The stench. She couldn’t believe the stench. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Not the worst run city shelters. Not the filthiest kennels. Nothing. The smell of stale urine and fresh feces could not begin to compare with what she now faced. Her eyes smarted. Her nose burned. Her brain tried to process the odor of death; of dying flesh and dying souls. The stink of human greed and cruelty permeated the darkest corners of that room. Every pore of her body was soaking up all of that stench. She had to go outside.
In January, Mary Magee heard about a dog auction that was scheduled to take place in February in Wheaton, Missouri. She had read about these auctions. Never did she imagine herself attending one. A recent article by a woman who routinely rescued dogs from auctions had fascinated her, and Mary had published it in her magazine. She used the Internet to find out more about the upcoming auction, not yet understanding where this path would lead, or why she felt compelled to follow it. The Internet inquiries brought her in touch with someone who had rescued more than 2000 dogs from puppy mills and auctions. Other people with experience in the dark under-workings of the commercial dog market were advising her, and she became conscious of the fact that she was thinking of going to a dog auction.
Four days later, she learned about three Whippet bitches being offered at the auction. Mary’s breed. A breed rarely seen in pet store cages in the past, but starting to appear more frequently now. Every time a Whippet is found in a pet store, it sparks a heated discussion on the Internet Whippet lists. Kind but misguided people want to purchase the puppy from the pet store to “rescue” it. More experienced people beg that no one buy the puppy, as each sale only serves to make pet stores order more Whippets. The real rescuers know that the breeding stock that produce pet store puppies live in unspeakably horrid conditions, and every pet store puppy sale condemns more breeding stock to that fate. And now three bitches, believed to be less than two years old, would be auctioned to the highest bidder in an audience of commercial breeders. The pet stores would have a great supply of Whippet puppies in the near future.
So Mary was going to a dog auction. On February 17th in Wheaton, Missouri, a thirteen-hour drive from her home, Mary Magee was going to a dog auction.
She contacted Peggy Bush, the irascible national president of Whippet Rescue. Mary’s Internet research had also led her to the stark reality that she would need financial help to be able to purchase all three of the Whippets, and though she hated to ask, she knew Peggy was the first stop. Mary feared she might have a fight on her hands, but Peg knew the importance of keeping three young Whippet bitches out of the grip of puppy millers. With Peggy’s blessing and the approval of the Board of Directors of the American Whippet Club, Mary felt the tremendous relief of not having to face leaving any of the young Whippets behind. But she was already thinking about leaving the auction with the hounds in hand, and she still had a very long way to go to get there.
It was time to call on other good friends and Whippet lovers for their help. Ron Boutelle agreed to meet Mary in Wheaton to give what turned out to be tremendous moral support and to help in any way he could. Ron and his wife Cheri are very active in Whippet Rescue and are rarely without a foster rescue Whippet in their home. Jamie Henry’s initial reaction was that buying the Whippets would be “putting money into the bad guys’ pockets,” but he agreed to help Mary with the drive, and would be by her side in case of problems. Halfway through the trip, they stopped at Marilyn Harvey’s house for a rest. They had started out immediately after work on Friday and at Marilyn’s home Jamie took a much needed nap. Mary was wound too tight to sleep, and was grateful that Marilyn stayed up and listened to all of her concerns about the auction.
They resumed the drive at 2:30 AM. They took turns resting in the back of the van while the other drove. As they approached the tiny town of Wheaton, their apprehension became palpable. They met Ron in a little “Ma and Pa” convenience store, where they realized what a close knit community they were in. “You goin’ to the auction?” the cashier queried, eying them with suspicion. “We don’t want no trouble here. You belong to one of them animal groups?” Eyes around the store peered their way. “No.” Choking on the words, they said they were commercial breeders, looking to get into some new breeds. It made Mary sick to her stomach. After getting out of the store, Ron gave her a hug.
