by Jennie the Lloyd
last Christmas.
Photo courtesy of Jennie the Lloyd.
In my tiny backyard, my rescue dog Judy has found her calling. Once nameless and discarded by a puppy mill, the little French Bulldog now digs with a zeal that feels half religious, half mischievous. She’s discovered a deep love for scratching down into the cool Oklahoma dirt, the sun glancing off her wild oracle eyes.
They don’t quite line up, her eyes — one is always slightly askew, as if she’s seeing us all a little sideways. But they gleam with pride when she comes bounding back into the house, red dirt clinging to her big smile and goofy teeth, zoomies in her step. She’s just learning about the zoomies and has no idea how to act when they come upon her.
She’s reshaped our yard into a patchwork of fresh holes. Rather than with frustration, I started to treat her little pillages as invitations — spots for fresh soil and seeds. We’ve experimented with sunflowers and lavender so far. Digging and planting, playing and trying again. Every season, a chance to begin again. She is my wild little god. I mean, dog.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. When I first brought Judy home, she was lean, quick and terrified. Desperate for round-the-clock reassurance, she would melt over belly rubs then scamper back to her crate for safety.
She was surrendered to Puppy Haven Rescue by a “high-volume breeding situation,” commonly called a puppy mill, said Diana Dacyczyn, volunteer coordinator for the rescue. Judy’s medical reports from early 2024 told the story: repeated pregnancies, scar tissue wrapped around her uterus, a hernia, difficulty breathing.
Veterinarians performed surgeries to open her nasal passages, remove scar tissue, fix her hernia, and finally, perform a spay surgery.
When I first brought her home, she was unsure about my every movement. I remember stepping into the shower and worrying she would panic when I disappeared behind the curtain. I kept peeking out to reassure her, hair unwashed, as she stared back at me.
The outside world was even stranger for her. She didn’t know what to do with a leash. The first walk ended at the next driveway over. She was confused, overwhelmed. I remember worrying, “Can we ever really put her puppy mill trauma behind us?”
Sadly, Judy’s story isn’t unusual in Oklahoma. Puppy mills are still legal here, and many breeders continue to operate unchecked through pet stores or online ads, according to animal welfare advocates. The state has long ranked near the top nationally for large-scale commercial breeding. Every spring, the Humane World for Animals (formerly the Humane Society of the United States) releases its “Horrible Hundred” list of problem breeders — kennels cited or investigated for mistreatment. In 2025, three Oklahoma breeders, some even previously associated with the American Kennel Club and Petland, made the list, including facilities in Chelsea, Howe and Coalgate.
The fallout for dogs bred in puppy mills is stark. Dacyczyn said the mills “can present significant challenges and contribute heavily to the number of pets needing homes.”
She said, “Today, nearly every rescue and shelter is at or over capacity … For every uplifting adoption story, there are just as many dogs in need of urgent care and support.”
For Judy, her uplifting tale has looked like learning how to take a walk, one driveway at a time. Six months in, our little neighborhood became more than just a series of driveways: it is Judy’s neighborhood now, her oyster, her favorite playground.
She’s met personally with every blade of grass, flower, animal and human in the area. She zooms and frolics, sniffing the flowers in the park, pausing to crane her head at squirrels skittering away from us into the canopy of trees above. Judy can spend an entire day watching squirrels, her head lolled back at a spine-cracking angle.
Judy lives for a long meander down the block, where she pauses to greet familiar sights — a park with tennis courts, a little free library, and even the corner patio where regulars sip drinks and call her by name like an old friend.
“Rescue dogs have a remarkable way of showing gratitude,” Dacyczyn said. “And once they feel safe and loved, it shines through in everything they do.”
Judy certainly shines, even if in quirky ways. If our walk doesn’t end with a stroll through her favorite park, she pulls on her leash and stonewalls — her little chicken legs puffed out in that adorable Bulldog stance — until I give in, laughing, and carry her the half-block home.
I remind myself how wonderful it is to carry a 28-pound sourdough loaf named Judy down the street. How incredible it is for her to overturn the earth of my heart, long untouched, and see what flowers may grow there.
