Pound Pups and Left Hooks

A so-called "good" Florida prison, one dog dorm, and the type of welcome you don't read about in the brochures

Before I ever stepped into the dog dorm, I landed in H-dorm at Lawtey CI. This was the first dorm they stuck me in when I got to Lawtey. It was a horrible dorm for the most part. Nobody gave a fuck. Most everybody just wanted to get high or stay glued to illegal cell phones. Arguing was constant.

Lawtey was supposed to be the “good” prison in Florida, the character-faith-based camp inmates could request if they stayed out of trouble for at least six months. I came from Taylor CI after putting in for a transfer here. One of the only places in the whole fucked-up system you could actually request because they said it was for “working on yourself.”

Lawtey had rules. No sex charges, no pedophiles, no sentences over fifteen years. Everybody here was supposed to walk back out the gates one day, and if you got caught fighting they’d ship your ass right back to whatever hell you came from.

At the time I didn’t care about the faith or character-based shit, but I did care about seeing my family at visitation. I liked that it was the closest I could be to them, not having my mom and dad drive hundreds of miles down tiny one-lane roads to see me. I was thankful to be here, and truthfully H-dorm felt like any other dorm in the state. Wild, fucked up. The only difference was everybody here chose to sign up for this place.

I was working in the kitchen at the time and I was looking for a way out of the damn kitchen. The kitchen felt like where they stuck all the fuckups, the people who weren’t going to remain at Lawtey for long. Fights and arguing popped off in the kitchen more than anywhere else, and the beef inside always followed you out onto the rec yard or back into the dorm. I hated the kitchen.

When I learned there was a dog program and a dorm for it, I saw a way out. Not everyone in that dorm worked with the dogs, but I didn’t care. Who the hell wouldn’t want to train a dog and give it a shot on the street? These dogs wanted a home too. They needed to be free, and I wanted to help them become free, something I wanted so fucking bad for myself.

I’m doing sit-ups in the dorm with my shirt off, which isn’t allowed, when Miss Eve approaches me. She’s a rail-thin officer who works in many of the dorms. Miss Eve is pretty, with natural blonde curls so tight they appear crimped. She probably weighs ninety-five pounds soaking wet. At this time, she’s the only officer I can stand. She treats us all fairly, with genuine kindness. It makes a huge impact on me because it’s rare. She doesn’t seem like she belongs in prison with all its ugliness. It makes me and some of the other inmates want to protect her. We treat her like we would a little sister.

Looking down at me she says, “Pack it up.”

Playing with me, she’s acting like she cares about my shirt being off, pretending I’d get her in trouble with her sergeant. She wants me to think I’m going to the box.

Smiling, she starts to laugh. “No, Tatter, you’re going to the dog dorm, not confinement. You haven’t given me a reason.”

She pauses, turns around, and says slyly, “Not yet.”

We both laugh.

With joy in my heart, I pack all my shit up and walk to D-dorm across the pound. Trying to describe how it feels entering D-dorm won’t do it justice. It’s one thing to be out of the kitchen but to be around the coolest dogs is amazing. To think I could train them, too, makes me thankful for the opportunity the DOC has presented. Gotta give them credit for that. A dog’s love is genuine, and it does something to turn even the hardest heart just a tiny bit softer. They melt mine. I love all animals, but dogs are special. These dogs make me think of my English Mastiff, Emma, and my Greyhound, Steve. Thinking about them still fills my heart up with love.

The dog dorm’s cool.

I was glad none of the dogs were in the dorm yet. The last pack had already done their time, got trained up, and found homes. They were free. We were just sitting there waiting on the next batch of prison pound pups to hit the pound.

I can replay that memory in my mind with photographic precision. At Lawtey, the dayroom’s in the back of the dorm away from the security station at the front. They aren’t like regular dorms where the police can see everything you do while you watch TV. These dorms kick ass.

Brazil was a dude I knew from H-dorm. At Lawtey it was easy to slide to other dorms and hang with your friends, or whatever you wanted to call them. At the time I hardly knew Brazil, but I knew he exercised by doing a Brazilian fighting style called Capoeira. I’d always see him training on the rec yard, catching hell from the police. They weren’t supposed to let you train jiu-jitsu, karate, or any other fighting style, but in D-dorm, the dog dorm, the officer didn’t give a fuck and sometimes liked to watch the matches between us.

As soon as I walk in, I make my bed, put my property away, then go to the day room. Brazil’s back there with some other Spanish dudes and they’re grappling. Standing there watching, I want to get in on it. It’s like D-dorm is the UFC dorm. I love it already.

“Yo, can I get in on that?” I ask.

“Why the fuck not?” they reply, looking a little surprised. “You can go next.”

My first match is with Brazil.

We start from the ground. He’s on top, and we go at it from there. With a burst of speed, I pin him to the floor, surprised that I’ve won. The next bout, he beats me with a crazy choke of some sort. It pinches my neck so badly to the side that I can’t breathe at all.

Tap.

The next dude I grapple with is a Latino named Jeremy. He’s strong as hell, and we’re going at it. He starts on top and begins flattening me with forceful chest bumps. I get the feeling that he’s really trying to fuck me up.

People always say he’s loco. Jeremy’s a Latin King, but back then I didn’t even know. He looked Spanish, but he could’ve passed as white or Italian. I’d later find out he was one of those dudes who’d fight multiple guys at a time, a skilled fighter with a ton of heart, and he had a lot of respect because of it.

We go hard and after a couple minutes, I wiggle out of an arm bar and snatch my arm away, leaving a huge gash on the back of Jeremy’s neck.

An old injury has come back to haunt me. Years ago, while working at a local restaurant, I cut a piece of my thumb off while cutting corn cobs. When it grew back, it left a sharp point on the side.

Later I’d find out Jeremy and most of these dudes were Latin Kings, Nietas, or tied in with other serious Latin sets. At the time I didn’t know or care. I just wanted to wrestle. That’s why it almost spun out of control when they saw that blood. Droplets everywhere. All his gang brothers thought I’d hit him with a razor.

They’re getting loud, yelling, crowding in with that energy you know can turn into something fast. Jeremy feels it immediately.

“Tranquilo, tranquilo, calma,” he yells at them, hands out. “Es nada, es nada. Todo bien.”

He keeps talking to them in Spanish, calming them down. There’s quite a crowd watching us and I’m glad dude’s such a good sport about it. Then he walks straight over to me and puts out his hand. We shake and hit that little half-hug we do as a sign of respect.

What a way to enter the dorm.