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You know about found-object art, right? The artist incorporates everyday items likes bits of bark and fabric scraps into a larger piece, often with intriguing results.

Well, NEADS trainer Dave Hessel uses the same technique in his puppy raiser classes. He meets with us in a public location and scopes out the place for novelties to add to the lesson. There's shiny black flooring at the entrance to Victoria's Secret. Some dogs won’t cross it, so if we’re training in a mall, he'll ask us to walk our dogs over the tile and past the pushup bras and lacy lingerie. Dave's always on the lookout for animal statues, too. For a long time, Old Navy had a dog mannequin frozen in a play bow. Its rear-end was sniffed by many a NEADS puppy, some of whose fur would bristle when they realized they were nose to butt with a zombie creature.

At our most recent class, we were picking our way through a parking lot at night when Dave noticed a tractor-trailer idling next to Home Depot. It seemed that the driver was on break and had left the engine running to stay warm in the subfreezing temperature.

Dave barely had to ask. We knew the drill. Bear and I fell into step behind the other puppy raisers and followed them along the side and front of the truck as Dave watched the dogs' reactions and scribbled notes on his clipboard. Each dog-human pair was briefly illuminated by the truck's headlights before disappearing into the shadows on the other side. Bear and I had just passed through the beams when suddenly the cab lurched forward, leaving its trailer behind.

Turns out the driver wasn't on break; he was working. That is, until a pack of humans and dogs emerged out of the darkness and circled his truck. No wonder he left in such a hurry.

He didn't go far, though. He backed his cab to a different trailer by the loading dock and climbed down to attach it. One of our group, Dawn, approached him. When she rejoined us, she lowered her voice, "Hey, this guy looks like Santa Claus, so we're going to introduce our pups to him one at a time." Dawn is a long-time puppy raiser and like Dave, never lets a training opportunity pass.

I walked Bear over to the man, who did look a little like Santa Claus -- if Santa drove a truck instead of a sleigh. "Bear, say hello," I instructed. The man crouched to dog height, "Hello there, big guy. You're a good fella, aren't you?" He scratched and petted Bear, whose mouth was open in an ecstatic smile. Bear leaned so hard into trucker Santa that his body made a U.

I let it go on a little longer than I should have, considering there were other puppies waiting to say hello. But both man and dog seemed so delighted by this unexpected break in their routines, that I didn't want it to end.

After the man said hello to all of the puppies -- and they to him -- he finished hooking up his trailer, hoisted himself back into his cab and drove away. As he passed us, he pulled on his horn, somehow sensing that he could offer our training class one more unusual experience.

This, I guess, is how you turn found encounters  into art.

Bear (on left) practices down-stay with his classmates at Home Depot shortly before leaving the store and meeting trucker Santa.

After 21 years in the Rhode Island prison system -- the last 17 in the same facility, Keith was about to transfer out of state to finish his final stretch of time. He was nervous, but prepared. He got rid of his few possessions and focused on "cleaning the attic," as he put it -- clearing his head so he'd be in good mental shape for the transition.

Somebody gave him the date of the transfer. He passed the information on to me, and I tried to find out the name of the prison where he was being taken.

That was a big mistake. My inquiry tipped off authorities that Keith knew when he would be moved.

Prisoner transports are like state secrets; the only ones who can know when they'll take place are the drivers and a few people on either end. The fear is that if an inmate knows when he’ll be on the road, he’ll plan an escape. He might have friends on the outside fake an accident and ambush the vehicle.

The very notion that Keith would try to escape at this point in his life is inconceivable � to him, to me, to everyone who knows him � including whoever it was who let him know when the marshals would be coming for him.

By all accounts, Keith has been a model inmate. He's grown from an angry teenager who deserved to be in prison into a man who wants to build a future for himself. While serving time, he earned his bachelor's degree, trained service dogs, and spoke to kids about the consequences of making bad choices.

Now, the end is finally in sight. He just had to move to another prison to get there.

I don't know the details, but my theory is that the reason the prison staff tipped him off is because they're decent people. A few of them have known Keith since he was a teenager and were pretty confident that once he left, they wouldn't be seeing him again -- certainly not back in prison. Maybe they just wanted to give him a proper goodbye.

