Ollie is the New Black

Those of you who've been reading along with me for a few years may remember how my little wiener dog Ollie came to join my old girl Julie and I back in 2011, less than a year after my little fat buddy J.R. passed away. I miss those two sweet pups, J.R. and Julie ... sometimes I miss them so much it hurts. I'd like to believe they found each other in heaven and now they're romping and running and snuggling under the softest fleece blanket in the universe ... no more pain and no more growing old, just lots and lots and lots of playing and an endless supply of doggie treats and toys. Though they took different routes on their journey to come to live with Julie and I, J.R. and Ollie walked one road that was far, far too similar ... the road of abuse and torture by horrible, cruel, disgusting humans. Thankfully, they were both rescued ... J.R. by an organization in Nebraska and Ollie ... well ... my feisty, snuggly, owner of the wooden bridges, pee on every single tree and pole along the trail, sweet, precious, adorable little wiener dog was nursed back to health in a prison not far from where I live. 

I've wondered many times about the prisoner Ollie (a.k.a. Wally back then) was placed with after he was taken away from the jerk who tortured and abused him. For some reason, I always pictured Ollie's inmate as a small guy with dark hair and green eyes ... I have no idea why that's the image I conjured up in my mind, but that's what I imagined Ollie's prison pal to look like. I've thought many times about trying to find out about the man who took care of my little wiener dog, but I knew that the odds were slim to none that I'm ever be able to contact him to thank him for all he did for Ollie. But then a couple of weeks ago, I was contacted by the group who coordinates the prisoner dog-rescue program and asked if I would be willing to bring Ollie and tell our story to some inmates who are going through training to join the program. I was both excited and terrified as I pushed the button to end the call that night after saying I would come and talk to the prisoners. I was excited to share how grateful I am for my Ollie, but I was terrified because I'd never been inside of a prison before ... unless, of course, spending one night in the Red Bank jail back in Tennessee counts as a prison.

To say that going inside the prison a few nights ago was a surreal experience would be a gigantically huge understatement ... it was freaking over-the-top like nothing I have ever done or experienced in my entire life. Even though I've never committed a crime ... except for shoplifting a few pieces of booze candy from the Hickory Farms store at Northgate Mall when I was in junior high ... I was shocked by the intense wave of guilt and shame that washed through me as the first set of doors inside the prison locked behind me. I had anticipated being nervous and even frightened, but I sure didn't expect the sheer panic that pounced on me that evening ... and I most definitely didn't expect to feel like a criminal simply because of my surroundings. By the time the guards had escorted me to the room where the prisoners were gathered for their training session, I was sweating profusely and shaking like a leaf. Yep, that's right ... you can add the fear of being held inside a prison against my will to my list of irrational fears right next to my fear of flying and my fear of grass.

But when the guards opened the door to the room filled with prisoners, an inexplicable calmness settled over me ... the kind of calmness I've felt only a few times in my life ... the kind of calmness that made me know beyond the shadow of a doubt that my being there at the prison that night was no accident. I'm sure a couple of things go without saying, but just in case, I'll say them anyway. Ollie was a huge hit with the inmates that night, being showered with more love and attention than a wiener dog could ever dream of getting. And the other thing that probably goes without saying? I cried my eyes out as I spoke to the group of prisoners, as some of them did as well. Oh, and by the way, I was wrong ... as it seems I so often am these days ... about the man who nursed Mr. Oliver Chance Johnson back to health. He's a giant of a man ... a tall, muscular, bald, African American gentleman who looked absolutely nothing like I had pictured he would look. I was right about the eyes, though ... his eyes are a piercing green, and they're filled with far more compassion than a whole, whole, whole lot of people who are aren't living every day locked inside a prison.

As I drove home that night, I couldn't help but think about how many of us spend each day in our own prison, locked behind the bars of hate or greed or jealousy or anger or pride or deceit or fear or any of a million other chains we drag around every single day of our lives. And as I turned onto my street, I was overwhelmed by an even more troubling thought than the recognition that there are many different types of prisons ... I was overwhelmed by the thought that so many of us don't even realize that we've locked ourselves up and thrown the key into the darkest depths of the ocean.

Ollie is the new black ... hmmm ... sounds like a good title for a new Netflix series, eh?