Freedom
at
Jail Break
W a y wa r d H o u n d s C o r r e c t i o n a l F a c i l i t y Rebecca Harp, Warden
Jack has a history of criminal mayhem. When I first adopted him, he leapt through a Taco Bell drive-through window, only to be greeted by a shrieking worker who had an irrational fear of primate-like dogs jumping through windows at her face. In a flurry of hot sauce packets and drinks, Jack pursued his right as an American citizen to have tacos. There was lots of screaming and I truly believe they thought it was a monkey causing the ruckus, not a dog. Somehow, Jack was tossed back out the window to me, and I drove off as fast as I could—and this may be the worst part—without my burrito. Jack has also brought knives into my bed, and once a screwdriver—perhaps he was working on convincing the crew dig out a path below. Jack is as charming and persuasive as Ted Bundy; Jack is cunning and he has monkey paws ... this is how I know the jail break was all his fault. Recently, a friend called me, “I just saw two of your dogs posted on social media as FOUND.“ Whaaat?! These are the things that cause cardiac disturbances. As I sped home, I tried to think of how they could’ve gotten out. And, if two were out, where were the other seven (yes, we have nine inmates at Wayward Hounds Correctional 22 | Freedom
Facility.) My mind reeled with fear and incredulity. I called the kind person who had found the two—she told me the “wild and crazy brindle one” was sopping wet, as he somehow got over a fence and jumped onto the tarp-covered pool. With that revelation, I knew she indeed had my chimpanzeebugg felon, Captain Jack Sparrow. She was concerned that the other one had been hit by a car because she couldn’t walk. She described my sweet Emma, who has a spinal condition and doesn’t walk very well—she’s actually usually in a wheelchair when out and about. I stopped at my house to make sure it was just the two that had gotten out. My heart sank as I saw the side door ajar. I ran in to count the dogs, and luckily the others had the good sense not to leave. I did entertain the thought that someone had broken in, but nothing was missing—besides Jack and Emma. I brought the escapees home, and tried to figure out how the Alcatraz-level break out occurred. It seemed Jack used his ape paws to pull the handle so hard that he moved it enough to open the door. Emma succumbed to his seduction and followed, even though I’m sure she knew it was the wrong thing to do. I shut the door, checked it repeatedly to make
