A Tail Told by JD

It was a beautiful warm Saturday morning and I had absolutely no plans as to what to do. Thought about going fishing or maybe mowing the yard, but that meant work--and besides, neither of those ideas were any fun at all. Then it hit me: Why not buy a puppy? Next question was where to buy a puppy. . .

Hey, why not a pet store? After all, they have them all categorized in those neat little wire cages, the prices are right up front so there's no haggling and they take most major credit cards, checks and occasionally cash. And surely nobody knows dogs better than the stores that sell thousands of them a year as opposed to those stuffy breeders who only sell maybe one litter every year or two.

So off to the pet store I go.

The first thing I noticed upon entering was that all the employees looked awfully young. Well, no problem I said to myself, they all probably had dogs when they were growing up and had learned all there was to know about all the different breeds that were available for sale.

So as I walked up to one young employee and asked for help, the bubble-gum bubble he was blowing popped and sprayed me with bubble gum juice. "Sorry 'bout that, dude," he apologized. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to buy a puppy today," I announced.

"OK, what kind?"

"Oh, I don't know, something that kinda matches my lifestyle," I answered.

The young clerk nodded, blew another bubble and looked over at the cages which were all behind a big glass window. "Something that the chicks will like, huh?" he asked with a smile, failing to take note of the fact that I was wearing a wedding ring. "Let's go over here and take a look. . . ever thought about a Dalmatian before?"

"You mean those spotted dogs that hang around firemen?"

"Well, I guess," he replied, looking confused for a moment. "Actually, I was thinking more about the kind that was in that Disney movie, you know. Like, thanks to that movie, we have tons of people in here wanting Dalmatians."

"Never saw it," I said, "but what can you tell me about them?"

"Oh, they're great dogs--dont' get too big, they're real calm, easy to train," he rattled off.

"I heard that there is a problem with deafness in Dalmatians," I said, thinking back to what I'd read about them. "Are any of these puppies deaf?"

"No way to really tell yet," said the clerk. "Since they're so young, they don't know their name, so if you call them they may not come to you. But let 'em get older and then you can tell. If they come to you, then obviously, like, they can hear, you know."

"Why does that one puppy have blue eyes?"

"Oh, somebody ordered a puppy with blue eyes and we didn't have one at the time, so we called the delivery service up and they told us they could have us one in a week--but the lady didn't want to wait that long."

"Hmmmmmmm. Where do you get your puppies from?" I asked. "I heard that pet store puppies come from these dreadful farms that crank out thousands of puppies every year."

"No way, dude!" the clerk practically shouted, reaching into his pocket for a laminated card with some writing on it and then began reading from it. "Our puppies only come from USDA licensed breeders who maintain the highest quality standards and comply with local, state and federal laws pertaining to the raising and selling of livestock commodities. All interstate taxes affecting commerce have been duly paid and all transactions comply with both the FTC and IRS's stringent standards for accuracy in accounting--"

"OK, OK," I interrupted, "can I see this pup's pedigree and maybe his parents?"

"Sure thing for the pedigree, but you can't see his parents."

"Why not?"

"Parents aren't here."

"Where are they," I asked.

"Don't know, dude--I only work here and sell the puppies. But whaddya need to see the parents for? You're not buying the parents, you're buying the puppy."

"Oh, I kinda thought it would be nice to see what the parents looked like, you know. . . so I could get an idea of what the puppy might grow up to look like."

"HA HA HA HA HA!" laughed the clerk, blowing another bubble. "Dude, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You sure don't know much about dogs, do you? I mean, like, you could look at my parents and see that I don't look ANYTHING like them."

"You mean," I said, "your father doesn't have four earrings in his nose, a spider tattoo between his eyes and rainbow colored hair that looks like switchblade knives?"

"No way, dude," said the young clerk. "My old man's bald!"

"Let's look at a different puppy," I suggested. "How about that Doberman puppy over there--can I hold him?"

"Sure," exclaimed the clerk, reaching for his keys and an electronic swipe card. "Let me go back and get him. Stay right here."

I watched as the kid unlocked two different deadbolts, then ran his electronic swipe card through the reader, punched in a key code then stepped up to the retinal scan station. Finally, the door opened and he blew another bubble and strolled to the back. When he came out, he was holding a little Doberman puppy in his gloved hands.

"Why the gloves?" I asked, taking the puppy from him.

