I hardly knew my mother. I was taken from her when I was quite young. It was my 8 week birthday. I remember seeing her terrified face as large hands reached into our small enclosure. I was lifted away from my mother along with my sisters. We were placed into separate, smaller crates. I would never see my mom again. My feet finally felt relief from the wire floored we were forced to stand on.
As I was carried from the only home I knew, I could hear my mother calling out to her pups.
"Milo!" She called my name. "Gracie! Lucy! Marley!" I could hear her weakening voice as she struggled to call out to us.
I miss her voice. It was soft and comforting. I would never see her warm smile again. I would never be soothed by her voice.
My thoughts were interrupted by the loud engine of a truck starting. I noticed we were moving. After a few minutes, my breakfast was no longer in my stomach.
It had been two days. I was very hungry. So hungry, my vomit was starting to look appetizing. I ate it. I wasn't sure what I regretted more, eating my own vomit or not saving enough for later.
The entire trip took 3 days. I was covered in my own filth. Finally, the truck doors opened and I saw light. Was it over?
YOU ARE READING
The Puppy of The Mill
Short StoryEver wonder where the puppies at the pet store come from? Well, here is Milo's story. Milo was born in a puppy mill, and his suffering has only just begun.
