5. Kelsey
Jenny
As we neared the address I’d written down, Dad slowed that BMW he was so proud of, giving us additional time to take in the scene. He needed a dog because he’d given our two dogs to Mom and was pretty much up at the farm full-time then. It was November 16th, 2014. I have this weird ability to remember exact dates and events over decades of time. Comes in handy at family reunions.
"Where did you find this guy, Jenny?” Dad asked.
"The internet. Craigslist."
"Craigslist. Don't know it."
"Because you're a caveman, Dad. Online classified site. Jobs, rentals, most anything for sale."
"I'll check it out."
"No, you won't."
Dad glared at me, eyebrows furrowed so grievously. I had to laugh.
"You won't."
He surprised me a few years later, though. Dad needed a garden tractor—actually, a glorified lawnmower. We had a fair amount of lawn around the farmhouse. Once in a while, he’d adjust the blades up and trim down the first meadow. He and Mom had planned to get a couple of llamas for that chore, but that never happened. He showed me a listing for a used lawn tractor on CraigsList.
“Look at you, caveman,” I congratulated him..
We parked off to the side of the place I’d found with puppies for sale—it looked sketchy. And that was being nice. As soon as Dad opened the car door, he knew my referral was bad.
"My God, the smell!"
“Holy shit. They must have a lot of dogs here," I said.
"It ain’t holy, Jenny—it's just shit, a lot of it."
Tall chain-link fencing surrounded the property and had aluminum slats woven through the mesh. It blocked any clear view of the yard. Dad squinted, moved left and right, tilting his head ninety degrees, trying to get a better look.
“You look like an owl, Dad.”
All the views, even the fragments, showed a landscape where not one square yard of space was free of dog shit. The odor poured through the slats. I hovered behind Dad, my hand on his back. My bad for bringing us there, but I knew he wouldn't say anything.
"Damn internet.”
"Quit it,” Dad said.
He walked close to another section of the fence pulling a shirttail from his pants to cover his nose and mouth. My face was pale from the sour wind. Glad I didn’t have a mirror in my purse. I buried my nose and mouth in the elbow of my coat. Dad spotted a dish but couldn't tell if it was for food or water— either way, it was empty.
"Your eyes are better, Jenny. Tell me what you see?"
I moved to the fence, craning my neck to get the best view through an opening which was no more than an eighth of an inch.
"The smell is stronger through the fence!”
Dad considered getting back in the car and leaving. Certainly, we did not see the professional dog breeding operation described in the ad. At best, it was a puppy mill. At worst, a place of torture and abuse. The longer we remained, the less Dad could ignore the knot tightening in his gut. I knew that look from the hospital and the funeral—when real life collided with his worldview.
"Let's get out of here, Jenny. This place is making me sick."
The property owner approached the front gate. I grabbed Dad's arm. My grip was, well—unyielding. Like my Mom, I understood the value of non-verbal communication. It was a well-tuned instrument in her relationship toolbox.
"It's worse for the dogs, Dad," I whispered.
The ride to the property had filled our heads with images of fuzzy golden retriever puppies jumping on top of each other, their breath smelling of mama's milk. In a thousand years, neither of us could have imagined the scene we faced as the breeder called over the fence.
"Are you the lady who called about golden puppies?"
Dad knew I was in shock—sad, disillusioned. You name it. More than all of those emotions, though, I was furious. I remember turning to Dad and mouthing the word "asshole.” Get your game face on, Jenny, I thought. I was determined to free at least one animal from staying there another day.
"Yes, I am," I said, “This is quite an operation you have going here.”
I knew Dad was struggling with whether to punch the guy or call the cops. He told me later, images of the horror show we would discover in the rooms behind that front door had lit up in his head like evil Fourth of July sparklers. It was a world so opposite to the one Dad desired, the one he controlled, it churned inside him. He had that look. You know the one when you’re about to barf.
"Are you sure about this, Jenny?"
"Yes."
Dad sucked it up. He was good at that. He knew only bad decisions would be made in his current mental state. He needed to get back to his center and focus—for me. Dad drew several deep breaths through his mouth, trying to bypass the stench. He copied my facade of civility and went through the gate.
#
From the outside, the modest Michigan ranch house offered no clue to the situation inside other than the repulsive odor. Inside, Dad and I discovered a wall-to-wall grimy kennel with a stink more penetrating than the yard. I didn’t believe that was possible. The smell was so sharp it stung our noses as it wove itself into our clothing. There were multiple litters of puppies in shallow wire pens. Dad only saw one adult dog, and another, maybe five or six months old. He wondered if each female was nursing numerous litters.
"All I see are puppies," Dad said to the owner, "Where are the others?"