"Dude!" he said, sounding shocked. "Don't you know that Dobermans are Nazi-trained attack dogs trained to go for the throat?"

"Nonsense," I winced, as the little puppy chomped down on my little finger hard enough to draw blood. "Has he had his shots?"

"Think so, at least our vet says he's . . ." the clerk stumbled, reaching again for his laminated card. "This insert breed--er, DOBERMAN puppy is certified by me, Dr. Coldfingers, to be of approved health and fit to be sold in any retail transaction pursuant to the laws of the respective state, county or municipality."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Means, dude," the clerk said patiently, "that he is healthy."

"But I didn't ask about him being healthy," I retorted, as the little Doberman puppy began urinating down the front of my shirt. "I asked if he had all of his shots since he just did a Dracula imitation and drew blood on my little pinkie finger!"

"Uh, I'll have to ask the manager about that," the clerk answered uncertainly. "I don't know anything about vampire dogs--don't think we get too many of those in here."

"Can I see his pedigree?"

"Right here, my man!" beamed the clerk. "I knew you were gonna ask for this so I brought it out with me. Here, look here at all the other Dobermans that are in his background. Isn't that awesome! ALL DOBERMANS in his pedigree going back five or six generations."

"Hmmmmmmm," I mumbled. "Why isn't there any Championship titles or obedience titles in his pedigree?"

"What are those?"

"You know," I said, "like those championships that all the dogs at the Westminster Show have."

"OH!" shouted the clerk, inadvertently spitting out his bubble gum. "You mean you want that new breed that everyone wants--a Springer Spaniel! Man, have we got a BUNCH of those!"

"English Springer, maybe?" I offered.

"Whatever," the clerk replied excitedly, "come with me out back."

"What about the puppy?"

"Bring him with you, it'll be all right--man, he really hosed your shirt down, didn't he?"

Out back, there was a huge 18-wheeler truck and trailer and people were lined up waiting to get inside. On the other side, people were walking out of the truck and each one of them were carrying a puppy that looked all white and fuzzy and cute. Suddenly, a fight broke out between a couple of women, each of whom had a puppy.

"No, you stupid bimbo moron!" shrieked one woman. "I have the pup that is going to be next year's Dog Universe World Champion!"

"You fat cow with grass for brains!" screeched the other woman. "MY puppy will be the next Dog Universer World Champion and I'LL make a gazillion bucks selling his sperm and his puppies--why don't you go whizz on a fire hydrant!!!"

"What's that all about?" I asked the clerk, who was elbowing his way through the waiting line as we moved into the trailer.

"Oh, happens every year," said the clerk with an airy wave of his hand. "As soon as we know which dog wins all the marbles at that New York City dog show, we call up our breeders and quadruple the orders and all these people buy up the dogs, then get into fights over whose dog will be better and more famous--say, dude, did you like , you know. . . CUT ONE of something? Geez that stinks! The restrooms are back inside--"

Now the little Doberman puppy had pooped down the other side of my shirt. I had a nice little motif going what with the blood spatters from my mangled pinkie finger mixing in nicely with the sickly pale shade of burnt yellow blending in with the pale brown runny poop.

"What do you feed these puppies?" I gasped, the smell about to knock me over.

"Can't tell you, dude. Company secret, like, you know, if I told you I might have to kill you or something--just kidding, I always wanted to say that."

"Look," I said, "let's go inside. I think I wanna ask a few questions about some more breeds."

"Don't like the Doberman puppy?" asked the clerk, with a hurt look on his face.

"I don't think he's been very well socialized," I replied.

"Shoot, man, how much socialization do you think he gets after he leaves the USDA licensed breeding farms at four weeks old? Come on, dude, are you heartless are something? This dog NEEDS you. He LOVES you. His biting and peeing and pooping on you is just his way of bonding with you, you know, like, to tell you that you two must have been born under the same star sign."

"When WAS he born?" I asked.

"On a Tuesday," said the clerk. "Funny, but all of our puppies seem to have been born on Tuesday. But hey, that's not a problem with me--I sure wouldn't wanna be born on a Monday, what a drag. And forget being born on a weekend, dude, that's party time!"

Once back inside, thanks to my soiled shirt and pants and the stench they provided, we had no problem finding a little area off to ourselves.

"OK," I started, "I want to ask some questions that pertain to all your puppies, but I'll just use this little Doberman fellow as an example."

