I might have jumped to conclusions—but his believed affiliation was one of the things that had been conveyed to Nina by whatever Animal Services contact had mentioned the then-pending raid on the puppy mill.
I’d watched Efram officially taken into custody by a member of the Animal Cruelty Task Force after my last little altercation with him.
Only then had I felt I could leave.
I left Nina in charge again as I headed from the offices and through the gate. It was time for my first walk of the day through the important part of the shelter.
I visited our residents often. The sensation was always bittersweet. Mostly sweet—for me.
Our habitats were, of course, well built and maintained, and as cozy as Dante’s generous monetary contributions and pet supply connections could make them. Not to mention my own insistence on making each enclosure as homey as possible.
But no matter how nice every residence was, how spacious and filled with toys and comfy bedding, ample water, and regularly served food, it was still a cage—the easier to keep it clean and safe.
Dogs, except the smallest, were housed in enclosures that were partly inside long, low, temperature-controlled buildings, and partly open-air. Toy dogs had fully inside accommodations. Each dog had its own kennel, unless they were mothers with pups, known littermates, or otherwise had lived together previously without issues. Despite our attentive staff, we couldn’t watch each pup every moment of the day to ensure that two together weren’t fighting.
Cats tended to be more tolerant, so they were usually housed in groups—after we made certain each new addition got along well with the rest. As we brought each one in, though, we kept them in separate enclosures during their normal quarantine period and sometimes beyond, depending on their friendliness.
We also took in other pets, like birds, guinea pigs, and more—a veritable Noah’s ark of rescue, providing the most suitable habitat possible. At the moment, we had a few rabbits and hamsters in residence.
But as safe, secure, and well cared for as our animals were, they were all, in fact, homeless. Waiting for someone to adopt them, who would love them even more than our great employees and volunteers could.
Fortunately, we had a lot of success in placing our wards.
As I entered the fenced, primarily canine area, I met up with Ricki, one of our volunteers. She had been coming here for over a year, loved it, and was just about to begin training as a veterinary technician—starting out as I had done years ago, smart kid.
Wearing a yellow knit shirt with the HotRescues logo displaying a happy cartoon dog and cat on the pocket, she was prepping Elmer, a black Lab mix, for a walk outside. Our volunteers often exercised dogs behind our facility on a relatively quiet street that had sidewalks.
A fresh-faced African American girl, with long, loose hair the shade of rich cocoa, Ricki tossed a happy smile at me even as she gave a small tug to show Elmer who was the alpha of the two of them. “Hi, Lauren,” she greeted me effusively. And then she frowned. “Was it really a puppy mill?”
Word had gotten out.
“Sure was,” I said grimly.
“How awful. Oops!” She almost lost her balance as Elmer gave a tug on his leash. “Heel!” she ordered and pulled the eager Lab back into place at her side.
“Have fun,” I called as they hurried along the path between cages, their presence triggering a roar of barking from jealous inhabitants. Or maybe they were just being watchdogs. Or both.
I approached the nearest enclosure. Sharp yaps emanated from it—or, rather, from the little white Westie mix—part West Highland white terrier, and part who knew what.
I waited until she was quiet, not reinforcing behavior that might make her less adoptable. “Hi, Honey,” I said to her. That was her name. It was printed, as with all our residents, on a page slipped into a plastic folder mounted near the top of her enclosure, along with her age, breed, health condition—which was updated as needed—and date she’d been brought in. Honey had been saved from a high-kill shelter not very long ago, one of our rescues that I was especially proud of.
My BlackBerry rang then. At least it vibrated. I could barely hear it, thanks to all the canine noise in the area, but it tickled my leg beneath my jeans. I pulled it from my pocket and glanced at the display. Tracy was calling.
My twenty-year-old daughter attended Stanford University. She was in her sophomore year. It was now April, and I hadn’t seen her since Christmastime.
I hustled away from the doggy bedlam toward the gate to the quiet—well, quieter—offices.
