On what has turned out to what I consider to be the most fortunate day of my life, so many years ago, I found my ever-faithful friend, Blazer. From the moment my mom, dad and I rescued him from that puppy mill, he and I were forever linked as one. I remember...
I was just home from college, having just finished, returning home to figure out what I was going to do. My dad’s doggie “Digger”, which I whole-heartedly loved, had recently passed, under suspicious circumstances. My parents were heartbroken. I though it might cheer them up to get a new puppy. So we were listening to this show in Kern Valley called Swap Shop on KVLI radio. A man came on and advertised that he had puppies to go to good homes for a fee. Well, my parents got in their car and I followed them in my truck to find this... for lack of a better description, an old, run-down puppy mill in the belle vista tract of Weldon.
There must have been 25 or so puppies from different litters. They were cute and peppy and tails wagging... aside from this one. While all the puppies were gathered around my parents, I was off from them a bit and this one puppy walked up towards me and I paid it no attention, the puppy looked at my parents and they saw him, but were more interested in this little girl puppy. The puppy then seemed sort of upset and wandered off alone to hide under the stairs to the house. My mom then noticed the ‘loner’ puppy and immediately said, “That one. He has attitude. That’s our puppy.”
The owner of the puppy mill then went and fetched the small puppy with giant feet from under the stairs and handed it to her. He did not like being held. I went over to my parents and pet the puppy and he calmed down. Between my parents and I, we barely gathered enough money together to pay the man for this puppy. My mom and dad got into their car with the puppy and I jumped into my big blue truck and followed them home. My mom, holding the puppy over her left shoulder on a dishtowel, could not seem to control the puppy. He kept trying to get over her shoulder and over the back seat, ever-staring my blue truck and me behind my parent’s car.
Memorial continued . . .