When I, with my load of suffering dogs, made it to the Humane Society shelter, we found as much activity there as at any airport. The entire doggie-related community rose up, abandoned their day-to-day activities, and pitched in.

Veterinarians from all over the city and outlying districts, donating their time, services, and medications, set up impromptu clinics using collapsible tables borrowed from a near-by church. Vet techs, also giving freely of their time, worked triage in the parking lot, examined each dog, as it was unloaded from the sorry caravan of volunteered vehicles, and made quick decisions.

“Take this over to Dr…. that one to Dr…. this one inside.”

A large cadre of dog groomers, more accustomed to bathing, fluffing, clipping and arranging bows on the pampered heads of beloved companions, worked hard to clean the tortured creatures enough to permit an evaluation of their physical condition. Many of the longer coated breeds had to be shaved right down, their coats beyond redemption. It would be quite some time before any guess could be made to the actual breed of some of the toy dogs. Some of the volunteers cried while they worked, others moved like robots. Occasionally, they’d embrace, offering comfort and urging each other on.

A camera crew from the CBC documented the massive effort, and the great raid at Walter’s place made the national news.

I called one of the vet techs to my trailer. All the other dogs were unloaded. Booboo still sat inside, stoic and seemingly happy, but his lady was in extremis. I didn’t need a vet to tell me she was dying. The pale tissues of her mouth, her glazed, sunken eyes, and her labored, shallow breathing said it all.

After applying a stethoscope to the heaving ribs, the vet tech said, “Pneumonia – she’s going into respiratory failure.”

I took Booboo out, so he wouldn’t have to watch them euthanize his pitiful companion. It took a while to hook her up; her blood pressure was so low they couldn't find a vein, but eventually they were able to put an end to her suffering.

I led Booboo into the shelter, where I waited hours for someone to give authorization to take him home. Officially, I was providing him with a foster home. Legally, animals do not have rights; they are property and Booboo would remain the property of Walter until the courts said otherwise.

“But don’t you worry,” I told him, stroking his massive head. “He’ll get you back over my dead body.”

Of the two hundred and twenty-three dogs removed from Walter’s place, one hundred and eleven survived the rescue. One bitch gave birth while in transit to eight pups, only three live born. Most of the survivors were turned over to various rescue groups to go to foster homes, eventually to be adopted out to loving and understanding families. A further twenty to thirty dogs had to be euthanized later. Although their bodies healed to a degree, their spirits could not.

What happened to Walter?

Two and a half years later, the courts of our country sentenced him to the maximum allowable under the Cruelty to Animals Act – a fine of two thousand dollars and a ban on owning animals for ten years.

Inadequate, you say, but look at the bright side; he can’t do this to any more animals for at least a decade.

I wish it were true. Within months, Walter was back in business on the other side of the border and running a similar set-up in North Dakota. Don’t ask me how. Rumor has it, it’s his brother-in-law, or cousin, or something like that.

There is an ironic twist, you’ll be glad to hear. The investigation unearthed his accounting system, including copies of invoices to several pet brokers who resold to well known, major-named pet store chains. None of this income had been reported, and a surprisingly profitable business it had been. Walter was found guilty under the Income Tax legislation and Revenue Canada his it in for him. He didn’t even charge and collect the GST. Now that is a crime!

If he ever returns to Canada, he will get his wrists slapped. Ouch!

“They’re just beasts and don’t feel things the way we do,” he was known to say.

It is my fervent hope that those who preach reincarnation have it right, and Walter will come back as a dog, and find himself in one of those puppy mills, living in his own shit and eating rotten refuse. Or, better yet, a bait dog for some Neanderthal training his fighting dogs, or -- wait, wait – how ‘bout one of those dogs in China, sitting in the market with a tin can over his muzzle and his tail broken and tied over his back, waiting to be sold for meat.

Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I want.