Donald Hynes

Donald Hynes was a student in Dr. Reese’s Writing and Publishing class at FPC Yankton.

MY PRINCESS

Nonfiction

The events of 9-11 tattoo a large portion of my memory, likewise, the events of October 2, 1998. The sunny Detroit skies created temperatures above the normal that day. When I arrived home at 1:30 p.m., I realized how absent-minded I had become lately, because once again, I left my gun in a locker at the precinct. Being mentally exhausted, I had looked forward to the solitude of an empty house and a cup of hot tea before picking up my daughter, Ashley, from school at 4:00 p.m. After firing up my wife’s antique stove under a pot of water I settled into the living room La-Z-Boy and turned on the TV.

Several minutes later, as I walked toward the kitchen to check on the water, I clearly heard the local news guy say, “Northville Asylum.” I hurried back, retrieved the remote, turned up the volume, and saw a live feed of the Northville Psychiatric Hospital, complete with Michigan State police officers and crime scene tape. The news reporter said that three patients had escaped from the legendary Insane Asylum on the Hill. The authorities suspected that the escapees killed a nurse during the breakout. My stomach began turning as I intuitively picked up the phone and sat down, unsure of whom to call first. My mind raced while I waited for the anchorman on our old thirty-two inch Sony to announce the names. I shouted at him, “Who escaped?”

Before I received my answer, the commercial break began. I started pacing around the main floor of the house. I glanced at the control pad of the newly installed alarm system and wondered if I activated it properly before leaving for work earlier. I planned on developing that habit from then on, as opposed to my recent habit of leaving the front door unlocked half the time.

The alarm control panel looked complicated. I pushed the button that said “status” and the word “silent” popped

onto the screen. As I studied the other buttons and lights, a slight draft from our old front window brought me a familiar fragrance. I looked around the room and thought, “Angela?... No way.”

As I became more frantic, an unexpected sound from upstairs startled me. I looked up the stairway and thought about tackling her or running away. Instead, I managed to compose myself and said, “You’re not supposed to be here. You know I’ve gotta call the police now, don’t you? Talk to me! How did you get outta that place? What happened to the nurse at the hospital?”

Angela didn’t answer as she strutted down the staircase, reminding me of a lioness in a slow pursuit of an injured gazelle. Despite my severe apprehension, instinct kicked in as my attention became focused on her legs. Wearing a fresh application of lotion, her thighs glistened through her pink negligee as the sunlight from the stair landing window pierced in from behind her. I stood motionless and anxious, but strangely, not overly concerned about seeing her faceto-face. She still mesmerized me. Her tight body hid the fact that she once gave birth to our daughter Ashley. Even at that nerve-racking moment, her flat stomach and firm uplifted breasts became an increasing tease as she departed the stairs and walked towards me.

She carried a black velvet rope and wrapped it around her wrist as she pointed to a nearby wooden chair. Her sensual voice whispered, “Sit, Don.” I briefly hesitated before yielding to her command. She stepped by me, brushing her leg against my hip. While she strolled behind my back, she could sense my suspicious tension and gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. The rope dragged across my forearm as she moved. After she completed a rotation around the chair, she lifted her leg and straddled my lap.

My heart began pounding faster in anticipation, as her glossy lips started their approach to my mouth. I stretched out towards her. She stopped her descent before our kiss. My instinct continued to react, yet beneath my rumbling passions, I contemplated. What the hell am I doing?

She then pushed herself away from my clutching hands, and stood between my legs before leaning in closer. “Relax, my prince,” she breathed into my ear. I could tell then that her condition had not improved at all. Nevertheless, I became filled with foolish excitement. She faced me and wrapped her arms around my neck. As she stretched forward, she pressed her breasts into my face. She then kissed my ear while reaching towards the wicker basket on the table behind me. I twisted around a little in order to watch her hands. From the corner of my eye, I recognized that she pulled out an item from inside that resembled a battery operated taser, like the ones I often confiscated from the streets of Detroit. As I pushed her away, she pressed the metal prods into the side of my neck.

