the necklaces and rubbed the seeds between his fingers like they were rosary beads.

‘Have you given much thought to what you’ll do when you get out?’

‘Yeah, a bit,’ said Cookie, keeping it vague.

‘Got any support? Family? Friends?’

‘Um, some,’ said Cookie. Old Joe probably knew that was bullshit.

‘Got a place to stay? Will you head back home?’

Cookie shrugged. ‘Have to see.’

Old Joe nodded slowly. ‘Well, I really think this could be a good opportunity for you. The shelter’s going to offer part-time jobs to the participants after their release.’

‘Oh yeah?’ replied Cookie. ‘That’s pretty cool.’

He knew Old Joe was right. He had to start making an effort, getting some experience. And working at the animal shelter would be great compared to the other types of jobs he might get. Packing shit on an assembly line. Cleaning public toilets. If he got a job at all. And working with dogs would be a hell of a lot better than working with people.

The prison had a work release scheme and had organised several outside placements with the local Baradong Shire, including grounds maintenance at the municipal library and a couple of local parks. Cookie had done a short stint on a beautification project around the council offices. Mainly mowing, planting, a bit of pruning and mulching. Not too hard, fresh air and a different view each day. But he knew he needed to get some qualifications if he really wanted to set himself up. So after the gardening gig ended, he’d done three short courses in Kitchen Operations, Workplace Hygiene and Food Safety. Solid skills to have, according to his guidance officer. That had led to his most recent job, three days a week packing frozen lunches and dinners for the council’s Meals on Wheels program.

The food prep facility was behind the senior citizens’ centre. They ran activities for over sixty-fives there, though strictly no contact was allowed between the oldies and the prisoners who worked in the kitchen. That was fine with Cookie. It avoided the inevitable looks of suspicion that accompanied the prison greens he and the other men wore under their plastic aprons. And it spared him the extra scrutiny he got thanks to the scar on his face. He knew that dealing with the public would be an issue once he got out. He’d need to prepare himself mentally for all the new people he’d encounter, and all the strangers who’d encounter him. He was no good at talking in general, but especially not to people he didn’t know. He hadn’t had enough practice. That was one good thing about being in Middleborough. There were no strangers. You got to know everyone pretty quick. And then it was the same people, same faces, same stories over and over again.

Outside would be a whole new ball game. Not only because he didn’t have many skills and didn’t know what to do with his life and had no one waiting for him, but because of how he’d be judged. Not by a court this time, but by society. At least working with animals he wouldn’t have to worry about that. Dogs he could handle. Sit, stay, fetch. And even if he didn’t get a job out of it, the program might still be interesting—maybe even rewarding. Like being a teacher. Seeing someone succeed and knowing it was thanks to you.

‘So what do you say, Cooke?’ asked Mr Coard. ‘Will you apply?’

Cookie shrugged. ‘Yeah, okay, boss. I’ll give it a go.’

Cookie was one of eleven prisoners who’d applied for the program. Eleven out of ninety-eight. There were quite a few who’d had negative encounters with dogs over their years inside—sniffer dogs and the Prison K9s—aggressive as hell—and so didn’t want a bar of ‘man’s best friend’. The animal shelter had asked the prison administration to select applicants who showed the most potential for reform. To be fair all eleven ticked that box more or less. That was the best thing about being in a minimum-security place. Most of the blokes behaved themselves. They were getting too near the end of their stint to stuff it up. And they had too many privileges to lose. Good food for one. Not like some of the crap they served back in Hopetoun. Chew and spew, they’d called it. Middleborough was a working farm, not much like a prison at all. They had fences, but they were only about three-foot high and were mainly to keep the sheep from wandering off. They had cows for fresh milk, vegetable gardens and an orchard with apples, pears, peaches, apricots and plums. A strawberry patch too. They ate them fresh and some guys made jam and fruit tarts that they traded. All that sweetness made it feel close to normal, like the outside was wafting in.

