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The puppy came squalling into the world, second out of eight
puppies. Cold, shivering and whining, it was roughly manhandled as
the breeders looked it over.
"Looks whole--not a runt. Keep or cull?"
"Uh... I think it's a keeper. Chuck it over to Ron an' let
him clean it off before he gets too tanked. Yo, idiot--CATCH!"
The little bundle of life was roughly tossed across the room to Ron
to be cleaned off before being dumped back into the whelping box so
the dam could take proper care of her newborn.
Days later, as the beagle puppy's eyes began to open, she
started to take in what was around her. The barn she was living in
was cold, but the warmth provided to her by her dam and her litter
mates offset the coldness of the building. Her dam tried to keep
the whelping box clean, but could only keep up so much--the humans
were no help. The puppy also learned from her dam to quickly duck into
a corner when the humans came in--otherwise, a hand was quick to knock
her painfully aside.
As she and her mates grew, the whelping box no longer became
their pen. A world of exploration began--and with it, new pains
and suffering.
"Billy, it's time to get these pups used to guns. Go get the
.410 and I'll fire off a few rounds. After about 50 or so, we'll
be able to tell which are the gun-shy ones that need to go down to
the creek."
"Okay. You want a couple boxes of shells?" He aimed a kick
at the head of the female pup that was trying to peer out the barn door
he was holding open. She went skittering across the dirt floor, her
ears ringing with pain and her throat hurting from the yelping. "Hey!
Shut up!" the man hollered at the pup, kicking her again. She came to
rest in a corner, limp with terror.
"Yeah, two boxes should be enough. Should we dump the culls
in the creek, or just cut their throats and dump them in the
trash?"
"Trash might be better. Getting too cold--the creek might be
froze over."
"Yeah, you're right."
Gun shot after gun shot rang out in the barn. After a while,
the female pup gave up wincing over them.
"Not bad," said Billy. "Only got one to get rid of. Knew
this male was going to go--he's almost as small as the runt was.
Hey, Ron--you got your Rambo knife on you?"
"Yeah, why?"
Billy reached down and picked up the male. With a flip of his
wrist, he sent it spinning through the air to Ron. "Cut it's
throat and dump it in the trash," he said. "It's too damned gun
shy."
Ron smile evilly as he killed the pup. The rest of the pups got
uneasy as the smell of terror from the male permeated the area.
A year went by and the female learned how to hunt with the
rest of the pack. She learned to cower before the hand that would
yank her up by the collar out of the back of the truck; to skitter
away from the boot that would kick her in the ribs--in the head--in
the stomach--if she moved too slow.
"Y'know, this one's a good hunter. Let's breed her."
"Okay, Billy. Whatever you say. But can we give her to Brutus,
first? I like the way he attacks the new ones."
"Heh! Yeah, sounds like fun. Let's get a case of beer,
first!"
Litter after litter she whelped with no help from the humans.
They would come in and slam her around, grab her pups away from
her--deciding on the little life's fate before she could even clean
them off. Time and again, the sound of guns would decide the fate
of more of her pups. Time and again, she was kicked, hit, grabbed
and sometimes thrown around. To her, the only thing humans were
good for was to bring her food--poor of quality, and never enough.
The truck came to a stop. The bitter chill of Autumn air bit
into her tired old bones, but she trembled as the back opened. The
hunt was about to begin--and she loved the hunt! The top to her portion
of the truck crate opened up and a rough hand reached in and grabbed her
by the collar. This time, though, a hind foot was caught in the wire
mesh of the crate. The hand gave an extra hard tug, freeing her.
Blinding pain bit into her throat as the collar crushed her larynx while
setting her foot free. Coughing and gagging, she rolled around on the
ground.
"Aw, crap," muttered Billy as he watched her roll around. "I
think I messed this bitch up."
"Too bad. She was a good one. What do you want me to do with
it?" asked Ron, kicking the dog into unconsciousness.
"Toss it in the dumpster when you go to the 7-11 for beer.
It'll die quick enough in this cold."
"Gotcha." He picked up the limp form and threw it into the
bed of the pickup truck with a thud.
Animal Control got word of a dog in a dumpster. Arriving,
they found an 11 year old beagle with a crushed larynx. No collar,
it was taken to the pound to await its destiny.
A woman from a local rescue organization saw the beagle and
her heart cried out for the little lost soul. A couple phone calls
later, and the dog was on its way to a new foster home.
As it came into the new house, a large man bent down to pet
her. She froze and cowered, eyes squinted tightly shut in anticipation
of the harsh blows that always came with human attention...
It has been a year now of patient love and attention.
Bagelwitz now merely stops when I bend down to pet her--she no
longer cowers and shivers. She waits on the back of the sofa and
watches out the window, peering down the road, knowing (somehow)
when I am almost home. She races to the door to greet me, all
wriggles and tail a-wagging. She plays with the other dogs and
even with me. On weekends, if I don't get up right away, she will even
get up into bed and curl up with me. And a couple months ago, I even
got a kiss from her!
Bagelwitz is 11 going on 12. Will anyone ever adopt her? I
doubt it. But I know she can stay the rest of her years here in my
foster home for her--warm, well fed, cared for, loved and happy.
As a quick post-script, she just came up to me as I finished this up. She put her forepaws up on the arm of my computer chair and demanded by pawing at one of my hands for me to rub her tummy for a few minutes. She was a tough nut to crack, but even at 11 years old, an old dog CAN be taught new tricks. In this case that humans CAN mean love. It just takes a lot of time and TLC.