I stopped near the feline-decorated greeting counter. “Hi, Trace. How are you?” I felt a smile draw curves up my face, hoped she heard it in my voice.
“Hi, Mom. Or should I say, ‘Hi, YouTube star’?”
I was comfortable using the Internet for HotRescues’ purposes—like checking out animals that needed rescuing, which were posted online by high-kill shelters.
I didn’t get into any of the social networking sites, although Nina did—also to scout for useful information for our shelter.
And YouTube? I occasionally saw a link to something that looked cute, like a clip about dogs that danced or cats that sang. But I had no idea what Tracy was talking about.
I told her so.
“You don’t know? Oh, Mom, that’s so uncool. You should at least be aware of it when someone posts something about you or HotRescues. I’ll e-mail you the link.”
“HotRescues is on YouTube?”
Nina walked out from behind the desk and looked at me quizzically, obviously eavesdropping.
“No, you are. Somebody shot video on the rescue of dogs from that puppy mill, and you’re in the middle. You were holding a poor little pup in a towel, and whoever took the pictures said in the narration that it had just been pulled out of a sewer.”
“Storm drain,” I corrected absently.
“Whatever.”
“Did they mention HotRescues?”
“Nope.”
My mind started tearing in several directions. Was it a good thing for HotRescues that I got a moment of fame from this? Not likely. If I’d known I’d been filmed, I’d have chattered about being affiliated with this epitome of a private shelter and about the joys of adopting a rescued pet.
“That guy with you—the one in the animal rescue shirt? He’s really a hottie.”
Ralph? No—he wore a regular animal control officer uniform. It had been Captain Matt Kingston who’d been closest to me as I held the rescued pup. Sure, he was a hottie, but I cringed about my young adult daughter telling me so.
“I didn’t notice,” I lied. “But I want to see the clip. Please send me the link as soon as you can. And thanks for letting me know. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom.” Of course she’d have said that even if her grades were iffy and she had a cold. But we were close enough that I believed she’d tell me if there was anything I really needed to know.
At least I’d succeeded in changing the subject. “Take care, sweetheart. I love you.”
I had hardly hung up before the phone rang again. This time, outside the doggy area, I actually heard its musical peal.
It was Kevin, my son. He was a student at Claremont McKenna College, approaching the end of his freshman year. I could guess what he was calling about but decided not to let him know that Tracy had stolen his thunder.
Sure enough, he’d seen the YouTube clip with me on it, thanks to a tip from his sister.
Didn’t these kids do anything but surf the Net? I certainly was paying a lot of tuition for them to keep their noses to the grindstone—or at least in their textbooks.
But they both got good grades, so I couldn’t complain.
“You rock, Mom,” he told me, sounding gleeful. “I’m showing all my friends how you stick up for animal rights and all that.”
Despite my momentary irritation, I grinned. I was proud of both my kids, and it felt even better than eating chocolate to think
they might be proud of me, too.
I chatted with Kevin a few more minutes, glad for the opportunity to touch base with him, make sure he was still handling his first time away from home well—even though his college was in Claremont, just east of LA. Unlike with Tracy, I actually saw him on weekends now and then.
I soon hung up.
“Hey, Lauren. Come over here.” Nina was back at the table behind the computer. I saw that she had brought up the YouTube clip. She turned on the sound, but only for a few seconds before my BlackBerry rang again.
The caller ID said Dante DeFrancisco was on the other end. “Hi, Dante.” In case this conversation needed to be kept private, I walked down the hall toward my office.
“Hi, yourself,” he said. “I’ve got you on my speaker phone. Kendra’s here, too.”
Kendra Ballantyne was Dante’s lady friend, a lawyer who’d helped with the Efram situation when he’d threatened to sue us. She was also a pet-sitter and pet lover, an ideal combination to help work out the solution with Efram.
Did Dante already know what I intended to tell him about Efram and his relationship to the puppy mill? The guy did seem to know just about everything. Scary, sometimes.
