11/18/2023
The story of 286. A puppy mill dog.
It's dark and cold in the barn.
My name is 'Dog' and I am five years old. I was born in the dark.
Around my neck is a too tight collar, with the number 286. I live in pen 5, right next to my mother. Across from us is my aunt. Behind me I can hear my sister barking. We're all related here.
I'm pregnant again, this is my 7th litter. I don't know where all my puppies went. Sometimes I think I hear them in the barn, oh how I hope they were able to escape this hell.
I've never left the barn. Sunlight, grass under my paws, those are just stories I heard from my mother. Did she experience such glorious things? Did she have another life before this place?
My stomach is growling. I'm so hungry. Hopefully the man feeds us tonight.
Overnight my puppies were born. Born into darkness, and cold. Five little puppies, laying on the cold, damp floor. I try to keep them warm, but my body is emaciated. I'm cold too.
One little puppy isn't moving anymore. I nuzzle her with my nose, but her body is limp. She didn't survive. This has happened before, and I mourn for my babies. All of them. My other babies want milk, they try to suckle from my belly but everything is dry. I'm just as hungry as they are, and have nothing left to give.
The man is back. He looks into my kennel. Just once I wish he would show us some kindness. He takes my little girl and throws her limp body into a bucket. Careless, and cruel. He's always been so cruel. I crawl back to my other babies, and lay over them, to protect them from the man. He finally puts some food in my bowl. The door closes and it's dark once more.
Five weeks later, the door opens. I knew this day was coming. The other moms have been crying for their babies this week. I knew our turn was coming. The man puts his hand into my kennel, and one by one he takes my babies away. They are too young to be taken away.
I nip the man's hand when he sticks it too close to my face, trying to grab my last baby. He smacks me, hard. Harder than the last time. But not as hard as the first time I guess, the first time he took my puppies I could hardly stand for days.
I watch through the hole in my kennel as he takes away my babies, again. This will happen again, and again, until I am too old to make puppies for him. What will happen to me then? Will he throw me into a bucket too?
The days go by, and I mourn for my babies. It's so cold in the barn, but I feel so hot. I haven't eaten in awhile, not that he feeds us much anyway. My bowl is still full from the last meal he gave us, I'm too sick to touch it. Even drinking water hurts.
My body shakes from the fever. All I can think about are my puppies. Are they comfortable? Are they happy, and healthy, and warm? Does someone love them, in the way that I was never loved? I drift off to sleep, dreaming of my babies, and of the life I hope they have. At least my last thought is a happy one.
A few hours later the man comes into the barn. He looks into my kennel. "Hey, get the wheelbarrow. There's a dead one in here."
**This story was taken from a German rescue group. The German to English translation wasn't precise, so I took the English translation and expanded upon it. While the exact story of number 286 is unknown, we do know that stories like hers take place every single day, in puppy mills all over the world. It's not always barns or warehouses full of hundreds of dogs, sometimes the people in your very own neighborhoods run these types of operations out of their homes, and you would never even know it.
When you support a puppy mill, you are supporting cruelty. Know where that precious puppy is coming from. If you can't see the mother, or the conditions in which she lives,. chances are you're buying a puppy mill dog.
