The More the Terrier

by Linda O. Johnston

  I said hi to our volunteers who were walking some of our dogs—and cleaning their enclosures. I also posted a notice on the Southern California Rescuers Web site. There, I let the administrators of other private shelters who monitored it know that, if they could get away quickly enough, we had an invitation to visit some animals who’d been the subject of the hoarding. I explained that it was too early to pick any up to take back to our shelters, but I was hopeful that the day would come soon.

  I doubted many rescuers would see the post, and even fewer would be able to make it on such short notice.

  Eventually, I got in my Venza, once again leaving Zoey behind, since she wouldn’t be welcome at a city shelter.

  Besides, I planned to stop at Gavin Mamo’s animal training facility later, to meet with him as scheduled during our phone call the previous week.

  I called Matt on my hands-free system while on my way. He was already there.

  I parked in the lot, which was more crowded than usual. This care center was not open to the public, due to lack of funding, but Animal Services people worked here and took care of animals that were housed in this shelter for reasons such as being evidence in possible animal cruelty prosecutions.

  I walked up the path, glancing up at the poles holding pictures of dogs and cats. The building wasn’t open, and I noticed some familiar people on the patio, including friends who also ran private shelters. They hurried over to me.

  My notice posted on the Web site had had more reach than I’d anticipated, a potentially good thing. In the event the official shelter didn’t have room for all the rescued animals, the more private facilities interested in taking some in, the more that could be saved.

  “Hi,” I said to Kathy Georgio, the first to reach my side.

  “This is so great, Lauren!” Kathy was a fiftyish lady who had a pudgy face bisected by a huge smile. I had seen her last at the meeting about hoarders that Bethany had held. Today, she wore jeans that were too tight on her zaftig body, and a T-shirt that seemed an equally bad fit. But her looks weren’t important. How she treated her charges was, and from all I’d gathered, she was one of the better rescuers in the area—besides me, of course.

  Another Southern California Rescuers regular was there as well. Ilona Graye, whose rescue organization mostly placed animals with fosterers, had come, too. She was a youthful secretary at a small Valley law firm that specialized in entertainment law, so she occasionally got celebs to take in pets she had saved.

  I noticed then that some of the people I’d met at Bethany Urber’s hoarding seminar were there, too—a group of six people, including Cricket and Darya. Interesting, that they were at least lurkers on the Southern California Rescuers Web site. But I’d learned that Bethany had been, too. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think she had encouraged the members of the Pet Shelters Together to follow her lead.

  As I said hi to them, I noticed Matt inside the building, dressed in his Animal Services uniform. He opened the door. “Ready to visit some formerly hoarded rescuees?” he asked.

  “Absolutely!” I smiled at him warmly, then said to the rest, “This is Captain Matt Kingston of L.A. Animal Services. He’s the head of SmART, D.A.R.T, and Emergency Preparedness.” I didn’t think I needed to translate to this group of pet rescuers that SmART stood for Small Animal Rescue Team and D.A.R.T. was short for Department Air Rescue Team. “Even more important right now, he’s supportive of our private facilities’ ability to take in any of the hoarded animals that Animal Services can’t care for.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd, eliciting a sweetly bashful grin from the subject of their applause. Matt wasn’t the kind of guy I’d consider to be shy—not with all his muscles and his no-nonsense leadership skills. I thought his reaction was pretty adorable.

  He led us inside the shelter area of the center. “The cats are inside,” Matt said, “and most of these dogs came from that Beach Rescue facility.”

  All the pups clamored for well-deserved attention. At least here, the conditions weren’t as crowded as they’d been at the West L.A. center, since this was a nearly empty facility. Once we were given the go-ahead, the private shelter administrators, including me, should be able to save every one of these dogs.

  Once more, I thought I recognized some of them—a Great Dane mix, a couple of bulldogs, and—yes, that terrier mix had to be Herman, the dog Mamie had claimed was her own.

