I admit it. I was one of those people. You know, the ones who judged and didn’t understand. I didn’t only judge, I had a whole comedy roast routine in my head about those people. You know, the other ones.
The ones who bravely stroll into cafes with their sudsy drooling companions and sit down next to you while you try to drink your extra frothy latte. The ones who watch in glee as their tail wagging terrorist jumps into your lap and makes out with you without permission. The ones who throw death threatening looks at you for covertly redirecting their ill-mannered furry children from putting their dirty paws on your clean white linen slacks.
Yes, those people. Dog People.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore the furry little dingle berry jinglers and I have had a few in my childhood. Unfortunately, my developmental pet owning years were scarred by my Animal Indian Giver mother. When she felt we were not up to the challenge of doing all the dirty work, we’d come home from school and they’d be gone - without a trace.
“Well, you didn’t take care of it.”
I mean, we were only children. We barely wiped our own butts let alone to clean up a dog’s poop. Heartbroken, I probably developed an aversion to pets to avoid the fear and pain of separation. Mom, you scarred me!
My longest relationship with a canine was with my grandparent’s dog, Coa Coa. I spent most of my time at my grandparent’s home so Coa Coa was my responsibility. He was a cream colored Toy Poodle and was one of the most intelligent dogs I had ever met. He was my alarm clock long before Siri. He knew everyone in the house by name and even the names they’d be called while arguing across the table.
If he could talk, we’d probably have had deep conversations about the meaning of life.
That was my Coa Coa and our bond was unbreakable until one evening... Coa Coa asked to go outside and he never came back. He was abducted. Stolen. On the back of a box of Kibbles and Bits. I was devastated. I searched everywhere. Investigated everyone. He was never found.
Coa Coa was my last dog and I NEVER wanted another. Bark Humbug.
Fast forward, I am now a transplant to the city of Los Your Mindgeles, CA. Here, dogs rule. Dogs have more rights than people. It’s like the Planet of the Apes but instead the humans are slaves to dogs. There is a multi-million dollar industry catered to dogs. They have fancy hotels and high end boutiques with clothes and accessories worth more than my whole tacky wardrobe. People build replica mansions for their dogs here.
If a dog ran for governor in California it would likely win.
Where I’m from our dogs had a place in the family and that wasn’t in our beds, in our plates, and rarely in the house. They ate crappy dog food and scraps, slept outside on the back porch, got whacked with rolled up newspaper, and were groomed once in a nappy moon. That was typical of a dog owner in the “Old World.” So the CCC ― the Cult of Canine of California was definitely a culture shock to me.
I refused to accept this California dog life as “normal.” It was just bizarre. These dogs were living better than most humans. So I became even more dog cynical.
Years later my spouse began hinting that he wanted a dog. I thought to myself, “Oh hell to the no!” Who does he think is about to train that pissy, crappy, barking little thing? I already know how this is gonna pan out. You want the dog and I do all the work. Besides, we travelled constantly and would have the added headache of having to find a sitter, a kennel, or worst - booking a fancy dog hotel and find ourselves surrounded by the Cult of Canine of CA.
Needless to say, I refused. I refused for years.
Then in 2014 we were hired as producers of the first annual World Dog Awards on the CW with host, George Lopez. Now listen, I was happy to book the gig but I honestly thought to myself, “I’ve been producing television for years now and I’ve been pitching my own shows - brilliant shows - and this is what someone bought?! Awards for dogs?!”
I swear this dog cult in Hollywood is more pervasive than all of Scientology.
Suddenly, I was immersed in dogs and I traveled the country to meet some amazing dogs with amazing stories. I met rescue dogs who survived unimaginable cruelties, dogs who saved lives, dogs who were comical, athletic dogs, dogs who modeled men’s fashion, incredible dogs doing undogly things. With each dog I would encounter, my shrunken heart would grow.
I began to relearn the appreciation and love for dogs.
Now don’t get too happy ― I still thought the Cult of Canine were just waiting to get me to lap the meat flavored Kool Aid, but I can say I became less judgmental.
Well not soon after I caught the case of the furry fuzzies I decided that for my wedding anniversary I would surprise my spouse with ― not a dog ― but an agreement to allow one in the home based on a contract with one overarching clause.
1. I am not taking care of it AT ALL!
So at the bottom of the box of his wedding gift, I placed a yellow rubber bone.
After researching breeds, sizes, and temperaments best fit for apartment living, he found a lady on a Petfinder.com who was selling a litter of Yorkshire Terrier puppies. I know what you’re thinking, “why didn’t you just rescue a dog?” There are plenty dogs who need homes. Yadda Yadda Yadda. Just finish reading my story, OK?!