The little group arrived at Southwest Auctions, a livestock farm/holding/auction center, and the number of people who were there for the auction left them dumfounded. There was a guard with a radio, gun, and handcuffs as they pulled into the long drive to the parking lot. Another guard, also with a radio, gun, and handcuffs was stationed at the parking lot entrance. Both armed guards checked for cameras, which were emphatically not allowed on the premises. Mary parked, noticing the number of expensive new cars, vans, and motor homes in the lot.
They faced a plain pole building. Inside the first door was the office, the second ... a line to get catalogs and bidding numbers. The sales staff added personnel to accommodate the shocking numbers of bidders. Ron headed for the dog room to find the Whippets while Mary and Jamie waited in line for their bidding number. Ron returned, visibly shaken, and reported that the Whippets were very young, and pretty, “they are just babies,” and that he had to fight the urge to grab them from the cage and just run. Jamie went to look at the pups, while Mary found the person who would do the actual Whippet bidding. When it is known that a rescuer is bidding on any dog, the commercial breeders will bid the dog up to escalate the price. It is crucial to have someone not easily recognized as a rescuer to do the bidding. (This person will remain anonymous, even to the writer, and will not be mentioned again.) That job completed, Mary headed to the dog room to get her first glimpse of the three Whippets.
She walked through the auction room. It had a high ceiling with a large ventilation duct, and two large garage doors, opposite each other, one on either side of the building to accommodate trucks driving through for loading and unloading. There was a food vendor producing smells of hot dogs and hamburgers. Another vendor was openly selling bags of Purina dog food that were clearly marked “Not for Retail Sale.” People were chatting and laughing, visiting and greeting old friends. There were banners on the walls advertising The American Pet Registry, and signs advertising the DoBoTri Kennel, the broker that was providing the auctioneer service for the sale. There were more armed guards.
As Mary passed through the small sliding barn door into the dog room she gasped. (Oh my God in heaven, the smell.) The dog room had a low ceiling, which leaked through the drooping insulation, dripping water directly into the cages. There were rows and rows of wire cages with wire bottoms stacked three to four and even five cages high. Along one wall there were “runs” for large breeds. These were chain link pens, approximately five feet high and three feet wide with a trough running along them to collect excrement. None of the animals in the room had food or water. There were multiple dogs in each cage. Only a few had room to stand in their cage; the rest were crammed in crouched positions. There were around two hundred and fifty dogs in that room. (Dead eyes. Lost hope. Eyes pleading for release, death, anything. Feet horribly deformed from life on wire grid cage bottoms. Quiet whimpers. People laughing belly laughs. Children scampering with their chilidogs and calling to their parents. Urine and feces from dogs in the upper crates dripping on the dogs below. Occasionally a growl. That inescapable smell.)
Mary tried to get her wits about her. She didn’t want to show her emotion, to risk everything by being recognized as a rescuer. She hadn’t asked where to find the cage with the Whippets. Then she was standing in front of it with no idea how she had gotten there. In a two-foot by two-foot cage, with a wire bottom, were three brindle and white parti color Whippet bitches. They were only four months old. One was especially cowed in the back of the cramped cage. They whined softly. Mary felt a wave of nausea. (I’ll get you out. I swear to you. I’ll get you out.) What had she expected? Perhaps animals that resembled Whippets but were somehow not so whippet-y. But these were all Whippet. She certainly hadn’t expected them to be so young. But these were seventeen and a half week old puppies. She had to go outside and collect herself. She was suffocating. The Whippets’ cage was on the bottom row.
The auctioneer was getting started. He made an announcement that bidders interested in buying equipment should step outdoors where stacks of cages, pens, and “whelping boxes” that resembled reptile cages were available for purchase. A woman in front yelled, “We’re all here to buy equipment! ” That fetched a loud chuckle from the audience. Mary took a seat in the bleachers. There were two catalogs. One was a dispersal sale from the Ozark Kennel. The dogs from Ozark were sold without AKC registration papers. A bad DNA test had cancelled registrations, and the owners’ AKC privileges had been suspended. These dogs sold with new American Pet Registry papers, issued the day before the sale.