"Some are outside, a couple in here."
The owner pointed at the two older animals in crates, filthy from urine and feces. The ones lucky enough to be outside in the battleground behind the fence were every bit as dirty, maybe more so because the ground was muddy. They reeked of dog crap and slept in crude open doghouses.
"Are those the males outside?" Dad asked.
No answer.
At least they could wander around the yard and breathe fresh air when the wind shifted. Neither animals nor the humans inside the house had the relief of fresh air.
"How many females do you have here?" Dad asked.
"Only a couple right now."
The owner shifted his weight from one leg to the other, obviously irritated by Dad’s line of questioning, and feeling the need to deflect whatever this presumptuous city boy was getting at. What a lump that guy was.
"There's a group of breeders up here, professionals. We move dogs around according to who needs what," he said.
"I see.”
Dad knew it was a lie, but now he had some ammo he'd use later. I knew that look, too. Dad was really good at negotiation. He taught me everything I knew about that.
In a crate at the back of the room, there was an adult female golden retriever; her dull, impassive eyes made no contact with us. Although we’d owned several retrievers, we’d never witnessed eyes like this, even when our dogs were sick. This poor dog was thin, motionless—walking dead. She was the prime brood bitch for this sordid operation, bred so many times she no longer had a coat. She’d never survive a Michigan winter outside. This was her fate: to be confined to a cage inside the building, close to the litters that required her milk.
A much younger female stared at us with the same lifeless eyes from a crate six feet to her right. I squeezed Dad's arm, letting him know we were thinking the same thing. We shared the same brainwaves most of the time. Dad asked about the younger dog.
"She isn't for sale," the owner said, “We’ll start breeding her when she's old enough."
Dad was about to ask him what "old enough" meant, but I think he was scared of the answer.
"Tell us about her anyway," Dad said.
"I said she ain't for sale."
"We drove a long way to get here. Help us out. What's her story?"
It turned out her name was Kelsey, and she was five months old. At five weeks, she’d been sold to a young couple with a small child and no experience raising a dog. Kelsey had nipped the toddler during play and been confined to a crate from the first day. Removing a puppy that early from its mother and siblings is never good practice. Behavioral problems are greatly reduced if a pup can spend an additional three weeks with its mother and littermates. Alone and poorly socialized, Kelsey found herself back in jail at the puppy mill within a week.
"I did the right thing. Gave 'em their money back and took the mean little pup back. That's why she ain't for sale anymore," said the owner, clearly hoping that would be the end of it.
"All puppies are like that, aren't they, Dad?" I said, anxious to bring anything positive to a negotiation I sensed was moving in the wrong direction. I squeezed Dad’s arm again.
"Can you let her out of the crate?" I asked.
"You heard what I said." The breeder shook his head.
"I heard you," I said, "I just want to see her a little closer."
Kelsey hadn’t been touched in months and had barely felt a human relationship’s warmth beyond the few days with her first family. She was borderline feral, gaunt, and desperate for a bath—and a miracle. She was everything Dad had not imagined when he went in search of a new companion. He looked at me moving my hands gently along Kelsey’s neck and head.
"We'll take her," Dad said.
"I told you, she ain't for sale.”
The breeder moved toward me to pull Kelsey away.
"We heard you and appreciated everything you said.”
Dad was tugging the situation back a little from its current precipice.
"You know your business better than we do.”
"Damn straight. I've been doing this a long time."
"But, you've probably heard that saying," a trace of a grin emerged from the corner of Dad’s mouth. "Everything has a price."
"I've heard it. But not in this case. There are dozens of puppies to choose from here. I'll give you a hell of a deal on any of them," he said, waving his arms in every direction. The word douchebag would not be strong enough for this creep. Dad stayed calm and assured him.
"Once again. I appreciate what you said and your generous offer."
Dad sighed, moving his head back and forth a couple of times, and stepped back. He was loading that ammo.
"You mentioned connections with other breeders?"
"Yeah, but you can find a good dog right here.”
Dad tried to chuckle. He had settled into his salesman groove. But the chuckle felt forced. I busted him about that later. It didn’t matter. It went right over that hillbilly’s head anyway.
"Oh no, no, no," Dad told him, "We're not going somewhere else for a dog. I thought you could move dogs around, like you said, with all your connections, and end up with a new brood bitch."
Although that was the correct term for an adult female dog designated for breeding, it came out half-hearted. It felt wrong in the world of 2014.
Dad glanced at me to get a second opinion, but I was fixated on the owner's face and the lie about to drop out of his mouth.
Dad knew the phrase about professional breeders was bullshit. He liked using it against this low-life standing in front of him, rubbing his nose in it. It was fun, but it wasn't getting Dad what he wanted.
