January 2, 2013 40 Comments
The first time I saw Tazzie, she was resting on a blanket in the front office of a kill shelter I went to visit. All seventy-eight pounds or her rottie self were confined to a small corner in the room, where the staff had taken pity on her. She immediately caught my attention, her eyes dug into mine, come here, come to me. So I did, while her little stub of a tail wagged, the only part of her body moving.
Tazzie was from a puppy mill in Arkansas, a Rottweiler money-making-farm that shipped puppies to pet shops all over the United States, to be sold, quite a lucrative business for all concerned, except the dogs. Tazzie landed in a store in Santa Monica, California, all the papers were still in her Humane Society file.