The other catalog was Gage Imports and the Southwest Auction Service First Annual Production Sale. One of the auctioneers was Bob Hughes (the “Bo” in DoBoTri). Tricia (the “Tri” in DoBoTri) was his assistant. “Ladies and gentleman, there’s been a lot of talk about this auction on the Internet. I’m sure there are rescuers here. I’m nothing but an auctioneer and I make my money regardless. A rescuer is just another bidding number to us. We’re not afraid of you.” And so the auction started. The dogs were offered in somewhat of alphabetical order with thirty breeds from five countries. The little Affenpinschers were first. Tricia carried them in from the dog room and placed them on a table in front of the crowd. Around their necks were tight metal chains – not chain collars, just large link chains – from which hung plastic cattle tag lot numbers. The tiny dogs cowered, holding their heads low. Bob announced that the bitch had just weaned a litter. They were auctioned individually, selling from $145 to $450. Number 13, a male “King of CK” a black Affenpinscher born November of 1990 brought out and the auctioneer made mention that “this is a ’90 model but still producing. He’s missing some teeth and has cloudy eyes.” He sold for $155. There were several Boston Terriers being auctioned. Earlier, Mary had spoken with a rescuer who had come to get as many Bostons out as she could. She told Mary, “There’s not enough money to bid on all of them, so I look for the ones who can best handle being rescued. The ones who will fit in a small airline carrier. The ones who aren’t too far gone.” Mary asked her how long it took to get used to having to leave some of the Bostons behind. “I haven’t gotten used to it. I will never get used to it. Tonight I will be ill. I will vomit. I’ll pace. I’ll cry. I’ll second-guess myself. I don’t know how long I can do it. But I know I must keep doing it as long as I can.”
There was a terrified seven and a half year old Bull Mastiff bitch brought out for bidding. She would take two trembling steps and drop to her belly. Two steps and drop. Two steps and drop. All the while the auctioneer was claiming what a great producer she was. Tricia was tugging on the big tight chain around her neck that held the cow tag with her lot number on it. Two steps and drop. Shaking head to toe. Sold! No Bull Mastiff rescue person was there. “Three hundred and fifty dollars for the seven and a half year old brood bitch.”
A champion male Brussels Griffon imported from Russia brought $950. Three bull terriers were sold to one person for $850 a piece. Auctioneer Bob announced that the English Toy Spaniel bitch had an underbite and an umbilical hernia before she sold for $550. There were Jack Russell Terriers and Japanese Chins. One woman who the auctioneer referred to on a first name basis as “Joyce” bought one Cavalier King Charles Spaniel for $3,450. Most of the crowd was having a fun time. Parents were letting their children do the bidding sometimes. People would laugh at Auctioneer Bob’s jokes. The dogs with the tight chains around their necks and their cow tag lot numbers kept being dragged in. The door to the dog room would slide open and there would be a brief but gagging blast of stench. The whines from the dog room turned to barks and cries, as puppies were taken from mothers, and littermates were separated for the first time.
Mary’s eyes widened in disbelief as she seen the fist three of the 13 Bernese Mountain Dogs brought out. Puppies, little nine-month-old puppies. They wagged and wiggled – tried to give kisses to their unreceptive “handlers.” Mary’s heart ached as she watched knowing the pups’ had no idea what their new lives would soon become. Imports brought in just for this sale. “This one has a level bite,” said the auctioneer. Bidding was fast and furious. Commercial breeders bidding left and right – a rescuer having his price ran, and ran high! “Sold for $3000 times three.” Prices climbed on some to $8000! A three-month-old male, hernia – $2250, a female two months old, hernia – $2400, two more nine-month-old females sold together $6150 times two. (My God! These people are phirana!) Two were auctioned sight unseen! Over $60,000 for one breed, and most believed to have been purchased and taken into rescue.
