When Small Dog, a senior Yorkie, is dumped on the side of the road by her breeder, when no longer able to produce as a "dispenser," she's discovered by a kind human and soon learns not all humans are scary. In fact, her new human, Georgia, is quite lovely. But, for Small Dog-now known as Miri-there is one problem. Miri's last puppy remains with the breeder who so cruelly dumped her. She pains to leave Georgia and her new pack, but she must risk losing everything to find her puppy. So, she sets off and with the help of new friends she meets along the way, and a brave honeybee, she finds something unexpected-she learns what it feels like to be loved, and the dispenser wasn't just a dispenser after all.
When Small Dog, a senior Yorkie, is dumped on the side of the road by her breeder, when no longer able to produce as a "dispenser," she's discovered by a kind human and soon learns not all humans are scary. In fact, her new human, Georgia, is quite lovely. But, for Small Dog-now known as Miri-there is one problem. Miri's last puppy remains with the breeder who so cruelly dumped her. She pains to leave Georgia and her new pack, but she must risk losing everything to find her puppy. So, she sets off and with the help of new friends she meets along the way, and a brave honeybee, she finds something unexpected-she learns what it feels like to be loved, and the dispenser wasn't just a dispenser after all.
CHAPTER 1
The day the cage door slammed shut and locked, Small Dog, later known as Miracle, or Miri for short, barely weaned from her motherâs milk, heard the words from the elder Yorkshire Terriers in nearby cages, warning her of her new fate. âYouâre a dispenser now,â as the dames liked to say, âfor your new human.â And she âmust produceâno less than twice a yearâdesirable puppiesâ until, well, âyou bear your last.â That was a little over eleven years ago, and this is her everlasting story.
* * *
The rising sun painted rosy hues across the crisp, cloud less sky, signaling to the nearby birds that it was time for this northern countryside of Winchester, Virginia to awaken. Nestled within the Shenandoah Valley sat Wayne and Judith Wyattâs house, built in the 1960s. Once a sturdy brick structure, it now looked condemned to anyone who lived nearby or drove past, emitting musty and rotten smells, much like the yard outside. The house, with its single bathroom, two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen, was surrounded by overgrown bushes and barren grass, all enclosed by a patchwork of new and old wood panels, designed to keep prying eyes away. Those curious enough to listen might hear the dogs inside, their desperate yaps pleading for attention when left hungry.
Those curious enough to peek in, would find kenneled dogs suffering from years of neglectâtheir bodies beyond brokenâ and this past winter had been exceptionally brutal, with little shelter or fat for insulation.
For the caged Yorkies, though, this was just another season. Another day in April. Another Friday, marked by loneliness and pain, especially for Small Dog, now the elder of the group.
Unlike when she first arrived, she was now one of many, as the rows of cages stacked taller and wider, each holding multiple dogs. Small Dog lay, disheartened, listening to the birdâs chirp as her two babies nestled close to her. Suddenly, her spirits lifted. She heard a familiar buzzâtiny wings close to her cage. She hadnât expected to see Queenie for a few more days, when the air warmed and the honeybees emerged from their long winter nap.
Small Dog, the name given to her by Queenie (which is what Small Dog calls the honeybee), perked up, eager to see her best friend. But how could it be? she thought. It was early. Even the sun was only partially peeking over the mountainâs horizon, not yet ready to cast its full rays. Small Dog stayed curled, keeping her puppies cozy, though she kept her eyes uncovered to welcome the one she felt was her only friend.
Well, in addition to Mr. Whiskers, of course. Mr. Whiskers, a jumpy field mouse no bigger than a nugget, had the longest, most incredible whiskers Small Dog had ever seen. Often, he would tickle her as they shared her bowl of canned mush. Small Dog didnât mind; she could hardly eat and welcomed the company. It worried her, though, that Whiskers hadnât stopped by lately to tell her all about his adventures. She wondered what it would be like to roam freely. Many days, she imagined what it would be like to be like either of her friends.
As for Small Dogâs humansâwhom she would refer to more as cage keepers than caregiversâthey called her âKennel Eight.â It was a name she shared with her sixty puppiesâwho now bore different namesâand the two recently whelped pup pies that remained.
The lively buzz grew louder as Queenie approached, until it was drowned out by the yapping of the cages surrounding Small Dog. The dogs were ready for their morning chow, scooped from a bag or plopped from a can branded for a dog, cat, rabbit, or whatever Wayne had managed to snag from a nearby farm store on discount. Even so, their taste buds cared little for the bland nourishment. It was all they knew. The only pleasing smells came from the farmhouse behind the fence, when Mr. Johnson fired up his grill for an evening barbecue, making their stomachs growl and their instincts to break free call out.
