An Idyllic Setting For A Brutal Ritual

...And It's All About Money

The southeast Missouri countryside is beautiful. The drive there covers miles of country road. Farms, tractors, cattle ponds abound. The scenery is breathtaking in Autumn. But if you drive up to that pretty little barn and part the weeds out back, you're likely to find something incredibly ugly.

This is the view from the auction barn. Inside, while my partner registers to bid, I walk among the roughly 300 dogs in wire cages. Their fur is unkempt, their teeth are rotten or missing, they've lost eyes and a few have open wounds from ingrown chains or cage aggression incidents. Most just bear the scars. The worst thing about them is the look in their eyes: hopeless, pained. They don't look at you, won't make eye contact. They huddle as far as they can get from the cage door. If they do look in your direction, you see one thing in their eyes: fear.

They stand or lay, it's hard to get comfortable on wire floors. Buyers file past them with their auction "catalogs" listing the breeds in the order they'll be sold. It lists the names, ages. Each one has a number so you can mark the dogs you want to bid on. I come to my breed. There is a 10 year-old here. He doesn't respond at all when I call him through the wire, doesn't even lift his head. He has never been outside one of these cages. He doesn't know it, but I came here for him. I will leave with him today.

In the third cage of my breed is a dog who behaves differently. A little female stares directly into my eyes, imploring, begging me to get her out of this place. I speak to her softly. Her tail wags. This is not a puppymill dog, so why is she here? She is here because her owner didn't care  enough. This was someone's pet, sold intact or offered "Free To Good Home" in the local paper. I wonder, if they could see her here being bred to death for profit, would they care? She whines softly. I note her on my catalog, but she is young and may go too high. I only have a few hundred dollars. The old and the sick come first.

The auctioneer has started, but other breeds go first. I walk outside. Kids are playing on some old tires and a dirt mound. There are a few rescuers in the crowd, but most are puppymillers. I watch as each dog is carried onto the auction block, shivering with fright or stiff as a board. The auctioneer describes each in turn, noting females in heat or males with undescended testicles. All dogs are evaluated solely on their ability to produce puppies.

My partner does the bidding. I'm not good at it. While the crowd is distracted at the front of the barn, I sneak to the back where the light is better and pull the camera from my blue jean pocket, taking photos from hip height. If caught, I'll never be allowed into another auction. Or worse.

There are 12 dogs of my breed here today. My partner and I are able to buy five of them. A dog of another breed is returned to it's cage with no bids. This is a scrub auction. Most of the dogs for sale here are the ones the puppymiller does not want to feed through the Winter. This does not bode well for a dog who cannot produce a single bid. I offer him $10 for the rejected dog and he accepts.

We pull around the back of the barn and load our dogs into the car. I smile, nod my head at the people there. I cajole and laugh with them. I request that missing UKC papers on one dog be sent to my home, as if they are important to me. There is little I would not do to walk out of that barn with even a single dog.

I drive home with my 10 year old. And the little pet, as well. I've left many young dogs behind, but I can't think about their lives now. I'll be back, I tell them silently.

When you're nine or ten and they don't want you anymore. I'll come back for you.

NOTE: The auction location, the attendee's identity and breed of choice and other details have been omitted to ensure the attendee's continued ability to rescue from puppymill auctions.