And probably, they wanted to ease his anxiety, lessen his fear of the unknown. They knew he was nervous about going to a new prison, being stripped of his "rank" as a long-timer and starting back at the bottom. They also knew that once he left Rhode Island, the classification process would take weeks or months and it would be awhile before he'd be able to speak with his family again. If he knew when he'd be leaving, at least he could get in that one last phone call.

Unfortunately, the prison system has no tolerance for this kind of thinking -- at least not when it comes to transfers. When Keith gave me the date, I naively called his lawyer who in turn, called the out-of-state prison system to ask where his client would be taken. That's when all hell broke loose.

Keith made it as far as the state line when the transfer was called off. He was returned to prison and thrown in segregation while authorities investigated the source of the leak. I guess they figured out who it was because after seven days in solitary confinement, Keith was finally shipped out of state. This time I didn't find out about it until after the fact.

Since then, I've been veering from guilt to outrage and back to guilt again. And I've been trying very hard to understand the jailer mindset. I guess when you deal with convicts for a living, you have to assume everyone is up to no good. The problem is, that outlook dehumanizes everyone in the prison system � correctional officers, prison administration and inmates. My gut churns when I try to imagine what was going through Keith’s head when he was yanked back to prison and thrown into solitary simply because he knew his transfer date. But worse than that is knowing that there are prison staff who got in trouble for being kind to him -- who were, in fact, punished for treating an inmate like a fellow human being.

Awhile back, I was searching for something to dress up my outfit. Marty looked me over and said, "Why don't you wear that scarf from the video?"

Ah, yes. The scarf from the video. It certainly is lovely, with its multi-colored pattern. It's also not mine. In fact, when I walked into the offices of Simon & Schuster the morning of the video shoot, the scarf was adorning the neck of one of the publicists.

I was there to record a promotional video for Weekends with Daisy. Jillian the publicist -- and everybody else I met that morning -- was impeccably dressed. Most of the women wore skirts and heels. Me? I was in jeans and a t-shirt. I looked like a schlump, but for good reason. I had arranged with NEADS to borrow a visual aid for the video -- a 4-month-old yellow Lab. Puppies are messy under any circumstances. There's always lots to clean up and wipe off. Jeans can hide that sort of thing. A silk dress and nylons, not so much. Also, if I was going to stand by the curb in midtown Manhattan urging Chips to "better go now," while car horns and sirens blared all around us, I'd do it in comfort, not while tottering on high heels and holding my skirt down in the wind.

So, that's why I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt in the video, but it doesn't explain the scarf.

Here's the story, and then some. After I arrived at Simon & Schuster and found a safe place to stand while the entire workforce stampeded out of their offices to descend upon Chips, I went into a meeting with my editor, agent, and two publicists. Somebody gave Chips a full bowl of water. He lapped at it for a moment, then grasped the rim between his teeth and tipped the bowl over onto the carpet. The meeting was delayed while we scurried about, trying to contain the damage by throwing paper towels over the rapidly spreading pool of water.

Eventually, we settled in at the conference table. I drank from a cup while Chips napped at my feet.

An hour or so later, it was time to head downstairs to the studio to shoot the video. I gathered up my belongings and stuffed them into a tote bag crammed with dog toys and emergency cleanup supplies. I coaxed Chips out from under the table and then, because not enough water had been spilled that day, I grabbed my cup and threw its contents at my chest. Not intentionally -- I was aiming for my mouth but the puppy threw me off balance.

So, there I was, just minutes before appearing on camera, with a large water stain on my shirt.

"I can dry it in the ladies' room," I offered hopefully, picturing myself doing a sort of limbo beneath the hand dryer. The others shook their heads and considered the dark pattern on my chest. Somebody bemoaned that I didn't have a scarf to cover it up. That's when everyone's eyes turned toward Jillian. Without missing a beat, she unwound the brightly colored scarf from her neck and arranged it over my water stain.

We trooped down to the studio where Chips greeted the cameraman with a tail wag, wandered to the end of his leash and squatted. "No!" I yelled so loudly that Chips stopped mid-pee to stare at me. "I'm so, so, so sorry," I apologized, even as I handed the other publicist, Mary, the cleanup supplies and left her (in heels and skirt) to dab delicately at the stain while I hurried Chips to the elevator and out to the street where he peed a river onto the sidewalk.