Then there were the living arrangements, almost like the real world, with bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms. And family visits too, though Cookie didn’t get those. He wasn’t the only one. Most men stopped getting visitors after about five years. Wives and girlfriends often hung around less than that. Those who were in for a brick or two were mainly flying solo. The last ones to give up were the mothers. A surprising number of men openly said they loved their mums. That wasn’t something you generally did in there. Talk about love. Some were ashamed of having let their mother down, and yet, the mothers rarely wrote them off. They stuck staunch.

So even for the guys who’d done a ton of time, places like this were as close to normal as you could get. The last stop before freedom. Too close to blow it. But too far from anything to be a danger. Middleborough. Middle of Fucking Nowhere.

In the end, Cookie and four other men were selected for the program. Over six weeks, they’d have two ninety-minute sessions with the instructor each Monday. The rest of the time, they were on their own: working with the dogs, getting them ready for their future lives as family pets. It was pretty clear, though, that the ones they’d sent out were the dregs of the shelter. These weren’t the cute and fluffy dogs who wagged their tails and pushed their noses into your palms and quickly found a home. These were the wary ones, the ones who skulked at the back of their cage or barked or growled. Or the traumatised ones, snappy, snarly, unpredictable. These were the ones you could tell wouldn’t be getting out of there any time soon—or, realistically, not getting out of there alive.

Cookie was also beginning to think he might not make it out of the program alive. Only the first session and he was already struggling. It hadn’t started well. When he was introduced to the instructor she kept her gaze fixed firmly on his left eye. A discreet manoeuvre to avoid looking at his scar. Cookie knew it well. Most outsiders did it. He dipped his head and a lock of dirty-blond fringe fell over the scar. That was his own discreet manoeuvre and the reason he kept his hair not quite shoulder length.

After the introductions, the woman fetched Cookie’s dog from her van. It was the last one. Like the kid picked last for sport. Cookie knew more or less what he’d be getting. Before the program began, the participants had each been shown a photo of the dog they’d been assigned and were told they could choose a name. The instructor explained that if the dogs passed their behavioural assessments at the end of the six weeks they had a chance of being adopted from the shelter and would probably be given new names, so it didn’t really matter what they were called for the moment. It was the tone of voice they’d respond to rather than any specific combination of consonants and vowels. The men didn’t care. They took the job of choosing names dead seriously. Stretch called his Rottweiler ‘Vader’. Eggy’s dark brown Kelpie was ‘Meatball’. Vinnie’s jumpy German Shepherd was christened ‘Pogo’ and Trev’s white-and-tan Jack Russell was ‘Zeus’. Cookie opted not to give his dog a new name. He agreed with the instructor on this one. No point when they were just going to belong to someone else. Better not to get attached. His weird-looking big male dog had been named Nigel by one of the shelter staff. It wasn’t great, but it’d do.

They told him Nigel hadn’t been in the shelter long, and was ‘prone to issues’. He’d been found dumped on the side of the road: no microchip, no tag, nothing, so they didn’t know his background or even his breed. Only that he was approximately four years old. The hard-boiled volunteer who’d been looking after him didn’t like his chances of being adopted. ‘No Way Nige’ she’d called him as a joke. He was black with a bit of rusty brown above the eyes. The people from the shelter said he was a Lab but with a bit of Staffy in him. Maybe other stuff too. They weren’t sure. A bitzer, they said. Bitzer this and bitzer that. The dog was big, Cookie realised when the woman had handed him the leash. Not tall—its head only came to his knees—but bulky, solid, with short stubby legs. His head was big too, and his mouth looked too wide for his face. He wasn’t happy about being on the leash. He twisted around, his coarse fur rubbing against Cookie’s leg.

‘G’day, Nigel,’ said Cookie to the top of the mutt’s big-arse head. He felt a bit stupid saying the name. The dog didn’t seem to think much of it either. He glanced at Cookie from the corner of his eye as if to say, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ All in all, it was not a promising start.

Extracted from Good Boy by Michelle Wright, available now.

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Good Boy

by Michelle Wright

Good Boy movingly explores the bonds between dogs and their humans, and how hope might move us beyond punishment and towards redemption.

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