Dog in prison: "He doesn't judge me"
Prison dog Henry visits incarcerated women at Dielsdorf prison. I accompanied the Greater Swiss Mountain Dog and experienced how he brings a sense of normalcy behind bars.
I flinch as the heavy steel door slams shut behind me. The entrance area of the Dielsdorf Women's Prison is quiet, cool, and odorless. The head of the medical service, Ulrike Klotzbücher, comes to meet me. I try to imagine what it must be like when the door to your cell no longer opens. When life on the outside no longer exists and the world behind bars is your new reality.
19 women are serving prison sentences of up to six months here. 38 others are in pre-trial detention. Many experience a so-called prison shock during the initial period. As she unlocks one heavy door after another, Ulrike Klotzbücher explains:
“They suddenly realize that everything is gone: job, partner, children. They lose control over their lives. Some suffer panic attacks, anxiety disorders, or even want to take their own lives.”
Her words hang heavily in the air as we walk through the corridors. Prison shock is a burden that cannot be talked away. Behind the cell doors sit women experiencing fear, despair, and uncertainty. And it is not just the convicted who are affected. There are also women here who are merely under suspicion.
While they do receive strategies for dealing with prison shock, sometimes conversations alone are not enough. Then you need someone who listens without asking questions and provides comfort without needing words.
Henry reports for duty
In the prison staff office, a huge Greater Swiss Mountain Dog trots toward us: Henry. He belongs to Ulrike Klotzbücher, is six years old, and completed his training as a certified therapy dog two years ago. The head of the medical service points to a diploma on the wall. Before Henry, other dogs were already active in so-called animal-assisted intervention at Dielsdorf Prison.
Boisterously, Henry rubs his head against Ulrike Klotzbücher's legs and gets treats from some of the staff. Two women laugh. “Henry just brings a good mood everywhere,” says the head of the medical service. But when she takes out his harness and puts it over his head, he becomes instantly calm. He knows: a mission is coming up.
Together with Henry, we walk through the prison corridors again, this time toward the inner courtyard. Now a few muffled voices can be heard. Dishes are clattering in the kitchen. As we step into the courtyard, some curious eyes peer out from behind the barred windows. But Henry is here for one specific woman: Diana*.
Diana wrote a note to the medical service. In it, she asked for a visit from Henry. This is not uncommon. “We receive requests frequently,” says Ulrike Klotzbücher. While we wait for Diana, she takes a few letters out of her pocket and shows them to me. I read about incarcerated women who rave about how much the last visit from Henry helped them, how much they miss him, and hope for another visit. One woman leaves the decision up to the animal: “Please ask Henry if he would like to come,” she writes. Smileys and little hearts frame the words.
A joyful reunion in the courtyard
“Henry!” a delighted voice rings out into the courtyard. Diana has arrived and spotted the Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. Beside themselves with joy, they greet each other. They seem to have forgotten everything around them. There is only the moment. Leisurely, Ulrike Klotzbücher approaches the two with a bag. It is full of toys for Henry – and, of course, treats. Diana greets us briefly and quickly hides some snacks in a snuffle mat. After all, a visit only lasts 30 to 45 minutes.
Now Diana grabs a ball and throws it across the courtyard. Henry jumps after it, clumsily like a foal. We all laugh. “Henry, over here!” calls Diana. The dog returns with the ball and gets a reward. “I missed him so much,” says Diana, patting Henry's head. Ulrike Klotzbücher asks how she is doing. She doesn't say much and seems to sink into thought for a moment.
Henry, on the other hand, is the picture of joy. When Diana holds a treat up high, he stands on his hind legs and begs. Again and again, the dog fetches the ball. Eventually, he drops to the ground, exhausted. Diana sits down next to him and scratches his belly. “Do you have dogs yourself?” asks Ulrike Klotzbücher. Diana nods. “Three, actually,” she says with a smile. Then, little by little, she reveals how she is feeling at the moment. When she is silent for a little longer, I ask: “What do you like about Henry?” She says thoughtfully:
“He is always so cheerful. He gives me so much love. He doesn't judge me.”
Henry has rights, too
The 45 minutes are up – they flew by. We say goodbye to Diana. She can hardly wait for the next visit. “I'll write another letter,” she calls out as she leaves the courtyard. Then the normal everyday life behind the thick prison walls continues for her. Another visit from Henry is not planned for today. The Greater Swiss Mountain Dog also looks visibly exhausted. “He soaks up all the emotions like a sponge,” says Ulrike Klotzbücher. “That's why he needs rest now.”
We pass several cells. In the coming days, Henry will be visiting there again. I ask Ulrike Klotzbücher if boundaries have ever been crossed. She nods. One woman once wanted to feed him an egg from her own mouth. “I had to intervene there,” she says. Usually, however, Henry makes his own boundaries clear. If someone tries to kiss him on the nose, he takes a few steps back and keeps his distance.
A door opener on four paws
According to Ulrike Klotzbücher, however, the beautiful moments are much more frequent. The ones where the incarcerated women greet Henry with tears in their eyes. The ones where closed-off women, who have remained silent for weeks toward psychologists, suddenly open up. Ulrike Klotzbücher says:
“Henry is not there for fun, but because he is needed. We rely on the women telling us how they are doing. If that also improves the mood in the prison, everyone benefits.”
The head of the medical service lets me out of Dielsdorf Prison again. Once more, the heavy steel door slams shut behind me. I flinch again. And that is because I suddenly realize how much we take normality, freedom, for granted. And how important it is that Henry brings a piece of that into the prison.
He is literally a door opener.
*The name has been changed. Individual personal details have been anonymized or omitted to protect privacy.
What do you think about therapy dogs in prisons? Let us know in a comment.
I love everything with four legs or roots – especially my rescue cats Jasper and Joy and my collection of succulents. I’m happiest following the scent of stories about police dogs and cat groomers – or cultivating thoughtful tales in garden flea markets and Japanese gardens.
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