“We have a fine 1999 model here, and see for yourself, folks, this one is ready right now!” The little Llasa was held up in the air, butt facing the bidders, tail held out of the way, so everyone could see her swollen vulva. There were 20 Papillons, two Pekingese, and then the two Pembroke Welsh Corgis that brought $650 a piece. Pomeranians and poodles were in abundance. The poodles were in particularly bad shape. Missing teeth, matted coats soaked with filth. The rat terriers brought bids of $25 to $195.The first french bulldog was brought out, a tiny palm sized piebald bitch. The auctioneer started at $500, nothing, down to $300, still no bids. “How about an opener of $100?” still nothing. Not even a $25 bid. They were returned to the dog room unsold. When Mary was a small child she had a dear friend named Beardsly. Beardsly was an exemplary member of the Newfoundland breed. Mary cringed when she saw a three-year-old Newfoundland bitch and her two yearling puppies – both bitches – come through the door, along with the stench from the dog room. “Hey, look here, folks. We’ve got a fine ’97 model and two 2000 models, right here!” The mother walked the walk of the damned, eyes already dead, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. The two pups were terrified, being dragged by their tight chains, hysterically struggling. The three of them were completely saturated with urine from their “run.” Auctioneer Bob announced that the mother “may already be bred” and that two of the three had “reverse scissor bites.” The dam was sold for $2700. The young bitches went for $1500 and $2450. All three to bidder #143. Once again Mary headed outside to get herself together. She was trembling, she couldn’t hold back the tears, and her belly was in a tight hard knot.
The crowd was thinning. The auction had started at ten o’clock in the morning and it was nearing six. Commercial breeders were lining up at the office to pay for their purchases. The auctioneer was nearing the end of the alphabet. (W for Whippet.) Mary’s chest tightened. She couldn’t get a deep breath. There wasn’t enough air. Her thoughts were chaotic, circling around the image of the three little Whippet puppies. What was she thinking? It had to work. Even with the backing of AWC Rescue, she had a strict limit, and the prices on some of the dogs had been astronomical. Those three Newfoundland bitches had cost $6,650. (P l e a s e , dear God, please let me get them out.) Tricia brought out the Whippets. Bob asked for an opening bid of $500. More people got up to leave. (Breathe, damnit!) Bob asked for an opening bid of $100. Nothing. “Do I hear $75, then?” The bidding started at $75. They were bidding against the commercial breeder who had bought a large number of the sad little poodles. (O h , n o !) Back and forth, up to $350. (Please, God.) $400. “Do I hear $450? I have $400. Anyone, $450?” The Whippets strained against their tight chains with the cattle tag lot numbers. The timid one looked petrified. Tricia looked tired and bored. (Bid, for God’s sake, bid! That’s not our bid! Jesus, bid!) “I have $450, now boys, do I hear $500?” Mary looked at the commercial breeder, he shook his head. “I have $450. Are we all done at $450? Do I hear $500? Going once at $450, going twice for $450… sold. How many do you want at $450?” (All three. We want all three.) “That’s it, folks. Three Whippets at $450 a piece.”
After the final breed was auctioned – the little Westies – auctioneer Bob thanked everyone for attending, reminded the buyers that the seller guarantees the purchases to be Brucellosis free for forty days, and invited all to come to the next sale on March 3rd. When their bid had gotten the Whippets, Mary had felt a great sense of relief, elation, and success. The song “We are the champions” pounded into her awareness. But now, standing in line with the commercial breeders for 20 minutes to pay for the puppies (cash, checks and all major credit cards accepted) she felt overwhelmed with sadness and fatigue. As happy as she was about getting the Whippets, she couldn’t block out what she had witnessed. The filth. All of the bitches in season whose genitals were shown to the bidders. The eyes. Eyes of panic, eyes of death, eyes of indifference, eyes of greed. All of those eyes, human and canine, would be haunting her dreams. How many eyes had she looked into that belonged to puppy millers? How many eyes belonged to sad, scared rescuers like her? Never would she be able to rid herself of the image of those three Newfoundlands. Another wave of nausea passed right through her. She looked up from writing her check and looked directly into the eyes of the commercial breeder whom they had outbid to get the Whippets. His hatred burned through his eyes. She returned his stare. Time stopped. He knew she was a rescuer. She knew what he was. She refused to look away, despite the cold cruelty in his eyes. He would not win. He looked away. She had won. She saw the names on the check he was writing to pay for those pathetic poodles and the other dogs he had bought. Barry and Kathy Warren. Sorry, Mr. Warren, this time the Whippets had won!