Except for Small Dog. She no longer echoed their hunger. With no appetite for food or the urge to run, she chose to remain silent and still. Her head lowered and she buried her face into her hind legs, still struggling to recover from the complicated delivery a few short weeks ago. For her old, exhausted body, she simply begged for these puppies to be the last.
âSmall Dog,â Queenie called.
Queenieâs wings flapped tirelessly outside the metal-barred cage, thrilled to see a bulging button eye quickly pop up, just as thrilled. âYouâre awake!â Without hesitation, she flew through the slots and landed on the cold cage floor. This time, though, she noticed that Small Dogâs cage mates were gone, and her cage was cleaner. She knew what that meant.
âPuppies,â Queenie said.
A fresh cage was rare, usually bestowed twice a year when a litter was born, to keep the puppies healthy. As for Small Dog, her once long, brown, and golden coat was now patchy, expos ing inflamed skin that had toughened and crusted, appearing almost like an elephantâs. The fur that remained tangled in painful clumps, suffocating her skin, and her nails had grown into her paw pads. When her cage soiled, the sting of her urine only worsened her sores, making her even more grateful for the past few weeks. Small Dog felt it was her reward for having more puppies.
Still, today feels lovely. She and Queenie were together again, and the timing couldnât be better.
Softly, so as not to wake them, Queenie said, âI see one. I see two puppies.â
Suddenly, faint grunts joined the loud barks outsideâhungry. Her puppies began to stir, wiggling until their faces pressed against Small Dogâs body, latching onto her teats to suckle their morning meal. She licked their silky gold-and-black coats as they rooted, wanting more, faster, taking all she could give. âCome on, my little darlings, eat up. I have someone I want you to meet.â While they nursed, she groomed them eagerly, wanting to show them to Queenie.
Queenie flew over the teacup-sized darlings. âOh my. Would you look at them, Small Dog. What beautiful children.â She admired their lustrous hair and soft pink paw pads with itty-bitty nails, then looked at Small Dog, smiling. She paused and imagined a time when their mother, too, had such beautiful strands. She pictured Small Dog as a spunky puppy, fighting for a teat.
âHow old are they?â Queenie asked.
Small Dog pondered, then sighed, turning her eyes down.
âWhatâs wrong, my friend?â
âThey are thirty-eight moons old.â
Queenie was bewildered by her sudden gloom and couldnât help but ask, âWhy are you sad?â All she saw was pure joy. She flew and landed on Small Dogâs nose. âSmall Dog. Why are you sad?â
Small Dog thought she had answered Queenie. She paused to reflect on her nineteen litters and their whimpers as hands reached in to snatch them away, one by one. With each passing day, she now wondered when her humans would come for these puppies and how they would fare. Like her? She couldnât bear to believe that. She preferred to believe the eldersâ stories of gentle humans playing happily with her puppies on plush grass, chasing tossed balls until their legs could move no more. Their hungry tongues could easily devour food, and their bodies moved without pain. This is what she saw when her eyes closed, and so she dreamed often. It was this that saddened her when she awoke, unsure.
As her puppies nursed, Small Dog raised her head to look at Queenie.
Queenie startled, just noticing that over the harsh winter, Small Dogâs tongue hung out even more, her lower jaw and teeth had completely rotted, and she was callously malnourished and frail.
âSmall Dog,â she called, as anger fueled her wings to flap vigorously, vibrating the air around them. âI hate your humans! IâŠI just want to sting them!â
Small Dog slowly laid her head back onto the cage floor as her babies continued to root for their breakfast. âOh, Queenie. Donât worry. Iâm OK. Iâm just old.â
âNo! I mean it. If they come back here, Iâm going to sting them. And sting them hard.â
Small Dog knew she would surely die if she lost her friend too, especially since Mr. Whiskers was nowhere to be found. Then she would certainly be lonely.
âYou canât. Youâll die.â
âI can and I will. Iâm the queen! I can sting whoever I want!â Queenie puffed her honeybee chest out, stretched her wings even farther, and lifted herself higher into the air, flexing her stinger. âAnd as many times as I want.â
Queenie pretended to sting the air over and over again, then landed on the cage floor, flexing and scowling her face as if she were evolving into the Pokémon Beedrill. Like Beedrill, Queenie was extremely territorial and would attack anyone to protect her friend.
