The FETCH program helps youthful offenders and the dogs they train learn how to better face the world.
By STEPHEN NOHLGREN
Published September 11, 2003
[Times photos: Michael Rondou]
Peanut’s handler Jeremy works on teaching her to stand and jump at the Dozier School for Boys in Marianna.
During an adoption audition, Peanut does her best to win over Bettye Dees, left, of Salt Springs, and her daughters Wren, 22 months, and Cherie Powers of Reddick.
Buddy, a bouncy hound with some beagle in him, spent months in the FETCH program waiting for just the right owners.
MARIANNA - The thing about Buddy is his sheer, tail-thumping exuberance. Put him outdoors and he takes off at full tilt. Throw him a tennis ball and he retrieves it for hours. He is one joyful little hound.
Youth's energy, however, has landed Buddy in a fix. He lives in a kennel, awaiting someone to adopt him. Those who pass through are mostly older. They want a dog who will bark at strangers and lie at their feet, not some black-and-tan dynamo casting around for his next adventure.
More sedate dogs in adjoining cages have already acquired new families. They're free.
Not Buddy. Until he exhibits discipline, until someone recognizes his underlying worth, Buddy will stay behind bars.
* * *
The Dozier School for Boys is an unlikely incubator for warm, fuzzy experiments. Teenagers living here carry rap sheets that speak of drugs, burglary and assault. Razor wire tops a perimeter fence, reinforcing society's dim view of those inside.
Yet in one concrete blockhouse, something tender is transpiring.
Sixteen lucky offenders spend three hours a day feeding, house-breaking and training mutts from the local animal shelter. Mangy, unruly castoffs mature into respectable companions, which are adopted out, free of charge, to older Floridians.
The offenders gain as well. Dogs don't care about criminal records. Treat them well and they respond with tongue-lolling affection. They are perfect object lessons for young men in need of redemption.
"I had chills on my arm the first month I was here," says Pam Eddins, 42, a former veterinary assistant who supervises the training. "I see these boys come in, upset with problems. Then they go back in the cages and play with the dogs and just calm down."
The program, called Friends of the Elderly Training Companions for Home, began four years ago and takes in a few dozen dogs a year. Each dog has two trainers, one from a morning class and another from the afternoon. Eddins calls them "handlers."
Among themselves, the young men bestow a more revealing title. They call themselves the dogs' "owners," a sense of proprietorship that complicates adoption day. The boys want their dogs to perform, but also fear losing them.
Witness one Tuesday last month:
As two families from North Florida watch, handlers parade the dogs, one by one, into a small classroom and run them through their paces.
Sit. Lie down. Roll over. Shake. Stay.
A cold linoleum floor and glaring lights have the dogs on edge. Training usually occurs outside; the classroom is reserved for lessons in medicine-taking and rectal thermometers. The dogs are disinclined to relax, and a few revert to their street-mutt past, ignoring commands. When Eddins is occupied, two handlers undermine their dogs' chances further.
"She'd be a guard dog, but the only thing is she bites," mutters Chris, who handles Cocoa, a brindle mutt who might have bulldog ancestors.
Jeffrey conveys the same message through pantomime. He leans over to feed his chow-terrier cross Mamma Duke a biscuit. When she gently removes it from his fingers, he jerks his hand back in utter surprise, as if she tried to snap it off.
Actually, the dogs are screened for temperament. Before entering the program, they are given a bowl of food. While they eat, an artificial arm is stretched into the cage toward the food. Any dog that shows aggression toward the arm remains in the animal shelter.
Handlers are also preselected. Most are in the last few months of their sentences. No fighters, troublemakers or sex offenders allowed. Any history of animal abuse is also a no-no, although Thomas had pit bull at home that he fought against other dogs. Eddins sees a spark in Thomas and figures the FETCH program will help him treat pets better.
Up first on adoption day is Bettye Dees, a 66-year-old retiree from Marion County. She's been dogless for several years because she was caring for foster children and didn't want trouble. In June, she adopted her last foster child - Wren, a skinny 22-month-old waif who is fearless around dogs. She strains to free herself from her mother's lap so she can hand out treats.
Mamma Duke jumps up too eagerly, sealing her fate. "It makes you afraid her toenails might scratch (Wren's) eyes," says Dees.
Eddins lets people select the dog they want, but maintains a steady patter of suggestions to encourage a good match.
"This is the one I kind of picked out for you," Eddins says of Precious, a lab mix. "This is the most gentle of dogs. This dog does not have an aggressive bone in its body."
Precious has heartworms, a common condition among strays in the mosquito-laden Panhandle. Eddins explains that heartworms, if treated properly, eventually die out, but Dees chalks off Precious.