Part two What’s wrong with their ears? Something is in their ears. It looks like grapes, bunches of grey-brown grapes. Their ears are all closed. Are they deaf? Some kind of congenital deformity? They gasped: ticks. It’s engorged ticks. There must be hundreds and hundreds of ticks on each of them. Oh God. Mary Magee stood in the long line of commercial breeders and impatiently waited twenty minutes to pay for the auctioned Whippet puppies she had just purchased for Whippet Rescue. Finally, she wrote the check and was handed a release to sign agreeing to hold only the seller responsible if any of the “purchases” tested positive for Brucellosis within forty days of the sale. After she signed and handed back the release, she was given the APRI papers on the three puppies. [The puppies’ breeder, Gerald Tracy, possibly had been suspended from all AKC privileges. It’s believed that some of the commercial breeders started The American Pet Registry, Incorporated as an alternative to those who have lost their AKC privileges so that the dogs they sell can have some kind of registration papers.] Around the edge was written, “Give a gift that loves.” She quickly looked to see who the puppies’ sire and dam were. The pedigree was a familiar one, which had shown up on pet store puppies for years. (Oh lord, the puppies’ dam is ten years old. So is the sire.) Mary almost broke into a run on her way back to the dog room. (I’m coming. I’m getting you out of here, now.) The stench hit her like a sucker punch the instant she passed through the door, but she had her receipt clenched in her fist, and she was getting those puppies. The realization that their dam and sire have lived in these conditions for ten years smothered her. Mary couldn’t bear to have those puppies in that cage with their neck chains and cattle tag lot numbers for another second. ( T h e r e ’ s no air in this damned room. Not a breath of human kindness or decency. Come on, Girls, we’re out of here.) An adolescent employee cast a bored eye on the receipt as Mary stood next to the puppies’ cage. Their cage was on the bottom row, with three cages above it, and none of the cages had pans. Just the wire floors. More than ten hours of excrement and urine from the dogs in the cages above had drained down on the Whippets. Still no food or water dishes were in sight, not in any of the cages. The boy reached down into the hellish, sodden cage and yanked the puppies out, handing two to Mary, and carrying the third himself. He showed as much concern for the Whippets as he would show to live bait for his fishhook. The “papers” said they were seventeen-and-one-half weeks old. They looked to be about nine weeks. They were thin, practically emaciated. (God they weigh nothing.) They were filthy. She could hardly keep from gagging, but she was still trying to hide her identity, so she couldn’t utter a sound. (What in Hell is wrong with their ears?) On her way out, Mary overheard one of the sales employees turning over a pathetic dog to another undercover rescuer. “You’re the one who got my bitch. She was such a good producer: I'm going to miss her.” Mary clutched the Whippet puppies extra close, and they got out of that ghastly building.
