This story is so disturbing it seems like it can’t be real and reads like a really bad horror movie.  But it really is true, and my friend was nice enough to write it down for me so I could post here and share.  After leaving this hell-on-earth puppy mill, he did go straight to the police and made a report, but it’s unknown what happened after that.  Understandably, my friend was concerned about leaving that place alive and was very sorry he could only take one dog with him.  The fact that things like this exist in backwoods USA is more than disturbing.  Even though we don’t see it and it’s so far off the beaten path we couldn’t find it again if we tried; it still exists.  It’s disgusting.  We need more laws and enforcement!  Please read the story contributed below……WARNING: What you are about to read will upset you!

True story and it played out like this…

I was searching for miniature pinschers in the classified ads one day.  Lo and behold, “Min Pins for sale. Registered. [phone number]“.  With a smile on my face, I called immediately.  A man named Jim Bob answered the phone (probably an old rotary phone), and we discussed price and location.  He didn’t live in Tyler, unfortunately, but in Winnsboro, TX.  It didn’t seem too far for me to drive to pick out a $225 registered puppy.  Jim Bob gave me directions with all the exactness of “you’ll see an old tractor on the corner of…and when you come to the fork, turn…and you’ll go through a shady trail to get to my house.”  Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting into.  The further I got to this deep-in-the-woods location, I thought to myself that I should have left a trail of bread crumbs to not only find my way back, but let someone else know where to find me!

As I slowly drove up to the end of a dirt road, I noticed a young, dusty looking kid hitting a stick against the road.  I pulled up and he turned to me quickly.  One eye was pointed east, the other on me.  Disturbed, I said, “Do you know where Mr. Weems lives?”  He pointed his stick at this off-the-beaten-path, decrepit, wooden shack and said, “You mean, Jim Bob!?”.  I said yes and slowly pulled into the dirt drive.  Jim Bob had a Great Pyrenees and a Doberman mix tied up to an old Birch tree by towing chain.  Noticing my options, I decided to stay far away and just close enough to the shack so as not to deal with the double duo of doom.  As I walked up the three creaky wooden steps and to the door, the door swung open just before I knocked.  A stocky, but voluptuous woman in a red shirt answered the door with Jim Bob dressed in dingy coveralls (that didn’t cover a lot at all).  ”You must be here for the Min Pin,” stated Jim with tobacco in cheek.  ”Yes, sir.”  The red-shirted lady said, “Well, Jim, I’ll be back to pay rent next month,” followed by a call out to the crazy-eyed boy in the road, “C’mon boy, let’s go.”  I didn’t even want to know, but had it all figured out in my mind. Ugh.

Jim Bob then led to the side of the shack, past the field of caged breeds of every sort and into a smaller shack.  As he opened the door, stacked from floor to ceiling were a plethora of min pins barking their little angry butts to the hilt.  It had the wonderful aroma only a 100 min pins in a small cabin could make.  ”Take yer pick, son,” said Jim Bob.  I picked out the smallest one I could find in hopes it wasn’t too disturbed by this point in its life.  Jim Bob reached in and took her out, looked her over and stroked her belly.  He said, “I can’t give this one to ya…she has a hernia.”  Disappointed, I looked some more, but they all looked a little large or older.  He could kind of tell at this point I wanted a baby, so he said, “I tell ya what. I’ve got one inside the house that just got off her momma.”  I said, great and he limped back into the old shack and revealed what would become Simone, my future and present day Min Pin.  I felt at this point that if I didn’t buy at least some dog, I might really regret not leaving those bread crumbs.  ”How much?”, I asked stupidly ( as if I was in the bargaining position).  ”Two and a quarter.” sternly said Jim Bob. “Does she have papers?” I asked.  ”Step inside my office.” he said (the min pin shack).  I wrote him a check and signed the papers as quickly as possible.  Jim Bob said, “take her to the vet and if she has any problems, bring ‘er back and I’ll trade ya.” I felt a little better with the ‘insurance’ policy Jim Bob verbally gave me.  While I was signing, I asked, “So, Mr. Weems, what are you gonna do with the min pin that had the hernia?”  Tobacco smile exposed, he said, “I guess you didn’t read my business card, son, heh heh.”  Then, like a scene from a grade B horror film, I read the card…”Jim Bob Weems Kennel and Alligator Farm.  I looked up at him with the look of a guy that might feel as if he was not supposed to know what he now knew.  In mobster like fashion, he pointed out a window of the min pin shack and said, “Ya see that water pit out there, son? That’s where I keep my gators.  Someone’s gotta feed ‘em around here.”

Signed, sealed and delivered, I took my new min pin back to my car and headed back down ‘The Land That Time Forgot Road’ with ole Jim Bob smiling and waving in the rear view mirror.

Simone is 7 years old now with a birthday June 6th.  She has been the coolest dog I’ve ever had and follows me everywhere.  Of course, I would probably stay right next to my knight in shining armor, too, if I had been pulled from the Nightmare of Winnsboro Street!