  “Whenever these animals are ready for private shelters to take them in, I’d like dibs on that one,” I told Matt, pointing at Herman. His dark brows rose in a quizzical expression. “I think he’s Mamie’s special pet,” I explained.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  My shelter administrator posse members seemed every bit as taken with the dogs here as I was, talking baby talk to them and reaching in to pat them.

  “How about the cats?” Kathy Georgio asked. She sometimes signed her e-mails and group posts as Kat, so I figured she was more partial to felines than canines. Matt soon took us to the area where cats were housed, and he pointed out the ones from Mamie’s.

  Again, all looked well.

  Matt’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the display. “Sorry, got to take this. I’ll be back shortly.”

  I decided I could use the opportunity to take the two women aside I was sure had known Bethany and ask a few helpful questions. “Would you mind coming with me for a minute?” I asked Cricket and Darya. “I’ve got some questions about Pet Shelters Together.” Not exactly, but I figured that would at least spark their attention.

  Leaving the other shelter administrators oohing and aahing over the kitties, I walked out of the feline neighborhood and into a canine area.

  “Are you interested in having HotRescues join Pet Shelters Together?” Cricket asked right away. “I’m in charge now that poor Bethany isn’t around, at least until the board of directors tells me otherwise . . . and I think they’ll want me to stay.”

  “You do have a lot of experience,” Darya confirmed. “I’ll bet you’ll do as good a job as Bethany. Maybe even better.”

  Cricket flushed slightly and bobbed her head so that her short, curly hair waved a little. “No one could be as good as Bethany,” she said modestly.

  “Of course,” Darya agreed. “But she was your mentor, wasn’t she? That’s what she used to say when I helped out by working around the office there now and then. She was so proud of you.”

  This could go off into a love-fest for Bethany instead of the direction I wanted to aim. “I’m sure you’ll both miss her,” I said. “The rest of the people at Better Than Any Pet Rescues and Pet Shelters Together—and the animals will, too. Everyone but . . . well, there’s no delicate way to say this. There’s a good possibility that Mamie will be arrested for killing Bethany, and maybe she did it. But I’d really love your opinions about anyone else who might have committed the crime, just so I can feel sure that the real guilty party is found. Like Bethany was your friend, Mamie is mine.” To some extent, at least. “If she did it, then that’s that. But if it isn’t her, who would you bet on?”

  They both stared at me as if I was nuts. Cricket was shorter than me and heavier, and her grayish eyes narrowed in disbelief. Darya was tall and thin, and looked as if she could blow away in a puff of doggy breath. Her brown eyes looked equally incredulous.

  “I’m sorry she’s your friend, Lauren,” Cricket said. “But she has to be guilty.”

  “That’s right,” Darya agreed.

  “Just humor me. If Mamie had been having drinks with the cops that night, or had another perfect alibi, who would you think might have had it in for Bethany?” I looked expectantly at Cricket first.

  “Well, she’d been married twice,” she said reluctantly. “She always talked about her exes like they’re dirt. She said they hated that they hadn’t had an opportunity to participate in all her wonderful success. But—”

  “Great!” I interrupted. “Anyone else?” I asked Darya. “Like, was Bethany married
now?”

  “No,” Darya said. “She has—had—a boyfriend. A really cute one. I’d seen him at a meeting of Pet Shelters Together. He’s younger than she was.”

  “And did they always get along?”

  “I’m not sure,” Darya said. “I only just joined Pet Shelters Together, and I didn’t know either Bethany or—what’s his name? Miguel, I think. Miguel Rohrig—very well.”

  I looked at Cricket. “You spent some time around Better Than Any Pet Rescues, I assume. Did you know Miguel? How were Bethany and he getting along?”

  She bit her narrow lips grimly. “She wanted him to spend more time helping out at the shelter. He’s an actor, and it wasn’t like he was busy with any movie or TV roles lately. But he’s a nice guy. He’d never have hurt Bethany.”

  Maybe not. But I now had three people I could look at as possible murder suspects.

