The Flog – The Fabry Log

He was walking back from the lake with a fishing rod and a lure and two dogs running by his side. An inmate two years younger than me. He was 19 when he was sent to prison, so he’s spent more time inside than out. He was 19 when he committed some crime. Probalby took someone’s life. I didn’t ask.

“Catch anything?” That’s all I really wanted to know.

He shook his head. And from the look on his face, it didn’t seem that important.

Time moves slowly inside prison. The clouds roll lazily past. Time is like a mosquito, it’s always there buzzing in your ear but you can’t quite catch it, can’t quite squish it. And the mosquitoes are big in Louisiana.

One dog was named Sissy. It jumped on him and the other dog, wet from the early Sunday morning dew. He tried to corral Sissy, but there’s only so much you can do to a dog that is free to roam.

“What do you do here?” I said, knowing that each inmate has a trade they try to perfect.

“Welding. Right over there by that tractor is where I work every day.”

He told me about himself, where he was from. I asked if he had been at the Returning Hearts celebration. Another shake of the head.

“That dog right there,” he said, pointing at the smaller black dog with a collar, “he came here as a mutt. Just another dog. But he’s one of the best cow-dogs we have. Had no idea what he could do, but he just took to it.”

He was talking about the dog and talking about more, I suppose. He could have been a man out for a stroll on a Sunday morning. He could have been a fisherman just wandering for a good spot.

And as he walked away and the dogs followed, it struck me that you can’t lock up everything.