They had traveled the thirteen hours to the auction in Jamie’s van, and he and three all breed rescuers waited in the parking lot to help check the puppies over. Mary showed them the inside of the puppies’ ears. The group leaned in to get a close look, and then drew back, in one gasp, appalled. T i c k s . The ears were so full of ticks that the ear canals were completely occluded. Each pup was covered with literally hundreds of ticks in all stages of engorgement. Their toes were flat and feet splayed, deformed from the wire cage floors. Their toenails had never been cut. Their pasterns nearly touched the ground, and their hocks nearly touched each other. The barbaric chains with the cattle tag lot numbers were too tight. But the rescuers had no tool to remove them, so they set about removing what they could. The ticks. Pulling the ticks was repulsive, but it took their minds off the atrocities they had witnessed all day. After each puppy was de-ticked, Jamie would gently hold them, giving each frightened soul her first ever glimpse of human kindness and compassion. Finally the ticks were history, and the three all breed rescuers said their goodbyes. As Mary and Jamie started the long trip home and got farther and farther from the auction, they realized that they were bringing the stink with them. Their clothes reeked. They stopped at the first Walmart and bought some cheap sweat suits and garbage bags, along with three cute, colorful puppy collars and leads, and a pair of pliers. Jamie made no effort to resist buying the pups’ first toy: a big, fluffy, soft, red Teddy bear. Mary and Jamie changed into the stink-free sweat pants and shirts and double bagged their contaminated clothing. Then, with a sense of satisfaction that defies description, they pried the tight chains with the plastic number tags off those scrawny sore necks. They put the cute, colorful collars on the puppies. The puppies immediately began hauling each other around by the new collars, scaring the daylights out of themselves. They took the cute colorful collars right back off.
At the first stop for a potty break, Mary opened the puppies’ crate. Promise and Cherish sat and stared at her, not realizing what an open crate door meant. Liberty cringed in the very back. Mary gently extricated them and put on their collars and leads. She and Jamie set them in the grass. The three pups stood like frozen little statues for a moment, holding the exact positions they were in when they were set down. Their noses went to the grass. Grass! It was immediately evident that the pups had never seen the stuff. They attacked it, grabbing great mouthfuls and shaking it for all it was worth. Mary and Jamie laughed, for the first time in what seemed to be one of the longest days of their lives. They took turns, driving and sleeping, sleeping and driving. The puppies did amazingly well taking advantage of the potty stops. The watery, bloody stools all of the puppies were passing troubled their rescuers. They did not want to bring some devastating illness to their own dogs. When they pulled at last into Mary’s driveway, Jamie’s wife, Amy, was there to meet her exhausted husband and her friend, knowing how much work they had to do before anyone could sleep. They loaded the contaminated clothing and bedding into the washer. The thought of bringing the filth of that dog room into her house gave Mary new energy. Before leaving for the auction, she had fixed a new home for the puppies in the garage, as she had been warned that they should be separated from her dogs until they had been vetted. She tucked the puppies in, and then helped her friends who were busy cleaning their van, as they had still another hour’s drive before they were home. When they were all satisfied that they had cleaned as much as possible Amy & Jamie drove off to return home. They still had much to do to disinfected every inch of every surface in the van upon reaching their own home, Mary sprayed the outside area where they had been walking with a strong antimicrobial and then sprayed herself for good measure. She put the second load into the washing machine. At last, she could get the grime off of herself. She jumped in the shower and scrubbed her skin until it was sore.
Standing in the shower, the first of the images snuck up on her. Then her brain fast-forwarded to image after nauseating image. The Newfoundlands. The bitches in season and in whelp. The cold, empty, sinister dog room as they were leaving. The auctioneer’s cruel jokes. The children running and laughing. The smell. The thought of the two Whippets who were these dear puppies' sire and dam. “Kirleens Cowboy Zeke Sv” and “Sv Sheeba.” They had lived in those wire cages for ten years. Had either of them seen grass in their lives? (Ten years. And the bitch was still being bred.) Mary pictured the ten-year-old Whippet bitches she knew. She pictured them happily showing in the ten and over Veteran Bitch Classes at the National. She imagined those grand ladies, spending their lives in wire cages, not knowing what grass is, straining to deliver yet another litter at that age. (Please. Stop. But the stories she had read about puppy mill breeding stock in her research wouldn’t stop coming to the surface now. Bitches never being removed from the cage except to be bred, only to be thrown back in. Whelping litter, after litter, in the same filthy cage, with no help, no comfort. Having their puppies that survive taken from them at only four or five weeks of age. How the puppy millers will intentionally break the jaws of bitches who try to bite the hands that are taking their puppies. It wasn’t an abstract horror any more. She could see “Sv Sheeba” in her mind’s eye. She could see her because she had held her puppies. She isn't a theoretical bitch in a puppy mill any more. She is a Whippet. She is a ten-year-old Whippet bitch. What do Sheeba’s feet look like? She pictured the dead eyes on the Newfie bitch at the auction. What do Sheeba’s eyes look like? Oh God.) She let the water beat on her face, trying to erase the nightmarish thoughts, letting the hot water stream down with her tears. And when she climbed into bed, weary far beyond exhaustion, still the images came.