Queenie, Shorty, Peanut, Cocoa, Mamma Duke (the handlers name the dogs) all head back to the kennels after Dees eliminates them.
Only Bridget, a small, black mutt of uncertain bloodline, and Buddy the beagle-mix remain. Buddy has been with the program since March, longer than any of the others, and Eddins advances his case as hard as she dares.
"This dog will be a wonderful yard dog. He's very active and he might knock (Wren) down. But in a couple of years, when she grows up, he will entertain her for hours."
As if on cue, Buddy drops his ever-present green tennis ball at Wren's feet. She picks it up and flips it a few feet. He nabs it on one bounce and takes it right back to her.
Hounds "can be a little slow," Dees says. Her eyes linger on Bridget, lying calmly on the floor. Her handler is Thomas. His impassive face crumbles when he realizes what's coming.
"She's going to take my dog," he tells an onlooker. "I'm going to cry."
A tall, muscular 17-year-old from Daytona Beach, Thomas was arrested twice for sale and delivery of cocaine and once for brandishing a knife at school. He has stroked, brushed and sweet-talked Bridget for two months.
Bridget still needs spaying, so Dees will pick her up in a few weeks. "You work hard on her," she tells Thomas. "I'll be back."
"Yes, Ma'am."
When Dees leaves, he slumps into a classroom chair and stares at the floor.
"I feel good you are feeling these emotions," Eddins tells him. "It shows you have a big heart. This can compare with the death of a dog. You are going to lose your dog one way or another. It's the same way with people."
The room is quiet. Then another handler breaks the ice: "For a minute there, I thought Buddy was actually going to make bail and get out of here."
Eddins steers the conversation back to Thomas and an ongoing topic: The pit bull he fought at home.
"You see how this feels. You want to fight them now?"
Thomas shakes his head.
"How could you put your dog in peril?"
Bridget "is not that type of dog," he responds. "She was made to love somebody."
Another boy, who is new, asks Eddins if handlers can adopt dogs when they leave.
In the past, several handlers secretly arranged for grandparents to adopt their dogs, so they could rejoin them on the outside. So the FETCH program relaxed the rules a bit, allowing handler-dog adoptions if Eddins thinks it will work out.
Later in the day, the doggie lineup begins anew, this time for Myra and Ladson Robinson of Live Oak. Eddins has high hopes for Buddy. The Robinsons own an 84-acre cow farm, probably enough space for Buddy. Better yet, they have an 11-year-old grandson who might keep up with him.
But Mamma Duke is making an impression. When Robinson pats his lap, she stands on her hind legs, puts her front paws in his lap and luxuriates in his petting. When Mrs. Robinson whistles, Mamma Duke goes right to her.
"She reminds me a lot of Bubba," Mrs. Robinson tells her husband.
He explains that Bubba was a special dog who sat at his feet and joined him in a daily nap. "Whenever I would close my eyes, he would close his. When I opened my eyes, he would watch me and open his, too."
Sensing Mamma Duke's momentum, Eddins reminds them of Buddy.
"You mentioned that you have an 11-year-old grandson . . . ?"
Mrs. Robinson's gaze shifts to the hound with the green tennis ball in his mouth: "Is this your ballplayer?"
"Your grandson would never have a bored moment," says Eddins.
Buddy's handler, Joel, plays catch with Buddy, but slips in a countermeasure: "He tends not to listen to you."
"You are quick as a first baseman," Robinson tells Buddy, who never misses the ball.
"What does he do when you give him a bath?" Mrs. Robinson asks.
"Put a ball in the tub," Eddins says. "He does good if you put a ball in there."
Then, Mrs. Robinson hears Eddins say something to Joel.
"Joel? Your name is Joel? That's our grandson's name."
She smiles. Buddy makes bail.
* * *
Joel walks Buddy to the Robinsons' pickup. It's a 21/2-hour drive home, so they unleash Buddy in an exercise yard for some final business. He discovers an old sock, grabs it in his mouth and careens off into wild circles.
"I've never seen a dog like that," Mrs. Robinson chuckles. "The cats won't know what to think of him."
A quiet country boy, Joel has known trouble since he started drinking at 13. He landed in Dozier because of two assaults on a law enforcement officer. He has behaved since then, except for the rat snake he snuck into a guard's bed. Watching Buddy leave, he turns philosophical:
"I'm going to miss working with him. He's like the perfect dog. But I'm glad he's going to a home. I don't think he should be locked up in a kennel all his life."
To learn more
FETCH is a joint initiative of the Florida Department of Juvenile Justice and Department of Elder Affairs. It can be reached at 1-850-526-1240.