When we returned to the studio, there were two director's chairs facing the camera. One was for Chips. I lifted him onto the seat and he sat there, wobbling for a moment and looking at me uncertainly. I assured him that he was being a good boy, sat in my chair, and the two of us settled in for the ride.

Chips was the ideal co-star. He was well behaved. He gave me a high-five when I asked. He stayed in his chair the entire time. And he's such a scene stealer, that when you watch the video, I challenge you to even notice the beautiful scarf around my neck. Check it out .

Jillian adjusts my (her) scarf

Keynote speech, NEADS graduation, November 2013

I was inspired to write Weekends with Daisy because I was in awe of all of the people, personalities, characters and moving parts it takes to turn a little puppy into a service dog. That was my intent at the beginning, then the story shifted to memoir as I dug deeper into that year with Daisy, and with some distance, was able to see what Daisy did for me.

Any weekend puppy raiser already knows what these animals bring to their lives. For those of you who haven’t done it � or are considering being a weekend puppy raiser, I’ll give you the short version.

When I started with Daisy, I was in it for the dog. Yeah, supporting a wonderful organization was nice, too, but I was really in it for the dog. Our own dog had died a few years earlier after nearly 15 years with us. I was working as a writer mostly from home. I’d go into the office once a week, but the rest of the time I did most of my communicating by email. I’d go days without speaking to anyone outside my family. My kids were 11 and 15 and I was no longer in the thick of their lives, molding and shaping them. Instead, I was monitoring them. I had been the potter, elbow deep in clay creating a couple of magnificent pieces. Now I had yielded the bench to them, you know, maybe whispering a tip or two but mostly staying out of the way. It was fine, really, but I could see that in just a few years, that bench would be empty. Then what would I be? I couldn’t start a new kid.

But, I could start with a new dog. Daisy not only gave me a new sense of purpose, she opened the world to me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Now I want to jump ahead to the dog I most recently puppy-raised, Rescue.

Rescue was named by the Worcester Firefighters Association in memory of rescue worker Jon Davies, who died in a building collapse. There had been a fire in the apartment building and someone thought there might be a man still inside. There wasn’t.

All of the dogs I’ve puppy raised have been special. Rescue was special because of his name and because of his intelligence, the connection he formed with the humans in his life, his loving nature, his deep concern that he always do the right thing. If I said a command wrong, he would stare at me until I said it right. Only then would he execute it.

On April 14, I returned Rescue to prison. The next day was Patriot’s Day � Marathon Monday. I think everyone who lives in New England has a story about that day. This is ours: My brother flies in from LA to run Boston every year. My entire family sees him off in Hopkinton and a few of us split off to meet him at the finish line.

 I never bring my current puppy-in-training to the Marathon because after the race, we all meet at my father’s to celebrate his birthday and by the time we’re done, it’s too late to get the dog back to the prison. This year was even more special than usual because our son Josh, who was 15 at the time, was going to run bandit next to his uncle for a few miles. Josh made a sign with his name on it and taped it to his chest. We saw my brother off in Hopkinton, then drove to Natick, making it to the sidelines in time to spot him running toward us, waving and smiling. Josh jumped into the race, falling into step beside his uncle. They ran together for about four miles, past Wellesley College where the legendary Wellesley college women read Josh’s shirt and screamed his name. Meanwhile, my husband, Marty and I were driving the back roads to Wellesley center, where we were to meet up with Josh.

But he was having so much fun, that he kept going about half a mile past our meeting spot in the center until he reluctantly tore away from the race and walked back to find us. He was beaming!  It was one of those seminal experiences for a 15-year-old kid and he didn’t want it to end. So we hung around watching the runners for awhile, then went home with the plan that we’d meet up with my brother and the others in a few hours. Josh posted pictures on Facebook of himself on the Marathon route. His friends were so excited for him.

Then the bombs went off.

My first thought, of course, was my family. Craig had finished the race by then, but I knew that he and the family who met him at the finish were still in the area. And for a terrifying 20 minutes, I couldn’t reach any of them � not either of my brothers, or my father, or my 23-year-old niece, who was with them.

 Josh had the television on. He was very quiet. Our daughter called, hysterical. She had been with friends, watching the race from Heartbreak Hill. She was on the T, trying to get to South Station when the train was stopped and everyone ordered off. While I was on the phone with her, a text came through from my brother, then another one from my father. They were okay.