I closed the door, then sat on the chair behind my desk, braced for whatever. “Hi, Kendra.”
“Hi, Lauren,” Kendra replied. “The whole puppy mill thing—I heard about it from a few sources and told Dante. That clip on YouTube—it’s going viral.”
My mind sprinted with possible results. I was identified, at least, so I still might be able to use it for publicizing HotRescues and how we save endangered pets. It also showed the concern and dedication of the LA Animal Services folks, particularly special teams like SmART, as well as Los Angeles police on the ACTF. And, it might emphasize the plight of dogs bred in puppy mills.
On the whole, I liked the possibilities. But what if Dante didn’t? Even though I was the HotRescues director of administration, he was the personification of the golden rule: he who has the gold makes the rules. At least around here.
“I haven’t watched the entire thing,” I said cautiously.
“Well, I think it’s great,” Dante said, and I felt the breath I’d been holding slide out in relief. “I’ll talk to some of my PR folks at HotPets and see how we can use it to promote HotRescues and the good work you’re doing.”
“Great idea,” I said, glad we were on the same page.
“It’s really cool,” Kendra added. “I’ll be sending links to all my animal-law and pet-sitting clients.”
“Wonderful!”
But it was time for me to toss a monkey wrench into this celebration of puppy liberty. I told them about my confrontation with Efram.
“We’ll deal with it.” I heard the grimness in Dante’s voice. As I’d told Efram, his settlement payments were toast, and that nearly made me cheer.
After I hung up, I headed back to the welcoming area. “Run that clip again, please,” I said to Nina. “When we’re done, please send the link to your Animal Services contacts, including anyone at SmART.”
“Already done,” she responded proudly, and I grinned at her. I should have figured.
Hopefully, Captain Matt Kingston would see it, too, if he hadn’t already. His SmART team deserved the Internet pat on the back a lot more than I did.
And the little film, distributed so far, should help in the prosecution of the puppy mill owners—and Efram Kiley.
Chapter 3
I sat in my office at HotRescues, watching the YouTube clip yet again on the clunky desktop computer that had been my secretary and more for at least five years. There were lots of extra bells and whistles on newer PCs, but I was much happier directing our funding toward more important things, like caring for our residents. Yes, Dante would have paid for something better. No, I didn’t want it, at least not now.
Three days had passed since I’d first watched myself on YouTube. I’d even forwarded the link to my good friend, Dr. Carlie Stellan, but hadn’t heard back from her yet. No surprise. In addition to her busy veterinary practice, which included being head of the HotRescues medical facility of choice, Carlie hosted Pet Fitness, a TV show devoted to pet health. It aired on the Longevity Vision Channel, a cable TV station that had the theme of exploring life paths for all species, including humans. Carlie was somewhere in the eastern United States now, filming a segment, and sometimes didn’t check her e-mail for days.
My parents, who live in Phoenix, had also seen the YouTube entry, thanks to the kids’ contacting them. They’d called to tell me, and to let me know they were showing me off to their friends. Their excitement made me smile. Of course they’d told my brother, Alex, who lived near them with his family. He’d also called.
Each time I peeked at the clip, I segued from basking in quiet pride for having been at the puppy mill rescue to reliving the joy of holding those little beagles to recalling what it felt like to watch puppies being liberated from the storm drain . . . to restoking my outrage at the puppy mill owners, whom I’d heard confirmed in newscasts as Patsy and Bradley Shaheen.
Their pictures showed up often on the news. I was surprised they looked vaguely familiar, though I hadn’t gotten close enough to see them well at the puppy mill. They did, indeed, live upstairs from the ghastly holding cells. Their apartment must somehow have been noise proofed—and smell proofed.
Their hearts had to be compassion proof.
I also thought a lot about Efram Kiley. Our failure with him. He clearly hadn’t learned not to abuse animals. But I didn’t blame myself. I’d known what sort of lowlife he was originally. Was he capable of rehabilitation?