At least fifteen minutes must have passed when I tried to speak but my swollen tongue felt numb. A sulfur taste had invaded my mouth and nasal cavities. My thoughts were clear but I felt semi-paralyzed and weak. Duct tape secured my hands behind my back as I lay on the floor sideways. My legs felt heavy as timber. Angela sat in the same chair from which I collapsed and stared at me. “Don, I know you’ve been sleeping with my wicked stepsister. You must finally admit it,” she said.

I’ve never been more frightened. I could barely manage a whisper. “We’ve been through this. You don’t have a sister. You’re sick, Angela. Please untie me,” I said.

She stepped over to me and placed her furry red slipper on my throat. “Quiet!” she demanded. “For I will soon return to my castle where the lords are awaiting my glorious return. But first, I must get my revenge. I need to have your head on a platter by morning light.”

I nearly fainted from being choked, but still mustered my remaining strength and attempted to scream, but a barely audible voice sounded out. She finally removed her foot. I strained but failed to roll my uncooperative body away from her. My eyes widened as I focused on the meat cleaver that she now held. “Please, honey, Please!” I begged.

She ignored my mumbled appeal. She then positioned

herself on my left side and raised her weapon. I moaned a dreaded expectation of doom. As her body began to propel the handheld guillotine towards my neck, I heard a squeak from the loose floorboard in the front hallway that leads to the room we were in. Angela turned and dashed into the kitchen toward the back door of the house. I then saw a police-issued Glock pistol extending into our living room, clutched by two outreached hands. “Detroit Police! Who’s in here?” a man shouted.

I never felt so relieved. The officer then bent the corner of the wall and saw me on the floor. I immediately attempted to point my foot in the direction of her escape and said as loud as I could, “She went out there.” The officer exercised extreme caution as he made his way into the kitchen. Because of our floor plan, I could position myself to see much of the top half of our kitchen over the marble counter. The back door was now wide open.

I assumed that once inside the kitchen he saw Angela as he looked out the window facing the backyard. As he got to the back door, it sounded like a bottle of pills hit the floor inside the kitchen, causing him to turn around toward the pantry. Before he could aim and shoot in that direction, Angela appeared and dumped the pot of boiling water into his face.

The officer screamed and stumbled backwards. He dropped his weapon and covered his face with both hands. Angela shoved him against the refrigerator. He then extended one arm out, as if he had been blinded. Meanwhile, she snatched a knife off the countertop and swung it into the officer. The cleaver handle crashed into the man’s wrist nearest his chin but the blade continued forward just enough to rip into the side of his neck. I’m certain that the officer knew his life had ended before he hit the ground. As his blood pulsated into his uniform shirt, he slid down the fridge and disappeared from my view. I panicked even further, barely able to breathe, but somehow I managed to crawl behind the couch. I could hear Angela banging things around in the kitchen before she returned to the living

room and called my name.

A second later, the sound of her steps began to rush towards me. Everything from then on seemed to move in slow motion, as she pushed over the neglected stack of boxes labeled “Angela’s stuff.” When she got to the coffee table, she flipped it away from the couch. Its glass top fell out and shattered against the stone fireplace mantel. She then stopped and towered over me, reminding me of a runner waiting for the starting pistol. She stood five feet away and smiled as she held the cleaver above her head with two hands. Then she bolted towards me.

As she began the down stroke for my beheading, an explosion rattled the old windows. She slowed down while making a short guttural sound. Regardless, her forward momentum kept her body falling towards me. She still held tight to the cleaver as it swung down toward my head. I turned away and heard a loud swoosh, just before the blade slammed and stuck into the wooden floor beneath the carpet, inches from my ear.

Her bloody body initially collapsed onto my chest before twitching a couple of times and settling down against my side. I looked across the room and saw a second police officer holding a pistol with smoke curling out of the gun barrel.

In hindsight, I really wish my marriage had ended the way I just described it. But the fact of the matter is that Angela simply divorced me ten short years after I came to prison, for practically no reason at all. She kept our house, money, and the dog, but in case she reads this story, I hope she also kept her sense of humor.