One of the puppies detached from Small Dog, then wobbled, drunk on milk, over to Queenie to examine her more closely. He sniffed and sniffed until he reached her, then quickly sneezed when a speck of a dried leaf, drifting in on the wind, got sucked into his nose. He sneezed again, blowing Queenie through the bars of the cage, then yapped, laughing.
âLook, Mommy,â the puppy snickered. âSheâs funny.â
Small Dog ushered the puppy back close to her. âNow, now, sweet little one. Stay close to me. You need to stay warm and eat if you want to grow up to be a strong boy.â Small Dog used her nose to nudge him against her, then attempted to swipe her tongue over him to continue his morning bath. She accepted the pain and endured it as she licked his fur.
This book is about big courage in a small body. A Yorkshire Terrier body, to be precise. In these pages youâll join Small Dog, aka: âMiracleâ or âMiriâ for short, in her epic quest to find her puppies after being abused for years by a horrible backyard breeder and left for dead. This book gives a whole new meaning to "compelling page-turner." I couldnât put it down!
âSmall Dogâ has spent years as a âdispenserâ â producing at least two litters of puppies a year for unethical Virginia backyard breeders Wayne and Judith Wyatt. They run a puppy mill. Shoved into a small cage to suffer for decades and exploited for money, mama dogs are kept in deplorable conditions while being forced to overbreed until theyâre gravely ill and exhausted. At which point these "peopleâ chuck out the dogs like they're yesterdayâs garbage.
The Wyatts make pond scum look good. And my blood boil.
Small Dogâs only friend in lonely, miserable Kennel Eight is a honeybee named Queenie.
After eleven miserable years in Wyatt hell, Small Dog is ill and worn out. Wayne Wyatt the @*$&^&*^@()%*)&#$& drives her out to a remote location, ties her to a tree and leaves her for dead. But a kind-hearted nurse named Angie Tucker finds the cowering, shivering little dog and rushes her to an equally kind-hearted veterinarian, Dr. Benet. Georgia Grace is contacted. Georgia runs a senior rescue center outside of Manassas, Virginia. Itâs touch and go for a while. Dr. Benet isnât sure if Small Dog will survive the night. She needs surgery. But Dr. Benet says the little dog won't survive the procedure.
However, this sweet little dog has more gumption in her little toe than most humans have in their whole body. Against all odds, the little dog rallies. And survives. Thus, Georgia dubs the Yorkie âMiracle.â Or âMiriâ for short. And Georgia brings mama dog to the first loving, caring, and compassionate home Miri has ever known.
Georgia is now on a mission to âFind out who did this to her⊠Oh, the nerve of that man. We are going to nail that son of a dusty biscuit.â (I wouldâve said something more colorful. In spades. But you get the idea.)
But Miri is on a mission, too. Little mama is desperate to find the puppy she was forced to leave behind in Kennel Eight. And Queenie is determined to help. So is Dottie the human dynamo, cleverly disguised as a frail octogenarian. You soooo don't want to mess with Dottie. Or her bees! How Miri is aided on her mission by other dogs and kind humans could wring tears from a turnip in this thoroughly absorbing and engaging tome.
Readers who enjoyed Marley and Me, Shiloh, Charlotteâs Web, or Lassie Come Home will love Miri and the Honeybee. So will anyone who's vertical and breathing. I fell for it collar, kennel, and kibble from chapter one.
Powerful, poignant, and packed with purpose, Miri is more than a heartwarming âdog book.â Itâs a clarion call to end unethical backyard breeding, hold those engaged in same accountable, and strengthen animal cruelty laws. Itâs also a call to love, especially for senior dogs whoâve known nothing but neglect and abuse.
Itâll break your heart.
But it will also give you hope.
And a reason to get involved.
âThis is for all the present and future Miris.â Because âWeâre going to need all hands on deck.â And all hearts, too. Bonus points: A portion of net sales from Miri will be donated to Miriâs Haven Senior Dog Rescue. So Iâd grab a copy now âfize you. Or two. Or three. Or four or five orâŠ.
Finally, I canât put into words how much I loved this book. I read it cover-to-cover in one sitting. With my good dog, Kimber, in my lap. And a box of tissue.
Of the 500+ books I've read this year, Miri and the Honeybee is in my top three. Indeed, if I could give a book more than five stars, this would be it.
My Rating: 6