"Fire away, dad," said the kid, popping another wad of bubble gum in his mouth. My Gawd, even his tongue was pierced and he had skull like studs all over it.

"I heard that dogs can have a problem with blindness--do you CERF your dogs?"

"Surf? Around here? Hate to break it to you," explained the clerk, blowing his first bubble from the fresh wad of bubble gum, "but there ain't no waves even close to here."

"I mean the eye test."

"Well, I don't know nothing about that."

"What about his hips--you know, do you OFA his parents?"

"What's OFA? Is it like the CIA?" the clerk asked, with a painful look of bewilderment on his face.

"It's to prevent hip dysplasia," I explained.

"Oh, THAT!" laughed the clerk. "Hey, we have a health guarantee of two weeks. If his hips go bad after you take him home, just bring him back and exchange him for another one."

This wasn't looking good, but I pressed on.

"What about temperament? Will his temperament be normal?"

"Oh, I know how to do that!" the clerk said excitedly, "and it's REAL easy on Dobermans since they don't have no tail. Just dab a little vaseline on the end of that thermometer and *pop* it right in and leave it for about five minutes. Then look at it and that's what the temperament is. It's easy with Rottweilers too 'cause they ain't got no tails either! Now, Goldens and German Shepherds are tougher 'cause they got big tails, and let me tell you, Great Danes and--"

"What happens if I don't want this particular Doberman puppy? Do you have any more?"

"Dude, I'm here to sell you what you want, when you want it, how you want it. Just tell me what it is you want, and you remember that big truck in the back? Well, three of those suckers roll up here every week packed full of puppies and I'll make SURE you get the Doberman of your dreams."

"So you'll sell me whatever I want?"

"Uh, sir, we actually prefer to call our little transactions "adoptions" rather than sales," the clerk informed me.

"But adoptions are what the rescue groups do," I protested.

"Au contraire," smirked the clerk. "That's what they SAY they do. But what they REALLY do is steal business from US! If there were no rescues, then we'd have LOTS more people in here looking for new puppies and I'd make enough in commission to buy that Black Widow Spider tongue stud I saw at the mall last week--it has a red ruby where the hourglass should be."

"Tell you what," I said, handing the Doberman pup back over to the young clerk who hurriedly put on his thick canvas/leather gloves before taking him. "Think I'm gonna pass--but thanks anyway, you've been helpful, as in REALLY helpful."

"No sweat, dude," said the clerk, looking disappointed. "Just remember, we get 'em in all the time and they don't never get no cheaper. Now's the time to buy--this little fellow has already bonded to you. . ."

As I was heading towards the front door, I saw the clerk toss the little Doberman puppy in an empty back room behind the glass, stuff another wad of bubble gum in his mouth and walk up to a young couple peering at the glass. And as he blew a bubble, which popped and sprayed bubble gum spit over the young woman's blouse, I walked out into the fresh air of the bright, sunny spring day, I felt the bile rising up from my stomach--and it wasn't due to the stench from my soiled clothes.

It was from the stench of profit-mongering misery, lies, deceit and hypocrisy that permeated the place I had just walked out of.

--JD

*Note* Yes, this is a satire. But the reality is that puppy millers and irresponsible backyard breeders fill the nation's pet stores with poorly bred specimens that often later develop health and temperament problems. The puppies live a life of misery for the first eight to 20 weeks of their lives moving from the stacked wire cages of the millers' breeding barns to the stacked wire cages of the brokers cross-country transports to the wire cages of the pet stores.

The breeding bitches and studs live the most miserable lives of all--living often in unspeakable, despicable conditions where death and decay and disease are more prevalent than even basic water and food.

And while the USDA may "license" some of these outfits, many are not. And when finally caught and broken up by authorities, few--if any--of the "people" operating these mills ever see more than a slap on the wrist.

And pet stores, flea markets and auctions are the retail sales outlets for these puppy factories.

If you, or anyone you know, is in the market for a puppy. . . .Please do your homework regarding the breed(s) you prefer, and then seek out a responsible breeder. You can find responsible breeders with just a minimal amount of work--and the internet is a great place to start. Go to www.akc.org and begin following links. Use your search engine to find information on the national breed clubs, who in turn will be happy to direct you to responsible breeders who breed healthy, correct puppies in an environment free from filth and disease.

For more information on the realities of puppy mills, please visit nopuppymills.com.

Thanks.

Copyright © 2000, 2001 by JD Kinman. Reprinted with permission of the author.