Marty left to pick up Aviva, and Josh and I got on the Mass Pike to Cambridge, where my father lives. Josh, who had been so quiet, sat in the passenger seat and sobbed. I turned off the car radio. All I could say was what was already being reported. I told him, “Look at all of the people who ran toward the explosions, Josh. So many people are helping. For most of us, the impulse is to help one another, not to hurt each other.�

But we weren’t there to help and because of that, we felt helpless.

A few weeks later, I took Rescue to the memorial in Copley Square. Almost immediately, a woman ran up to me. She recognized the patch on Rescue’s vest and told me that her co-worker recently got a NEADS dog to work with their nursing home clients and she had the honor of dog-sitting one weekend. Later, the woman’s husband sought me out so he could meet Rescue, too. Afterward, walking down Boylston Street past one of the bombing sites, a woman stopped us on the sidewalk. She introduced herself as a member of the NEADS advisory committee. I remember wanting to hug her.

This trip, this somber trip with Rescue to the site of the bombings and the memorial to its victims, became a reminder of what I had told Josh: people don’t want to hurt. They want to help. And wherever I go, as long as I have a NEADS dog with me, I’m going to find them.

NEADS responded to the bombings by creating the Pawsitively Strong fund, which provides service dogs at no cost to the victims. Of the hundreds of people injured, there was one who knew very early on that what would help her heal was a service dog. That was Jessica Kensky, an oncology nurse who, along with her husband, lost a leg in the attack. She filled out the application for a NEADS dog before she had even been released from the hospital. A few months later, her match was found. The perfect dog for her, it turned out, was Rescue.

I’ve been lucky enough to have seen them together and they are a perfect match. All that unconditional love and that strong desire to please that is Rescue, now has a singular focus: Jess. And she loves him like crazy.

Nothing will change what happened on April 15, but because of NEADS, Jess has Rescue. And my family and I, and in particular my son, Josh can look back on that day and also think of the weekends between April 15 and Sept 15, when we said goodbye to Rescue, and how without even knowing it, we were people who were helping.

Every now and then, and you weekend puppy raisers know what I’m talking about, people will thank me for my part in helping to socialize service dogs. I’m like, are you kidding? I love doing this! Because of this, I get to spend time with a dog � and what I can’t easily explain, but what you other weekend puppy raisers know, is that because of NEADS, I have the great, good fortune to be part of a community of people whose natural inclination is to help, to always help.

Marty showed up at my book signing for Weekends with Daisy last Sunday with blood on his pants and shoes. On the way there, he had noticed a cat, injured and bleeding by the side of the road. While he and another driver waited for animal control to arrive, the kitty wandered over to Marty and rested its head on his shoe.

When Marty told me the story, our son, Josh reminded me of an embarrassing incident six months ago when I helped rescue a cat, too. Embarrassing, because in a fit of panic I crawled under a bus on a busy city street, convinced that if I didn't, the cat would be crushed.

Josh, my aunt, and I were walking through downtown Providence when we saw a guy in hipster glasses and a leather jacket at a bus stop leaning over a young cat. The animal was panting heavily and drooling. It seemed sick, rather than injured.

We joined the man and were speculating on what could be wrong with the cat when I looked up. A bus was heading straight for us and the cat. I shooed Josh and my aunt onto the sidewalk and ran toward the bus, holding up my arms to signal the driver to stop. When she did, the cat sprang to life and bolted under the giant front tire, where it dropped to its side, terrified. I could see only one of two things happening: either the cat would be flattened by the bus or it would run out the other side into oncoming traffic.

I looked around helplessly at the small crowd watching from the sidewalk. No one seemed to know what to do. The hipster man was standing next to a motorcycle talking on his cell phone. The driver got off the bus and stood next to me, looking at the cat. I knew what she was thinking: she had a route to finish. Traffic rushed past. Time ticked on. And this is where I lost my mind. "Josh, don't ever do this," I said, lowering myself to the pavement onto my belly. My arms were too short to reach the cat and the underside of the bus too low for me to wiggle my way in any further.

A boy around 11 years old stepped forward to volunteer to retrieve the cat. I peered up at him from the ground. He looked like he might fit. I got to my feet. "Where are your parents?" I asked, looking from him to the crowd. "At home," he told me.

