An hour after Beauty left, Carl got a message that the warden wanted to talk with him. He had done nothing wrong that he knew of, so he assumed it had something to do with the dog-rehabilitation program. He was unprepared for the reason behind the summons.
“Your parole has been approved,” the warden said.
He was an older man, about Carl’s age. Both had put in about the same amount of time at that prison. There was one big difference, though. The warden had control over his environment and could come and go at will. Carl could barely imagine walking out those doors.
Carl sat there, blinking, unable to absorb the warden’s words.
“Excuse me?” Carl said.
“You have been granted parole.”
“But I didn’t even finish my interview with the parole board. I got up and left.”
The warden smiled. A decent man, Carl had decided years earlier, with a hard job.
“From what I understand, you were more interested in your dog’s comfort than the possibility of your own parole.”
“I was afraid Beauty was suffering.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, the board was on the fence about allowing you to get out. It could have gone either way. Fortunately for you, two of the board members are dog lovers. Your compassion for Beauty was the tipping point. They did ask that you not be told until you finished your dog’s training.”
Carl could hardly believe his ears.
“You mean I…get to leave?”
“There’s some paperwork we have to do—and you’ll need to check in with a parole officer for a year before you can leave the state—but you should be out within the week. I wanted to tell you now so you’d understand when the volunteers don’t bring you another rescue. Obviously, we wouldn’t want you to leave during another dog’s rehabilitation.
“Obviously,” Carl repeated, his head spinning.
“Any questions?”
“Where will I live? I have no family.”
“That’s being arranged. Most prisoners have to stay in a halfway house for a while, but your friend the preacher has found a place for you. I believe it has something to do with his church. He’s coming in later to tell you about it. I wanted to be the one to tell you about your parole, though. It’s one of the few parts of my job I actually enjoy.”
“George has made arrangements for me?”
“That’s what he says. It’s good you have a friend like him on the outside. The halfway houses can be brutal places, and I have no control over that. Any other questions?”
“What—what will I do on the outside?”
“I suppose anything you want…as long as it’s legal. If it were me, I’d probably go fishing for a month. At least that’s my plan when I retire in three years.”
The warden stood and offered his hand. It felt odd to Carl to do so, but he also stood and shook the warden’s hand.
“Good luck,” the warden said. “I’m hoping—for all our sakes—that we never see you again. I don’t want to break our record.”
“Thank you.”
Carl knew exactly which record the warden was referring to. Approximately 50 percent of the men who received parole ended up back inside the prison walls, with the exception of those prisoners who entered the dog-rehabilitation program. The recidivism rate for the dog-training prisoners was about 11 percent. It was a win/win/win situation for the dogs, the prison staff, the families who received a well-trained dog, and the prisoners most of all.
The old dog that had kept Carl alive beneath the porch that winter night when he was a child had given him yet another chance at life as an adult through Carl’s love and understanding of abandoned animals.
He had no idea what sort of living arrangement George had scraped together for him, but he knew one thing for certain—he was determined not to be the one who made that recidivism rate go up. Now that the miraculous had happened, he would make certain he never went back once he got out.