  Chapter 13

  Matt returned soon and showed the whole group of us to the rest of the animals that had been at Mamie’s, including those I’d visited before at the West L.A. center. As he’d said, all appeared to be well, and most seemed to be thriving. Plus, fortunately, none of them seemed especially aggressive.

  Unlike many hoarding situations, this one had the potential for a happy ending for all the rescued pets. I’d told the group, though, that I knew there were legal issues to be worked out before these critters became available for adoption, and Matt had seconded that—but neither of us had given any specifics. I wasn’t sure how long it would take for Mamie’s surrender to become effective, even if she didn’t change her mind.

  Eventually, we were ready to leave, a dozen or so pet rescuers all with thrilled smiles on our faces. A bunch of animals whose welfare concerned us all were definitely going to survive.

  “You’ll let me know, won’t you, Matt, when those of us with private shelters can pick up some of the animals that Animal Services can’t take care of any longer?” asked Cricket, standing beside him. “No need to euthanize any for lack of space. We’ll take them in and rehome them, once those pesky legal issues Lauren mentioned are worked out. I’m your best contact. I represent a lot of private shelters, since there are quite a few of us affiliated with Pet Shelters Together and I’m in charge now.”

  She was stepping on my toes as brutally as a rogue elephant.

  “Thanks, but I’ll let Lauren know,” Matt contradicted. Sweet man. “She’ll remain my primary contact. She can tell you how things progress, and then you can let shelter administrators in your system know. In fact, when the time comes, you should coordinate any pickups with Lauren first. No sense having too many people come here to take whatever animals are available to leave.”

  Cricket looked bent out of shape as she glanced toward me. Too bad. “Well, maybe Lauren will choose to have HotRescues join Pet Shelters Together.” Her tone suggested that her statement was a demand instead of a possibility.

  “Maybe,” I said, in attempt to be tactful—never my strong suit. But it wasn’t in the animals’, or Matt’s, best interests for Cricket and me to hash this out here. “In the meantime, it’s fine for you to call me, Matt.”

  “But—”

  “It’ll be okay, Cricket.” Darya’s voice brooked no contradiction as she opened the door and the other administrators started filing out. Darya glanced back at me with an unreadable expression, then she hurried after them.

  Cricket was the last to leave. “We’ll talk, Lauren,” she said in a tone that suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer—either about talking or getting HotRescues to join her rescue network. What had happened to the shy woman I’d thought I’d met before?

  “Of course we will,” I said sweetly. “I’ll let you know as soon as there are animals ready for rescue by Pet Rescues Together network members instead of independents like HotRescues.”

  “But—”

  “Have a minute, Lauren?” Matt said smoothly. He took my arm, and we both turned our backs on Cricket.

  “Thanks,” I said as we walked toward one of the care center offices. I enjoyed his answering grin as I smiled up at him. “That could have gotten nasty.”

  “I figured. Now, what’s the story with that dog you found this morning? The one who might be a stray—or may have been an owner relinquishment in partial disguise?”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a photocopy of the note that had been left. “Pete Engersol and I found the Doberman tethered in the HotRescues parking lot this morning. He looked healthy but sad, and this note was left with him.”

  Matt looked at the note and smiled. “It does say Shazam. Not that I doubted you.”

  “He responds to it, so I assume it really is his name.”

  “So whoever left him knew him. Maybe it really was an owner relinquishment.”

  “Will Animal Services give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  “Sure, if I have anything to say about it. But this is what—the third similar relinquishment of a dog in just a few weeks?”

  I nodded. “The first one didn’t have a note, though. I took him to the East Valley Shelter. He was adopted nearly immediately, or we’d have gone back to pick him up. But—”

  “But I’d suggest you figure out what’s going on as soon as possible.”

  “I agree.”

  He opened the shelter door for me. “You interested in joining me for a drink later?”

  “Sure,” I said, “if you’ll be in my area. I’m stopping on the way home to meet with that trainer you recommended, and I can tell you what I think about him then.”

  Gavin Mamo’s Alpha Training Center was on Melrose. It took me a little while to get there from the Valley.

