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View of A Puppy Mill
View of a Puppy Mill Auction - A Story in Five Parts
by Ruby Moore havluv2000@yahoo.com
I'm back home again. Plastic grocery bags, billowed by the wind, roll down the streets like urban tumbleweeds. Sirens punctuate the night and I have to wonder if what I see in the sky is star or satellite. My rural loving heart should long for the countryside I drove through just two weeks ago, but the memories of that experience aren't of a beautiful America with rolling hills arching into mountains. I went into Missouri on a search for dogs captured by a scourge called puppy mills. I didn't see you there, but the day left a crease in my heart and scarred my memory that I might share with you what happens in barns, worn out trailer homes and shacks barely visible from the road; what happens to bring you that "doggie in the window" at the pet store in town.
Getting There - The Power of Place
The auction was held in Wheaton, MO. After traveling almost 3 hours, I reached Indiana where I met up with my traveling companions. We packed up the jimmy and went on to pick up one more person for our trip South. It was about 10 hours from the driveway in Indiana to the auction site in Wheaton. Our return trip was longer than the trip down because of the puppies and their need to get out and run or go to the bathroom. They were also incredibly hungry so we fed them small amounts frequently hoping to avoid making anyone sick. We surmise they were not fed on Saturday at the auction as no dog food was observed in any of the food cups in the cages of any of the dogs we saw. They may well not have been fed much on their trip down to Missouri from Oregon either. (A trip likely made in a truck with the other 67 dogs brought in by that broker. The dogs were all imports from Europe. Many of them were sick. It doesn't appear that customs held back even one.) All of the dogs we got were extremely thirsty as well. Though there was water in their bowl at the auction, no one seemed to drink it. It may have been stress.
The smell of the auction was overpowering and almost indescribable in intensity. It wasn't just the smell of 268 dogs defecating in one building for 48 hours or more. There was the smell of sickness, the smell of infection, the smell of rotted teeth and the smell of despair. Everywhere was wet. The wind would sometimes whip through the building and if you were standing inside when it happened your senses were assaulted in a swirl. If you were outdoors, that same breeze washed the stench over you like you'd never stepped away. The particles of that odor filled my nostrils and when I'd walked far enough away to not hear the barking and screaming, my nose reminded me undeniably of where I was.
The noise in the barn portion of the auction building was deafening. The dogs that barked seemed to do so without stopping. Even more alarming to me were those that simply sat and stared, mute.
As I'd walk past the cages, I was heart sick at the number of tongues I saw hanging out of mouths because there weren't enough teeth to keep the tongue inside. Some animals paced or stood on their back legs screaming to be let out. The pugs didn't move at all. There were rows and rows of them, trapped by their own body structure forced into a cage that didn't allow for movement that wasn't born in pain. There was one cage on the end with two pugs, supposedly only a month difference in age though the size difference was considerable. The smaller of the two always lay with his head against the back of the other who sat in the rather hunched position so commonly observed in the dogs. They sit on the side of their hip so their rear feet don't need to come in contact with the wires. I don't know what happened to the two. I missed the bidding, but I wonder with tears in my eyes if those boys are still together and how it will be if their support system is torn apart. The breathed together, those two, and though they didn't move when I walked to and from their cage, their eyes never failed to follow me.
Unlike the pugs which were stationary and miserable, most of the dogs I saw moved in their cages, at least a little. They'd rise from their hunched seated position and walk from one edge of the cage to the other, following me. They'd come to the edge to be pet and to sniff my fingers. Even some of the older ones (I could tell their age by reading the description related to their number in the sales catalog) would look, lick and wag. I don't know if it's possible to describe the emotions I felt when I looked at a dog, so battered and worn, legs stained yellow from urine, hair shaved without a care, some with scabs or sores, missing fur or bearing scars, wagging a tail at me, a member of the human race that did this to them. When they followed me in their cages, one dog picking up the pace in the next cage when the first dogs were met by wire barriers, I felt some how responsible for doing something for them. They made distinctions, these dogs. They didn't follow the AKC representative there. Most of them didn't follow the kids hired to handle them, bringing them to the auction block. They didn't follow the millers who were checking the merchandise, or the owners that brought them to this fate. They looked and I believe they knew. But they'd wag tentatively, they'd lick even, the hands that reached in for them, even if the only handling was to scan their back for a microchip for AKC so they could be registered (Yes, AKC is in the mills. Didn't you know?) or to bring them to a chair while the handler waited for the dog's number to be called.