I felt like a sergeant sending the troops into battle.  "Okay, but you need something to protect yourself from getting scratched." I ordered Josh to hand me his sweatshirt. While he was pulling it off, the bus driver disappeared into her bus to grab a blanket.

The boy took it from her, testing its weight in his hands before dropping to his stomach and crawling under the bus. I ran to the other side of the vehicle where I positioned myself to block the cat (or stop traffic) if it tried to bolt. A minute later, the boy emerged with the cat wrapped in the blanket. The animal barely moved. It was too sick to scratch or bite.

The bus driver radioed her dispatcher to call animal control, then pulled away to continue her route. Josh, my aunt,  and I joined the boy on the sidewalk where he huddled against a building, trying to entice the cat to drink water from a bottle cap. She wouldn't take it. I held out a freeze-dried liver dog treat. She wouldn't even sniff it. We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Animal control was not showing up. The cat's pupils were dilated. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I didn't know how much longer the cat could hold on. Then we noticed the hipster coming toward us. He was wrapping up his phone conversation. Tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear, he nudged Josh and my aunt aside and, with a leather-gloved hand, picked up the cat, blanket and all, and carefully lowered it into a backpack. We watched in shocked silence as he zipped the animal inside. He started to walk away. "Um. Are you taking her somewhere?" I asked.

"To a shelter," he said. "I was just calling for directions." We watched him climb onto his motorcycle and, with the backpack nestled securely in front of him, he started the engine. We waved weakly as he roared past. The hipster gave us a thumbs up. And just like that, the cat was gone.

I looked at the boy for his reaction. He was still staring at the spot where the hipster had disappeared from view. "Make sure you wash your hands really well," I told him. The boy turned to me. "Are I'm going home to take a shower!" he said.

I thought about calling around to shelters the next day to describe the cat and ask if it was okay. But I didn't. I was afraid of what I'd learn. Marty is pretty sure his cat survived.

Unbeknownst to me, Josh snapped this flattering photo while I tried fitting under a city bus to rescue a cat. It ended up on his Facebook page.

ÌýÌýÌý I just finished watching Season One of Netflix’s original series, Orange is the New Black and I have to say, I’m really worried. Yes, the storylines pulled me in and I’m wrapped up in the lives of the characters and all that, but it’s Little Boo that I’m staying up nights thinking about.
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ÌýÌýÌý Little Boo, though it’s never fully explained on the show, is a dog being trained to be a service animal by one of the inmates. We don’t meet Little Boo until about one-third of the way into Episode Seven, when the inmate, Big Boo prances onto the block trailing a yellow Lab in a training cape and gleefully shouts, “Okay bitches! Who’s first in line for some PUPPY LOVINâ€�?â€�

ÌýÌýÌý I sat up on the couch and watched in horror as a squealing inmate and prison guard threw themselves onto the dog, smushing her face between their hands and riling her up. “Whoa, Big Boo!â€�  I yelled to the television. “You have to give the dog permission to say hello first!â€�
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ÌýÌýÌý Five years and four dogs ago, I started taking puppies out of a prison to socialize them on weekends. My first big surprise as a weekend puppy raiser was that the guy doing time in a medium security prison was far more disciplined with the puppy than I was. I saw it every Friday when he required Daisy to sit patiently and make eye contact before letting her race over to me; and every Sunday when I handed back the leash and watched him gently guide Daisy to the correct position at his side while I updated him on our weekend. And I saw it in the progress Daisy made from being an adorable, but instinct-driven puppy to a fully trained service dog.

ÌýÌýÌý In the NEADS program where I volunteer, there are a dozen inmates training dogs in the prison, each equally committed to his job. They receive their puppies at about twelve weeks old and, for an entire year, the dogs are by their side, learning to wait for each command, to stay calm and in control of their impulses. Oh sure, the puppies get to play, but only after the “free timeâ€� command because eventually, a disabled person’s safety and well being will depend on their dog’s ability to stay focused while working. I’m pretty sure that if any of the inmate trainers fed their canine student an ear of corn from their dinner plate as Big Boo did in Episode Nine, they’d lose their dog and be back to pressing license plates. But that wouldn’t happen because the inmates lucky enough to be accepted into the program know it’s a privilege to be a dog trainer in prison, to have the opportunity -- most for the first time in their lives â€� to be responsible for another being.