A RUFF SYNOPSIS OF THE YANKTON DOG PROGRAM

Nonfiction

The writing professor asked me to compose a short essay about the Yankton Dog Program, known as Federal Inmate Dog Obedience. I detected that he wanted me to be serious for a change and not use any of my usual corny lines like, “We inmates teach our dogs to flee from the police.” So here goes.

Yankton Prison Camp began its dog program about three years ago. It is the only prison I have been to in fifteen years that allowed dogs to legitimately live on the compound. When I vacationed at Terre Haute Prison Camp, some of the hunters there, who were also staff members, unofficially allowed us to feed and entertain a growing pack of forest dogs in an effort to keep them from reducing the nearby deer population.

When the Yankton Dog Program began three years ago, I was hesitant to work with the animals due to my occasional allergies. However, I signed up as a dog handler about sixteen months ago and have not regretted it once, only twice, not really, despite ever-watering eyes and a bunch of sneezing. I think I learned somewhere that every one hundred sneezes negatively changes your projected life span by only six months, but my dogs have been worth it (NOTE: I just thought of a book I should write, Sneezing Your Way to a Much Shorter Life Sentence).

We get our dog trainees from the nearby humane society and the dogs usually have issues. For instance, in some way, most of them have been beaten, neglected, or abandoned, causing them to be aggressive towards dogs or people as well as prone to bark, lunge, rip up furniture, and the like. The point is, we are not usually starting off with a well cared-for pedigree puppy. Therefore, it is a bit more of an exciting challenge to begin Yankton’s eight-week dog

training regime from behind the starting line.

This particular situation is probably the reason that our five habitually complaining inmates (every prison has five to 1500 guys like this) will tell people, when not asked, that the inmate trainers are not doing a great job because their dogs sometimes lunge or bark, etc. Regardless, I’m always quick to point out that lunging or barking is an improvement from when the dogs first moved in from the pound. Ultimately, our job as dog handlers is to take dogs from whatever temperament and/or other lack of good behavior they came here with and turn them into mostly obedient house pets with manners. Thankfully, most of the inmates and staff notice the positive changes in a dog’s behavior. The dog handlers quickly learn a new dog’s personality because we live side by side with them. Every dog has its quirks that we work with or around. However, we try to stay consistent in having daily dog training, exercise, and people/dog socializing activities. In addition, we make sure that a dog gets enough quiet time where people are not continually trying to engage them, whether the dogs seem to enjoy it or not.

The dog program is well-equipped with the tools needed for dog training and care. We have a full library of training DVDs, each featuring different expert trainers, which we are required to watch and are tested on, to make sure we have understood their techniques. We have a professional doggy bath, along with a washer and dryer for the doggy blankets. We have tons of donated toys, leashes, and food. Not every handler trains exactly the same way, but in the end, our dogs are potty-trained and have mastered several commands, which include but are not limited to: Sit, Stay, Come, Drop it, Leave it, Touch it, Heel, and No. Overall, I think one of the most important things we teach is walking a dog with a loose leash so that the dog does not drag its owner.

The best training tip I learned is that a dog is an animal and thinks like an animal, not like a human. Handlers must try to put themselves in the dog’s paws when

communicating instructions. In addition, dogs must either be the pack leader or follow a pack leader. It’s in their nature to do so. In order to be a good handler, we must never allow the dog to do things that a pack leader would do. For instance, if a dog pulls on the leash, enters an area before a handler, or otherwise dominates the handler in any area, it will think he is the leader and the human just a flunky member of his pack. That is why we as handlers try to restrict the dogs from doing such things.

I hope I shed some lime light on the Yankton Dog Program. From the description above, you can see why the program is more than worthwhile because not only does it provide an otherwise unwanted dog for a loving family, but all of Yankton’s inmates have an opportunity to either learn, love, and/or contribute to their community. Being a dog handler/trainer can be a hairy job at times, but in the end, everyone wins with the Yankton Dog Program.

Back row, left to right: Chad Root, Cory Uecker, Grant Carman, Donald Hynes, Luke Low Middle row: Tyler Sutton Front row, left to right: David Frye, Ricky Walker, Jeremy Corkill Dogs, left to right: Spanky, Brock, Berkley