"I checked already," the owner said, "They don't have any dogs to trade."
I shook my head, amazed how easy it was to read this weasel.
"I understand," Dad said, fed up with the chit-chat. "But we are getting a dog from you right now—that one." He pointed at Kelsey.
"We're done here! I hope you find a dog you like."
The breeder herded us to the front gate without a word and returned to the house, slamming the door behind him.
#
Dad and I leaned against the car, silent for several minutes, processing what had happened.
"I don't even smell anything," I said.
"I know. I think we are the smell now."
Another long silence.
"What just happened in there, Dad?"
"He did the Take Away on us, Jenny."
Dad laughed. After forty years in sales, there was little he hadn't seen, heard, or stepped in.
"The Take Away is one of the strongest closing tools," Dad continued, "But newbies rarely use it because they're scared to hear the word "No."
Dad was laughing. He knew the low-life wasn't afraid of losing a sale. Heck, he’d kicked us out.
"Why are you laughing?" I asked.
"He's scared he might give in."
I took a few moments to let that rumble around in my head. You know us millenials, we think we’re smarter than our parents. But there are times when we need to shut up and listen because this old codger had just channeled knowledge direct from the ancients.
"The gears are going round, Dad. What's up?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure we're past the cajoling phase."
I burst out laughing. It felt awkward, but I needed it.
"As your great-grandfather said, 'We're going to need a bigger bat.'"
"He never said that, Dad."
"You're right. As your great grandfather never said…"
I interrupted him."Where are we getting that bat?"
#
Dad and I stood again at the front door of that stinking house. The owner answered, forcing a smile. He clearly assumed we were contrite and ready to pick out a new puppy. To his surprise, Dad pulled out the bat.
"You know what? I don't like what I've seen here," Dad said, stepping close to the man, into his space, into his uncomfortable zone. I would have been uncomfortable, and he was my Dad.
"You have two choices. Give Kelsey to us right now, and I'll pay full price."
"Or what?" the owner said.
"Or, I'm walking out of this shithole, calling the cops, and waiting right here to talk to them."
Dad pointed at the ground several times as he said it. I hadn’t seen that before. He wasn’t in any one of the character roles he liked to morph into on occasion. It was just “pissed-off” Dad.
"I got nothing to hide from the police."
“I’m sure you're right," Dad said, giving the guy a minor victory and a path to back down. He’d gotten his point across with all that finger-pointing. Now he needed to defuse the situation and close the deal.
"I don't know if what you have going on here is legal or not. I'm not a lawyer.”
"I'm the one who should be calling the police. You're trespassing and harassing me.”
I don’t know why, but I sensed the guy was leaning and tucked my arm around Dad.
"Look, you're the professional breeder," Dad said. "I'm sure you have all of your permits and inspections in order. I don't like the government snooping into my business any more than you. Am I right?"
The look on the breeder’s face was priceless. He didn’t know a permit or inspection report from a pile of dog crap.
"I'm just trying to buy a dog to live with me at my farm."
“Pick another damn dog," the breeder said, "You'll like any of them."
"I'm sure I would. However, I want that dog. Kelsey. And only that dog."
"She isn't for sale!”
"I understand."
Dad turned to leave, felt my glare, and placed his index finger to his lips. Then he turned back to the breeder. Oh my God, he was going to do a Colombo.
“One more thing. You know, we're regular folks. We don't know much about this dog breeding business. However, even to us, you know, it doesn't feel right. And it certainly doesn't smell right,” Dad said, "But I'll go with whatever the officers say."
I turned Dad towards the car, hiding a smile, then spoke to the owner over my shoulder.
"We'll talk again when the cops get here if you aren't already cuffed in the back of the cruiser."
"You don't have to be like that," the owner shouted at me.
I spun and looked directly into the eyes of a man toward whom I felt only anger and disgust.
"Sell us the damn dog, and we're out of here."
“Let me think about it.”
The breeder went back into the house. Dad lit a cigarette at the car and looked at me.
"Don't even," I said, waving an arm that precluded any further discussion. Dad smiled and told me how proud he was of me.
One thing Dad knew was true—dirtbags, even ignorant ones running canine gulags for profit, understood risk and reward. Ten minutes later, Dad loaded Kelsey in the car and drove her as far away from her memories as possible. I rolled down the window to escape the odor from my clothes and the back seat, but I was grinning.
"You are a piece of work, Dad."
"What are you talking about?"
