Wid came from an old time farmer-type breeder that I've known for years. I had promised myself I would have no further contact with her over four years ago, when the conditions of her home and dogs left me in tears. I felt for her, but I also spoke to the local humane officer about her. I heard that she was no longer breeding because of the 'misery' an investigation caused. I was very, very pleased.
Out of the blue, about a month and a half ago, I decided to call her. I had heard her husband had a horrible stroke, and wondered how she was caring for the dogs she'd kept as personal pets. Well.....long story short is, she didn't stop breeding, she lied. I asked her if anything was 'new' and her response was.."can't get anythin' to live, puppies are dyin' right away. Must be terrible mothers.". Ugh.
So I asked her if I could help and perhaps take whomever she didn't want. She said she'd think about it--she had a male Yorkie that she didn't realize was born and so she didn't take off his tail or dewclaws. And his sister had died in the crate with him of 'sumthin'. She proceeded to tell me how he'd 'almost died, she found him cold and still in his cage a few days ago". So I asked her if I could come out and look at him.
Now you have to realize this woman is self-imposed shut-in. She goes nowhere but the dump. She didn't really want me to come out to her home at all, and argued with me until I offered her some money. Then she told me she'd meet me outside with the dog. I flew. He was outside, in a tiny, rusty expen..shivering. He smelled so badly of urine and feces and was matted right up to his skin. I grabbed him to go, and she said "Oh, I have another one too"....It was a Maltese/Poodle mix that was so so so sick ..with huge dreadlocks of matted hair all over her body. She had urine burns on her skin. I started to cry, I already had the Yorkie in my hands, and had given her all the money I had. She wouldn't give the other dog to me without more money, so I left, crying. And I'm NOT a crier! I called the SPCA, yet again, as I'd done 4 years ago. I wrote a detailed account of the incident, and left it in their hands. I can't do anything else.
That's where Widdles started. He wasn't "Widdles"..he was no-name in a crate on top of two other crates (as she told me).
He pooped ground corn for three days. He ate until his tummy practically burst until just about a week ago. Like he couldn't believe he could eat.
He tried to hide himself by staying in the corners of the room for a few days, then realized that life was meant to be fun and loving.
And then, he became my Widdles.