Apparently not.
I finally had enough of admiring myself on YouTube, at least for the moment. Although I did look pretty good there, for an aging broad. Not that anyone but family would be watching me. All eyes would be on that sweet puppy in my arms.
I took a quick peek at a Web site of the unofficial network of pet rescue administrators that I belong to, Southern California Rescuers. On a discussion group linked to it, we all share news of upcoming events, animals that need quick rescue—especially if we can’t get there fast enough or haven’t the room to bring them in—and other information that we thought our counterparts might find interesting.
I wasn’t enamored of the methods used by some of the other shelters in the network to care for or rehome their wards, but I kept my opinions to myself, in the interest of sharing useful information. So far, none who’d joined seemed to be abusing any of their residents, or my stance could change.
Nothing of interest there. No one had mentioned the puppy mill rescue, nor should they. No private shelter was officially involved.
I clicked back to my computer desktop and pushed away, observing the stack of files I needed to review. They sat on the right side of my antique-style wooden desk. I’d found the ornate, L-shaped desk used around the time I’d helped Dante to open HotRescues. He’d been willing to buy me a new one or a real antique. But I hadn’t thought either necessary. I had engaged my multitalented, strong hands to refinish this one and liked it a lot. It was large, with ringlike, drooping drawer handles that looked like aged pewter.
The desk occupied one side of my fairly large office—which had been designed and mostly furnished by Dante, not me, as the administrator’s hangout. The other side was basically a conversation area that I used for private meetings. It contained a really attractive sofa with brown, leathery upholstery, beige pillows, and curved wood legs. A little pretentious, but I liked it. I appreciated even more the wooden bookshelf that also had a role as a file cabinet. And I especially liked the window view of part of the shelter area, although right now the shades were drawn.
The files on my desk were labeled with names of our most recent adoptees. HotRescues was savvy enough to keep computerized track of all residents, but being medium tech instead of high, I also kept paper files for information not scanned or typed directly onto the computer. We maintained as many details as
we could on each animal, including everything placed on the data sheet posted near their enclosures and more. The files I stored in my office were devoted to our residents waiting for someone to take them home—paperwork I kept readily available to make copies for potential adopters.
Right now, I had to go through folders on animals we’d placed recently. I’d soon organize their files in a storage room, but I always liked to chuck out unnecessary papers first. We always maintained some things, though, like special notes from volunteers who took pets for walks or played with them. And data about their spaying or neutering, since no animal left here unfixed, if they weren’t already, unless they were too young—and in those cases, we insisted that they be brought back so we could make sure it was done. That way, they’d never have offspring who could become similarly homeless.
We also kept data on who turned noses up at a meal, or expressed rage by attacking another dog, or had any other behavior or health issue. And . . . well, I actually didn’t recycle much.
I hadn’t a lot of time to sort through files now anyway. A pet owner was supposed to come in to talk to us about relinquishing her dog. Maybe. It was the same woman who’d called a few days ago. She hadn’t kept an appointment yet.
Which might be a good sign. Perhaps she wouldn’t abandon her dog here after all.
I glanced at the clock—a modern digital gadget that didn’t go with my desk’s antique look. It was nine thirty A.M. The woman had said she would show up at ten o’clock. I decided to take the opportunity to walk through the shelter area again.
“Be back in a few,” I told Nina as I passed through the entry. She was once again staffing the welcome area. The volunteer who had promised to sit there this morning had phoned in sick.
“Say hi to everyone for me,” she called.
Outside, dogs started barking the minute I appeared, as always—even though I discouraged it. I began to stroll down the path with habitats on both sides. At each enclosure, I stopped to say hi to its resident, smiling and putting my hand through for a pet as long as that pup wasn’t barking. “How are you, Elmer?” I crooned to the Lab. “You’re looking adorable today, Honey,” I told the Westie mix.
Beaglemania Page 3
