When I was a kid growing up in Clifford, Ont., our dog was a chihuahua - decades before they became purse pooches.
I'll never forget two things. One, on the day my uncle delivered him he pronounced the puppy was already named Tippy for the white tip on the end of his tail.
Two, was a visit back to the 1960s-era breeder. It was shocking to a child. Chihuahuas were scatting around at ankle height everywhere. Entire rooms were covered in newspapers. The house, which might've been a "modernized" log cabin was dark and ominous.
Clearly, this was a puppy breeder who needed to do it for the money and not for the love of the breed. Today we'd call it a puppy mill.
I'm thinking about this today as this story is published in the Toronto Star.
I'll never forget two things. One, on the day my uncle delivered him he pronounced the puppy was already named Tippy for the white tip on the end of his tail.
Two, was a visit back to the 1960s-era breeder. It was shocking to a child. Chihuahuas were scatting around at ankle height everywhere. Entire rooms were covered in newspapers. The house, which might've been a "modernized" log cabin was dark and ominous.
Clearly, this was a puppy breeder who needed to do it for the money and not for the love of the breed. Today we'd call it a puppy mill.
I'm thinking about this today as this story is published in the Toronto Star.
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