If you ever walked through this place, you wouldn't stop until the mills were gone. And you'd not wonder about the ethics of whether or not it makes sense to do auction rescue. Your only question would be “How do I stop it” and “How do I explain it to those who don't want to understand?”
On The Block
There was a large sliding door between the part of the building where the auction was held and the area that contained the dogs. It was open when we registered as we stood in line, the noise reverberating in my chest, the smell worming its way indelibly into my memory. Once the bidding started, the door closed except for the exchanging of one animal or group for the next. I learned to brace myself and to hold my breath before the door was slid open as the smell became increasingly overpowering as the day went on. It was combined with the over flow from the women's toilet, which snaked across the floor of the main part of the building to the counter where the women sold soup with homemade dumplings, clots the color of chicken fat with a shape and texture that made me think of miniature brains floating in broth. No one seemed bothered by what they stepped through to buy their meal.
For some reason, the large dogs provoked frequent jokes about their lack of English language. Many of the dogs were imports and we'd hear, “She don't speak English...just Russian, but she's learnin' quick now, ain't she?” And guffaws rang out from the bleachers and I cringed for the dogs, surmising their fate from what I'd seen that day.
When larger dogs were brought to the floor, they were generally led in by the rope around their neck and then let go. The scared ones tried to run back through the door, and there was often mocking laughter as it was slammed shut and they were trapped before us all, shamed and terrified by their position. The Landseer lay belly up before the girl who brought her in, her eyes relaying the same message as her obviously submissive pose. LetMeOutLetMeOutLetMeOut. I've been told she was bought by a couple that had been trying to get a large dog as a pet that entire afternoon, but couldn't match the bids of the others. The Landseer was saved by her lack of AKC recognition. I hope for the sake of Landseers the world over that that continues.
Other large dogs paced aggressively, searching for a way out from behind the chain link wire that divided us from them. Some of the puppies, unaware of their fate or position, wandered curiously among the crates sitting there waiting to be auctioned later or purchased by anyone who underestimated the number of dogs they'd buy that day and didn't have enough containers to bring home their booty. Some dogs would go willingly to the fence to the audience who called them to see up close the merchandise on which they were bidding.
Smaller dogs were set on the table. A handler was there, usually one per dog, though at times several small dogs would be carried in by one teenager. Their attention to the animals varied. Several times dogs almost fell off and were caught by one leg and pulled back up. A couple of dogs were almost dropped. One barely missed falling on its head and when I sucked in my breath in disgust and muttered a comment, several people near me laughed. It was one of the moments in the day when I broke my character and stood out in the crowd as someone who cared. I mostly lived that day by wearing a facade that got me through it, recording notes, watching, listening and committing everything I could to memory. I learned the names of the various millers, watched what they bought and what they sold and the reactions of those around them. I learned who didn't even bother to name their dogs, the numbers on their cattle tag tied with baling twine around their neck, their only identity.
Describe That Dog
The auctioneer was good at his job. He knew how to get the most for the product up at the moment, be it a crate, a clippers, a puppy, or a blind dog missing teeth and toes. In between the rapid repetition all auctioneers are famous for, he reminded us of the essentials of the dog on the block. “Don't need eyes to breed. He can smell a ripe female anywhere.” or “She got nailed this last time. The litter's due June 4.”
The most common descriptors were “proven”, “missing teeth”, “can't see `cuz of cataracts”, and “free whelper”. There were many females touted as being good surrogate mothers, even to pups “not her kind”. I wondered about those dogs and the puppies they raised. What happened to the natural mother? How many times does a reputable breeder need a surrogate mother? It's not that often. So when I heard about those tiny dogs taking on puppies “not her kind” I assumed the mother died in the whelping process.
If bidding slowed, we were reminded of the price of only one pup. As a whole, a female dog near or of breeding age was sold for the price of one puppy, the implication being that she'd be bringing you so much more you could spare at least that in purchasing her.