ÌýÌýÌý The hardest part of raising a service dog is letting him go. One inmate told me he cried every day for a month after saying goodbye to the first dog he trained. But now he thinks of Rugby and all of the rest of his dogs as being away at college, and that helps. The greatest reward for the inmates, though, is when the NEADS client visits the prison to meet the person who trained their dog. That’s when the raw pain of loss reshapes itself and bubbles up into feelings that are entirely new for most of them: pride and joy.

ÌýÌýÌý  So, OITNB writers, please give Big Boo some dog-training skills in Season Two. If you keep letting Little Boo jump on the bunk (Episode Twelve) and who knows what else is happening off camera, both she and her handler will be nothing more than a couple of prison flunkies. We viewers want to see Big Boo succeed, to watch her pour herself into her dog, then send Little Boo, along with the best of herself, into the world to do good.

I returned Rescue to prison for the final time last weekend. NEADS has someone in mind for him and on Monday, they will meet and we'll all know whether it's a match.

Rescue and I spent a lot of time on the floor together last weekend. I'd snuggle in close to press my face against his enormous, anvil head and kiss the side of his muzzle. It's like kissing a baby's cheek. Sometimes I'd stay on the floor after he'd wandered off to peer out the window. When he'd turn back and see me still lying there, face down, he'd get upset. He'd paw at my head as if he were trying to revive me. He has big paws and even though his nails are kept trimmed, they'd rake my scalp. It hurt, but I felt proud that he was living up to his name.

Okay, so here's my silver lining to saying goodbye to Rescue: Now I can lie on the floor without being mauled by an enormous black Lab.

I'm not fooling anyone, am I?

Rescue's inmate, Steve taught Rescue how to give hugs. You kneel in front of him, hold our your arms and say, "Rescue? Give me a hug," and he'll scoot over and rest his chin heavily on your shoulder. At the prison while we were saying goodbye, I had to take off my glasses to wipe my eyes. Steve noticed. "Rescue, give Sharron a hug," he said and let go of the leash. Rescue trotted over. I knelt and wrapped my arms around his back. He was still and warm and breathing softly on my shoulder and we stayed that way until I finally made myself let go.

It was the animal scent that separated us from the other puppy raisers. We had just arrived at North Attleboro's World War I Memorial Park, which has a collection of llamas and goats, a horse, a pig, and a donkey or two. This was all new to Rescue, who, until that moment, hadn't realized the planet held mammals other than humans and dogs, two cats, and the caged Guinea pigs at PetSmart.

Apparently, the waves of scent flowing into Rescue's muzzle knocked me out of his consciousness because he tugged at his leash as if I wasn't there. The other puppy raisers and their dogs moved on ahead. I knew I'd fight Rescue throughout the park unless he collected himself, so I  put him in a down-stay in the shade beneath a picnic table. While Rescue dug furrows into the dirt with his nose, I watched a small boy in purple, plastic sunglasses feel his way down the restroom ramp with a white, ball-tipped cane. His mother steered him toward us, smiling.

The boy could make out shapes, I think, because when his mother pointed out the dog, he wanted to know why Rescue was underneath the table. I told him that he was hoping to find spilled picnic food to eat. I gave Rescue permission to say hello. While he licked the boy's hands, the mom told me she's considering a seeing-eye dog for her son when he's older.

The boy told me his name, Declan.  "If you come back here next week, I'll make you a bracelet," he said. His mother suggested he give me one of his. Declan thought about that for a moment, then pulled a plastic beaded bracelet from the stack on his left wrist and held it out. I offered him my hand and asked that he put it on for me. Declan slipped the elastic over my fingers and patted the bracelet into place.

I've been wearing the bracelet off and on since. I'm wearing it now. The beads are photosensitive. I like to step outside into the light and watch them transform from white to multiple hues: orange, pink, blue and yellow. And I think of Declan and his mom. And of Rescue -- who shines his light onto each encounter, adding color to my life.

