For 17 years I’ve worn many hats working with the dogs at my prison. Unofficially they are my therapy.

Christopher Monihan

I’ve worked many prison jobs. None have helped me more than working with the dogs. My official job titles have included Dog Handler, Dog Trainer, and for a short one year stint Cat Handler wrangling cats in the now defunct cat program.

Unofficially, and to the men around me, I’ve been called the Bird Man, Snake Guy, and Mouse Dude so named after the creatures I’ve trapped flapping, slithering or skittering about my cell.

My prison has two dog programs, one with staff dogs and the other a pound rescue program.

The pound program is where I got my start nearly two decades ago. I was alone and struggling to cope in this violent prison world and the dogs rescued me. In many ways the incarcerated and the dogs share a common adversity — societal discards sent to prison for habilitation.

Once here I nurtured the dogs back to wholeness. I interacted with them 24/7; cared for and trained them; taught basic commands — such as, sit, stay, down, to name a few — and prepared them for adoption in new forever homes.

Five years have passed since I donned my latest hat and today I am a Staff Dog handler. As the name implies the dogs I care for and train are staff owned.

My experience in the program is different from the pound program. This program required federal certification which I earned through two years of apprenticeship in the pound rescue program. The dogs I receive tend to be calm and well mannered. Pound dogs are a random walk.

However, life behind bars is not easy.

I didn’t always have the benefit of the dogs. For many years I suffered from trauma inflicted by the prison environment like so many incarcerated people do and found no help from the prison system.

In my 2023 Prison Journalism Project op-ed  I wrote about Incarceration borne trauma. The prison environment itself is uniquely structured to foster trauma because the primary focus of prisons is on confinement. Little consideration is made for how the very structure of prisons affect the psyche of the incarcerated.

Compounding the problem is verbal and physical trauma experienced by the incarcerated at the hands of their peers and on some occasions unprofessional staff. These Potentially Traumatic Events also known as PTEs are supported by a 2019 literature review that determined PTEs and PTSD share compelling correlation.

Back on the prison yard, the warmth of the morning sun soaked into my pores and a soft breeze grazed my face.

“Arabella! Arabella! Bring the ball!” I danced an exaggerated two-step on the grassy field. The young American Bully returned the ball at my feet.

“Ready?” I flung the yellow nubby ball. It arched high across the wide green expanse.

Arabella receded into the distance. Her brown and white front and hind legs pumped joyously. I noticed a crowd of men had gathered nearby along the concrete walkway.

The guys aren’t allowed in the grass—only us dog handlers. Although I couldn’t hear their voices I understood everything. Watching the dogs at play was how they coped with prison. It was their brief moment of therapy.

Incarceration borne PTSD (IBPTSD) isn’t recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of mental disorders, the authoritative source on mental disorders used by psychologists and health care providers. There’s nothing in the literature. There are no IBPTSD studies.

The closest thing to recognition is the term “Post Incarceration Syndrome.” It recognizes that millions of restored citizens struggle once back in society but no one truly knows why–except, of course, those who’ve experienced incarceration.

I feel the initial step to understanding is recognition that IBPTSD is real and borne from the prison experience. Mental health advocates are starting to acknowledge that the trauma of incarceration itself may make some people more likely to develop PTSD.

“Good girl Arabella,” I said. I flung the ball one last time.

I inhaled and exhaled. For the moment I felt well. My unofficial therapy session was almost over.

Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do it all again.

*Christopher Monihan is incarcerated in Ohio. He is a Society of Professional Journalists Stillwater Award winner and a Prison Journalism Project student and contributing writer