Dogs were described like cars, `97 Models, `99 Models, 2001 Models. Bidding was spurred on for the young ones with reminders that “They've got their whole lives in front of them!” I'd look at the young dog, sitting in that deformed posture they pick up in the crates that they then carried over to the auction block. I thought of life on wires through which your waste fell through until finally you too met the same fate.
The People
The parking lot spoke volumes. We spread well beyond the designated parking area and spilled onto the field where the grass stood so high you closed it in the door of the SUV unless you risked your fingers keeping it out as the door slammed shut. The lawn held more vehicles, mostly pick-ups, piled with dirty crates jumbled in heaps. Some trucks sported homemade crates made of wood and wire with heavy hinges. Gun racks decorated most rear windows. Religious bumper stickers held together fenders. One screamed JESUS CHRIST or ANTI-CHRIST YOU MUST CHOOSE! You know what I think they chose.
There was security present, dressed all in black from the tight fitting black tee shirts proclaiming SECURITY in block white letters down to the black jeans with a holster and a hand gun, amply loaded I'm sure. There were two men working that day and they were always present.
Most of the men wore plaid shirts. Some had cowboy hats, though baseball cap style was more common. Like their dogs, many were missing teeth. The levels of cleanliness varied greatly, though the stench from the dogs hid any body odor, a mixed blessing I suppose.
Religious beliefs were obvious in the clothing of some of the crowd, the long sleeves of a blouse rimmed with tasteful eyelet under a plain denim jumper, hair in a bun covered by a hair net. Or dark pants with a shirt buttoned to the neck. The hairstyles, type of head covering, the colors and kinds of clothing told you who was Mennonite.
There were also a lot of young people in the stands, bidding together on dogs, conferring and then backing down or maybe picking up the pace. Some backslapping occurred when one got what was considered an especially good deal. Once in a while an adult would speak to a group, seeming to give them advice about how to proceed before the next round of bidding. Entrepreneurs. Culture lives on in our offspring. A new generation of pickups with crates and wire await our dogs. I won't forget it. Ever.
I despair, and then I think of the children there with their parents who do rescue. And I think of the ones who stayed home and will help make websites, who donate their allowance, who know that sacrifices are made in a family budget so that a dog gets a chance at life, and who carry pictures of rescued puppies to share with their friends at school. Then I think there might be a chance after all, though I tremble at the idea of these children carrying on a fight that so many adults now choose to ignore. When we walk away from it, the horror and the ugliness, we dig the trenches for our children and graves for our dogs and our souls.
The Heavens
We drove through storms on our way to the auction, the heavens roiling like my emotions that day in the barn. But after we'd weathered numerous cloudbursts and miles of dismal grey mist, the sky became clearer until suddenly we saw an enormous rainbow out the window. It was complete, spanning from field to field, arcing over trees and farms. We took it as an omen. A rainbow rescue. And on our return, when we drove through the night straight through to the morning, a shooting star crossed our path. I said the heavens blessed our mission, and I believe that's true.
The misgivings and doubts, the frequent emails that told me there was no guarantee of “quality” of the dogs and that they would cost us at least $3,000 each, were laid to rest when I stepped into that barn. That was before the reality of the price that was actually less than $700 each and pedigrees that rival those in the show ring. I'm telling you that that didn't matter. And it doesn't. What mattered was looking at the “forgotten” dogs, the five year olds that looked eighteen, the dogs missing teeth and eyes, the dogs with no hair but who still wagged at a kind word, the eyes that looked and watched and knew that someone was there and someone was listening and someone would say what they saw; that is what mattered.
If your conscience does not allow you to purchase from an auction or a mill, it's because you know the mill is not something you want to support. I'm challenging you then to not support it...........but to witness it. Do it for the dogs you say you love. Do it for the dogs we've left behind and the ones that never even had someone come for them and mourn that they slipped through their fingers. Do it because you have a choice and they don't.
And when you're done, the dogs will still be there, but you'll never walk away from a chance to fight a puppy mill again. And if someone asks, you can tell them that yes, you've seen hell on earth and it smells and sounds as horrifying as anything you can imagine and you won't stop talking or writing or doing something about it because you know and knowledge is power and the love you have for dogs is commitment. There is power in witnessing. It will change you forever, and I can't help but believe it will be for the better.
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