Rescue models my bracelet

ÌýÌýÌý I brought Rescue to Providence for the Rhode Island Pet Expo last Sunday. It was a good opportunity to expose him to other animals, and the downtown location provided plenty of additional training opportunities: heavy traffic, skateboarders, people behaving oddly (we checked that one off the list with a walk through the bus station).
ÌýÌýÌý This American Life was on the car radio on the ride down. The show's theme was "coincidences," and because I appreciate foreshadowing, I was pretty sure that meant I'd experience a coincidence of my own that day. I wasn't disappointed.
ÌýÌýÌý The Pet Expo was held at the Rhode Island Convention Center in a 100,000-square-foot exhibit hall packed with people and animals and booths that spilled over with pet treats and toys. It was almost too much for Rescue to process. If he were a cartoon, exclamation points would have been popping out of his head.
ÌýÌýÌý We made the rounds of the booths before settling in to watch an agility demo. Rescue was exhausted from the effort of holding himself together and dropped to the floor with his legs splayed behind him like an otter. When a woman in a wheelchair appeared beside us, I asked Rescue to squeeze in closer to make room for her. The woman looked down at him and told me in a soft voice that she misses her dog, who she had to put down two years ago. I confided that saying goodbye to my dog was what started me on the prison puppy track.
ÌýÌýÌý Her daughter joined the conversation, asking whether Rescue was trained at the ACI (Adult Correctional Institute). On the desk of the nonprofit where she works, she told me, are 30 hand-drawn birthday cards that an inmate from the ACI sent to her to distribute to the homeless children she works with. How the inmate  learned about her charity is a mystery since it's relatively new and hasn't received much publicity.
ÌýÌýÌý The cards, she said, are beautiful, intricately drawn, each one unique. It was obvious that the inmate took great care creating them. Along with the cards, he sent a newspaper article about the puppy program. The woman said she doesn't know why he included the article, but assumed it was as supporting evidence of his good intentions -- a way to reassure her that there was no ulterior motive to his gift, that, whether through art or training future service dogs, he tries to make life easier for others.
ÌýÌýÌý This sounded familiar. Rescue's inmate, Steve, is an artist. Before he trained NEADS puppies, he drew them and donated the portraits (anonymously) to the clients.
ÌýÌýÌý I asked the woman if she remembered the inmate's name. She did not, but said she'd recognize it if she heard it. I gave her Steve's name, first and last. Her response was immediate. "That's him!"
ÌýÌýÌý So, what are the odds that on the last hour of the last day of an expo that attracted thousands of people, the woman puzzling over an unexpected but heartfelt gift from a prison inmate would stand next to me, the person co-raising that inmate's dog?
ÌýÌýÌý The narrator of the This American Life episode said that a good coincidence is like a good magic trick. When you see one, a struggle ensues between the thrill of the apparent miracle and the urge to debunk it. Which might explain why on the ride home I searched for a rational explanation to the chance meeting. Maybe Steve has sent gifts of artwork to every nonprofit in the state of Rhode Island. Maybe he randomly selects names from the Providence phone book and sends off packages of hand-drawn cards every day. Then I realized that even if every third person in Providence has an original by Rescue's trainer sitting on their desk or hanging on their wall, there's no way I would know about it. The magic wasn't conjured by an unseen hand, but by the dog snoozing at my side. Without Rescue, there would have been no conversation. The woman and I wold have stood side by side, but apart, watching the agility demo, unaware of our connection. Because it's only when you connect with strangers that miracles reveal themselves.
ÌýÌýÌý Which is all the evidence I need to prove that dogs are magic.

Steve's portrait of Freedom, the puppy he and I trained before Rescue.

Rescue and I settled on the floor at JC Penney this afternoon to watch humans float down from the ceiling. That's what a person descending an escalator looks like to a dog -- kind of like Glinda the good witch, but without the bubble (or crown and wand, in most cases). So, whenever I'm with a dog and we spot an escalator, I pause for some de-freaking out.

Today, the woman we were watching was two-thirds of the way down when she smiled at Rescue and called out, "Hey! I know you. You're a NEADS dog!" She stepped off the escalator to say hello. I love running into people who are familiar with the program. It's like meeting someone who graduated from the same school or grew up in your hometown. It's an instant bond.

She asked about Rescue then revealed that three and a half years ago, her daughter, then a high schooler, was matched with a black Lab from NEADS. They felt a service dog would help her daughter cope with the physical and emotional challenges of an autoimmune disease that attacks her connective tissue. The girl used a wheelchair, but soon after her service dog, Curran came into her life, she began to walk with Curran's support. She's 21 now and lives on her own. Well, not really on her own. She has Curran.


After our escalator training, we did some "ignore whirling horses" work.