#
I had gone to work for Dad shortly after college, with no knowledge or training in water treatment, and I knew nothing about selling. Dad told me he hadn't known much about the business when he started. I listened to him on the phone for weeks trying to learn. He was smooth, never talked about selling anything before he found out how the guy’s kid had done in the baseball tournament or how his wife was doing after her surgery. Dad never took notes. He remembered stuff like that. I tagged along on sales calls, always to factories, big ones. It wasn’t long before he made me go alone.
A few years later, I knew I was stronger because I had been dropped in the ocean and had not drowned.
“The shortest answer is doing the thing,” I said.
Dad thought that was funny.
“Hemingway never said that you know,” Dad said.
Maybe not, but people quoted him on it, and Dad loved Hemingway. We had Papa Hemingway’s pony cart in the barn: reins, tack, everything in perfect condition. Dad traded for it with the owner of a nearby ski resort. The story was that the Hemingway kids used it during summers at Windemere down on Walloon Lake. Dad even bought a pony so we could sit where young Ernest sat with his siblings. I’m pretty sure that story was true.
That day at the dog breeder, I learned a thing or two about Dad that went beyond salesmanship.
"That guy really pushed your buttons, didn't he?"
"He did," Dad laughed. "He got me mad. The whole place did."
"Thanks, Dad.”
"For what?"
"For buying a dog you didn't want. You saved Kelsey's life."
#
When we got Kelsey back home to Grosse Pointe, she jumped from the car and tore through the neighbors' manicured lawns. He corralled her among hedges three doors down, trembling, and stinking to high heaven.
"Hoowee, Kelsey girl, you and I will burn this jacket as soon as we get to the farm. It will be your first bonfire."
Dad cradled her in his arms, maybe wondering if he had made the right decision. But was there really a choice? He saved her from a terrible life. That was enough. Within hours, Dad knew Kelsey wasn’t a biter.
“It doesn't take a genius to train a dog. Love and persistence will usually work,” he told me.
Their teeth are sharp as puppies, and they use them when playing. Golden retrievers make terrible attack dogs for a reason. They are loving, and their eyes melt hearts like butter.
Dad’s most significant challenge with Kelsey was her well-warranted distrust of humans. He knew a bath would be more trauma for her, but not having one wasn’t an option. He rolled up his sleeves and put her in an old galvanized tub in the yard. She wasn’t bothered by the warm water. Dad’s reassuring voice and touch were the first she’d experienced in a long time.
"You are going to love the farm," he whispered in her ear.
Kelsey devoured two bowls of food while still wet from the bath. Dad brushed her coat, happy with the sharp contrast between her new aroma of coconut shampoo and the putrid one still permeating the interior of his car. After dinner, he placed a comfy dog bed next to his, and she was asleep within minutes.
“Let me know how things go at the farm,” I said, “I’ll be at my place.”
“Thank you for everything, Jenny. That was quite an adventure.”
“It was. Thank you, Dad.”
#
Dad told me how the next days went. As he and Kelsey approached the farm, she had her head out the window, ears blown back, new scents coming with every deep inhale. She pulled her head in, sneezed, and then right back out.
"You like the smells up here, girl? A lot better than yesterday!"
Kelsey squirmed in the car’s front seat, barking as Dad pulled into the driveway and opened her door. She jumped from the vehicle and moved in progressively larger arcs, nose to the ground, but never too far away. Dad never considered putting her in an enclosure; she’d seen enough of those to last a lifetime. He wondered about a shock collar, but not for long. He decided to let her do something she had never been able to do before—establish her own boundaries. The farm was huge, and as long as she respected the few vehicles coming down the road, Dad wanted her to experience the same freedom the farm gave him.
"Knock yourself out, crazy girl. You earned it!"
For the next couple of days, Kelsey remained skittish around Dad. However, she was relaxed exploring her new territory, pushing her boundaries a little more with each excursion. She was fascinated by the horses and spent a lot of time checking out the distinctive aromas of the paddock, nearly touching noses with the thoroughbred more than once. It appeared she was comfortable around other animals. She stayed away from the house except to sleep, but she clearly wasn’t going to run away.
A couple of days after they arrived, Dad’s friend Wayne was at the farm painting the interior walls. Besides being a first-rate craftsman, Wayne was a good cook—two great qualities for a house guest. He assembled a feast around a standing rib roast that provided two bags of fatty scraps. After dinner, Dad stood under a big apple tree away from the house, holding an open bag. He wanted to meet Kelsey on her new ground. Within a few minutes, Kelsey followed the scent from the treeline and was sitting at his feet, looking up at him.
On his knees, Dad slowly fed his new friend by hand, growing the connection, stroking her, and reassuring her in that goofy language people use with their pets. I’m sure it was the same language he used that night as she lay pressed next to him in the snow and the ice.