Getting Millie - Part IV
Not every dog is that special one who connects to your soul like my big sweet Newfoundland, Lucille, did. She was the gentle creature who’d taken me through the death of my sister, family problems, surgeries, the isolation of Covid. For me, her departure was one of the great tragedies of my life. And so, as soon as she was gone, I set out to find another dog. As it turned out, I should have waited.
THIS IS PART 4 of a SIX-PART STORY
Millie
The dog we’d rescued had massive paws – not a good sign. I couldn’t think of a name for her; all I could come up with was Millie, which wasn’t quite right, but I decided to use as a placeholder. The first thing I learned about Millie was that she was teething. Shoes, chairs, drawings, handbags: nothing was safe. Least safe of all was my body, which I quickly discovered was Millie’s favorite object to chew on. My arms, hands, legs were covered in bites, little red tooth marks, some of them open and bleeding. I’d let Millie out of her crate, drag her to the yard for a pee, and then, almost inevitably, lose control of her as she raced back into the house, galloping through the rooms with her leash flying.
I didn’t like to admit it, but she was too much for me. Happy times were when she was in her crate and the house was quiet. When she was loose, we were all miserable.
She seemed like a psycho puppy, so full of buzzing energy that each of us did our best to stay out of her way. Meanwhile, my daughter, Jofka, got online and found the Redds’ Facebook page. There was all sorts of information on that page, but not a single mention of dogs. We saw pictures of Mrs. Redd barrel racing, of their family being baptized under a shower, of their little boys snuggling up together in bed, of Bible camp and various church activities – but again, no pics of a single dog. Hmmm … that was strange. Particularly because Mrs. Redd included all sorts of other stuff on her page – very private, shocking stuff, such as the family was fostering a young child who was taken away from them. They fought in court to have the child returned, but lost the case.
Who would admit to that so publicly?
I guess the Redds, but to me it sounded like a sordid sob story. We figured all those so-called “Newfadors” were haphazardly bred to be sold at flea markets or by the side of highways. We figured the backyard breeding operation wasn’t entirely legal or up-to-code, therefore all the secrecy. And we decided the best way to deal with the situation was to report the Redds. We had the name of their preacher. We would get in touch with her.