Thanks to Whippet lover Paula Tabor, the puppies were off the very next day to see “Dr. Bob” Oliver, a wonderfully compassionate and accommodating veterinarian. They had kennel cough, were underweight and malnourished, and had varying degrees of deformities in their feet and legs from living on wire cage floors and having been deprived of any exercise. “Dr. Bob” felt the pups subsisting on a substandard food had caused the diarrhea. Cherish had a terrible overbite; Promise’s bite wasn’t much better. They were free of internal parasites, (the only benefit from never having been exposed to earth), and they were heartworm negative. They tested Brucellosis negative also, but Mary had heard that the puppy mills would give high doses of antibiotics just before a sale, and she asked how reliable the negative result was. “Dr. Bob” said the puppies could have a false negative Brucellosis test for up to six weeks. (So much for the forty-day negative Brucellosis guarantee given at the auction.) Spaying them would solve the problem, but their condition was too poor at this point. Mary was again strongly urged to keep the puppies completely segregated from her own dogs. The girls were given their vaccines, and medicine for their coughs, accompanied by huge doses of love from “Dr. Bob” and his caring staff, and sent on their way. It was reaffirming to see good people, who were capable of compassion, after having witnessed the cruelty and indifference of so many people at the auction.
Paula had also sent kibble, toys, and chewies for the pups. Those kind gifts were put to good use in the next months. Bit by bit the puppies were transforming into Whippet puppies. Liberty continued to be the most timid. But they were starting to play with their toys, and each other, and were slowly learning to trust Mary and her sons, Jeffry and Patch. At first the pups were too wary to take food from a human hand. Mary and her sons tried doggy treats, and then moved on to hamburger, chicken, and vegetables, with no success. The puppies, though hungry, were just too scared. When they placed the same treats in a dish, they would gobble them up in a heartbeat. After two weeks of this, Cherish and Promise relented and shyly, at first, took the goodies from the trustworthy hands that offered. Liberty shrank back and watched. After a few more days, Cherish and Promise were happy to take the hand fed delectables, and Liberty cautiously tried a turn. Sweet success! The coughs persisted, but the bodies started to fill out a little bit. As they played more and more, little hints of muscle development could be seen. They had to learn about walking around, then trotting. Leash training was easy. Surprisingly so. Mary’s nights continued to be troubled by haunting dreams. The faces would reappear. The greed, the filth, the sorrow, the suffering, and the cruelty surrounded her and she would wake soaking wet and gasping. There were nights when she wished with every inch of her being that she had never been to a dog auction. But every morning, when Promise and Cherish greeted her with typical Whippet excess, and when Liberty would start to creep towards her, instead of shrinking away, with her tail actually wagging just a little, Mary was glad she had gone to that damned dog auction after all.