  I parked at a meter along the street and gazed at the place. It looked like a store with a large glass picture window, and when I stared inside I saw a whole pack of dogs apparently undergoing a lesson on the shining wooden floor. Each was on a leash, with a human—probably an owner—attached.

  In the center was a large man in cut-off jeans and a loose T-shirt. He had a fringe of black hair around his head and a round, friendly face. He barked orders, not at the dogs but at the people. Mostly, they were told to encourage the dogs with goodies. When the pups were told to sit, they did—and then they got their treats. Same thing regarding, “Down.” Then “Stay.” And “Up.”

  This apparently wasn’t their first class. I was favorably impressed by the order I saw.

  I quietly walked inside. The work area was surrounded on three sides by seats, some of which were occupied by people watching the session. I sat on the nearest vacant chair.

  Soon, the guy in the middle told everyone to demonstrate the “Heel” command, one at a time. He pointed to a person at one end to start. That dog balked, remaining seated instead of following orders. Instead of luring him with treats, the woman holding his leash kept pulling and straining and getting more and more upset.

  “Okay, let’s stop,” the man in charge said. He walked over, took the leash. “Remember what I’ve said. Don’t acknowledge bad behavior. Encourage good.” He looked down so his eyes met the dog’s. He held out a treat. “Up,” he said. “Heel.” With no further ado, the dog, a golden retriever, obeyed. The good boy got his reward.

  The woman looked relieved as she smiled—until the man handed her the leash. “Now, do it again. And this time, show him you’re in charge . . . of his treats.”

  She issued the command while holding out a couple of goodies she extracted from a small bag. This time, the pup obeyed her, too.

  I was impressed. But I had also been interviewing other dog trainers recently to try to find the best fit as a parttimer at HotRescues. Was Gavin Mamo the one?

  Whoever we chose had to be smart and in charge, leader of the pack and alpha—yet feel compassion for our residents who’d gotten there for many reasons, including, sometimes, an owner’s foolish disregard for a dog’s size or power or drive to be pack leader. Those dogs needed to be shown, gently but firmly, who was really their boss—not ab
andoned forever. Even if it took a lot of treats to train them to change.

  Sometimes even the smartest, best-trained dogs required an extra helping of obedience to get chosen by the most appropriate new owner.

  HotRescues needed someone to ensure that our residents had the best possibilities of finding new homes. That included learning how to behave as people expected.

  When the class was over, I watched the human students thank Gavin, shaking his large hand, smiling at him. He seemed more relaxed and often smiled back.

  His being pack leader was no longer an issue, at least not for this training session.

  As the group poured out the door, he approached me. “You’re Ms. Vancouver?”

  “Lauren,” I said, nodding. I held out my hand, and felt his firm grasp as he shook it back. He was definitely a powerful guy. A good thing, I supposed, for training people to train their dogs—making it clear that he was in charge.

  “Please, come into my office.” He nodded toward a couple of open doors at the back of the training area.

  His office was small, but the walls were covered with plaques from various municipalities and organizations, recognizing his excellence in dog training. Apparently he’d even worked with some smaller police departments to help train their K9 operatives.

  He sat behind his compact desk with nothing littering the top. The chair where he waved me was one of two facing him, tall-backed wooden ones with no cushioning.

  “So,” he began. “Matt Kingston told you about me? He’s a good guy. Encourages the members of the teams that report to him, even helps in other ways.”

  A point in Gavin’s favor, since I liked Matt, too. A lot.

  “Yes, Matt recommended you highly,” I said. “I watched you teach your class, too. I like your attitude with the dogs and their owners.”

  “Much of what I do is appearances, Lauren. I can teach by example how owners need to behave around their pets if they really want them to learn to follow commands. Firmness, yes, and kindness and repetition, all encouraged by rewards. Basically, though? I’m cool.” He smiled, revealing shining white teeth behind the deep tone of his skin. “In case you were wondering how I’d do as one of your consultants. You hire me to do something, I do it—and I don’t give you a hard time. Unless, of course, you deserve it.”