And then one day, a little bit of Whippet magic happened. Nothing spectacular. Nothing even out of the ordinary. In ordinary circumstances, that is. Mary was out with the puppies playing. Promise and Cherish were being their newly discovered rowdy Whippet puppy selves. Mary sighed softly and looked at Liberty. The little puppy looked back at her, with her young soul plainly visible in her black eyes. Then the magic: Liberty took off. In full butt-tucked, silly Whippet, legs flying, figure eight-ing abandon, Liberty ran. Her mouth widened into a Whippet grin, and even her sisters stopped and watched with amazement. And when she couldn’t go any more, she crept back to Mary, with her sides heaving, cowering still, but she looked up at Mary and smiled, “Thank you.” (Promise, went with Mary to the AWC National in April in Texas. There she won the hearts of everyone she met. But no heart was touched more than that of her new owner, Cynthia Whittier, who had traveled from California just to bring her safely home. Cynthia has three “mature” Whippets, Presto, Slip, and Kestrel, and is devoting her life to finding homes for dogs who need them, via her website: www.DogsNeedingPeopleNeedingDogs.org
She writes: “Promise is doing fantastically well – an absolutely joyous and healthy girl! She has a very full agenda every day, which consists largely of “borrowing” everyone’s chewiest possessions and hiding them as if we are constantly preparing for an Easter egg hunt.
“She is a fabulous Frisbee player; also does “sit and wait” before fetching balls and other toys, and drops them at your feet when asked. Of course, this game can go on forever, and sometimes does.
“Her feet show NO signs of any prior damage. She is actually show quality from head to toe except for that bite! She still looks about 2-3 months younger than her real age, which will be 8 months tomorrow. Better remember that birthday cake if I know what’s good for me!”
Cynthia also asked that I mention the following websites and urged everyone to check them out:
1. www.NoPuppyMills.com
2. www.imom.org
3. www.puppymills.com
4. APHIS is the department of the USDA, which is responsible for regulating that “humane conditions” be maintained in Puppy Mills. Access the APHIS Home Page by pointing your web browser to: www.aphis.com and clicking on “APHIS Press Releases.” USDA news releases, program announcements, and media advisories are available.
Cherish and Liberty stayed together. They live with Kurt and Tabatha Cramm of Granger, Indiana, along with their cats, Simon and Sebastian.
Editor’s notes:
A few days after they made their move, Tabatha called to inform me that Liberty wasn’t that little “shy” girl anymore. In fact, the tables had turned and Cherish was the one who was more laid back and willing to sit and watch her sister, Liberty, run rings around everyone. Liberty finally had emerged from the cocoon that protected her from all the negative she’d seen in her young life – she had grown her wings! The puppies have a huge yard that they are able to enjoy, two loving owners to share, and their precious freedom. I visited them prior to leaving for the AWC National and was thrilled to see that both of the girls have bonded tightly with their owners. They are still smaller than their age would suggest, but other than some skin problems that they have been battling they are very healthy! They are now fat, happy, treasured Whippets, enjoying a secure, loving home.
From the article: Special thanks
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A special thanks is extended to several people: Jamie and Amy Henry, Ron Boutelle, the anonymous “mystery bidder,” all the rescue people who coached me ... you’re each one in a million! Beth Coney, DVM who rearranged her busy appointment schedule and spayed two of girls at a reduced fee. “Dr. Bob” Oliver, DVM for seeing the girls on such short notice, giving rescue a break on fees and for the terrific thorough initial exam. All of the rescue people who assisted in ANY way as well as the many who made donations to Whippet Rescue in the girls’ names. To all those wonderful people who emailed, called, or wrote their support, understanding and respect – your words helped shine a light at some very dark moments. A thanks goes to those who sent the girls gifts of toys, treats and the like. The puppies thoroughly enjoyed them. My biggest thank you goes out to my wonderful friend, a terrific writer and a woman with a heart of gold … Patience Renzulli. You have managed to help take my words, visions in my mind & the nightmares and paint a canvas with your gift of eloquence. That canvas shows a bit of what these dogs go through and what all rescuers that try to save “even just one” have to live with. Patience knew what it was like to smell the stench of death. She understood my tears and shared them with me. Thank you dear friend for being there for me, and for our beloved breed! – Patience Renzulli & Mary Magee