We took too long to respond to the ad and she sold all the puppies. We then decided to search the shelters online. Unfortunately, puppies are in high demand and we had no luck scoring one. That’s when the lady from Petfinder called us back.
This time she said her sister-in-law had a litter of Tea Cup Morkies (Maltese & Yorkshire Terrier mix) and she was looking to sell them as well. We asked for photos and from the photo alone I think my dead heart actually beat. She only had two left; a boy and a girl. We confirmed that we were interested and would like to meet the puppies in person first. I mean, we aren’t complete idiots to trust a stranger online and a few texted pictures.
We would learn that we were more idiotic than we thought.
She asked if we could meet at a gas station instead of her house and to bring cash only. Red alert! Why would we meet at a random gas station?! Cash only?! What is this a drug deal? A stick-up? This was not sounding very legitimate at all. She explained that because she was a woman she didn’t want strangers coming to her home. OK. That sounds reasonable. We could have very well had been some creepers from the internet and this could have easily become a case on The First 48. So we agreed.
Nonetheless, my south-side of Chicagoness is always alert and being that she only expected one of us, I would hold the cash and stay in the car until I felt this was a safe exchange.
We drove to West Los Angeles to a gas station behind the Westfield Mall. I directed my husband to park away from her vehicle and near the most populated section of the gas station because I’m not about to get gotten.
“Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
We arrived and saw the car. It was a muscle car with tinted black windows like one you’d see on an episode of Gangland with bullet holes. Then suddenly she got out of the passenger’s side of the car.
She was a very attractive white woman in her late twenties or early thirties. I remember she was wearing flip flops, tight jeans, a tank top, and she had tattoos on her neck. She was certainly not a Valley Girl, more like she had stepped out of an episode of Breaking Bad.
Hmmmmmm… not quite the girl I expected.
My husband walked over to greet her. I stayed behind and watched with my cell phone ready to record. Then she went into the back seat of her car. Slowly I braced myself and held my breath - getting ready for some action. Then she returned with… two of the cutest little palm sized puppies I had ever seen - melt your heart cute.
That’s when I decided to let my undercover Bourne Identity presence be known.
The puppies were Yin and Yang. The boy was white with tan markings and the girl was tan with white markings. At that moment all my doubts and fears vanished. When she let me hold them it was all over for me. I became a love struck momma. For some odd reason the boy took to me immediately and I remember someone saying to, “look for the dog that is drawn to you.” Well, he was it. It was love at first sight.
We really wished we could take both puppies but we had only come with enough cash for one.
Then the woman produced a folded piece of paper from her pocket; a veterinarian receipt with a list of vaccinations. However, It looked like a patchwork Xerox copy. A forgery and not even a good one. Clearly she didn’t know about Photoshop. I knew that these vaccinations didn’t belong to this puppy. I noticed that there was no phone number or address on the letterhead. What veterinarian doesn’t list their contact information on their receipts or letterheads?
I then Googled them and found that they did in fact exist. I called the number to confirm the shots but only reached their voice mail. They were closed for the weekend. She was lucky.
Still not feeling too trustful of the seller I covertly snapped pictures of her license plate. Even with all of my misgivings, the puppy in my hand seemed right at home. At that moment I couldn’t imagine giving him back to her. So we paid the lady in cash and parted ways.
I knew that something was fishy but whatever it was we’d cross that bridge when we got to it.
He was so tiny, barely larger than my hand. I held him in the passenger seat afraid that I could hurt him. We rushed to the nearest Pet Store in Culver City to buy food, a bed, a crate, toys, and… Oh no! It was beginning. Like a small cough, a tickle in the throat, a sniffle.
I was becoming the dreaded... Dog Person!
This could not be happening to me? This little ball of fur had contaminated me and the disease was spreading fast. We arrived at the coolest Pet Store ever. It was clearly an authorized dealer for the Cult of Canine. The moment we walked through the door the legions of the dog cult descended upon me, gushing with fuzzy glee over the sleeping ball of fur in my hand.
“Oh my God! Look at him.”
Luckily for us the store had animal experts and vets on the premises. One of the cashiers rushed to get the vet to share in the miracle of Puppy Jesus in the manger of my hand. The vet seemed like she was witnessing the second coming and oddly I began feeling a little proud. He was mine. All mine.
Wait! He’s supposed to be my husbands and I am breaching the contract. Get yourself together Quincy. Get it together!
The vet asked if she could hold our puppy. Reluctantly, fighting some weird possessive parental instinct I didn’t know I had, I handed him over. She looked at him and asked, “How old is he?”
We replied, “8 weeks.” She looked at us, puzzled.
“No. There’s no way he’s 8 weeks.”
We replied, “No. He’s 8 weeks. He’s a just a tea-cup.”
The look on her face was one of pity. She pitied these two fools. Then she opened the pup’s mouth and said, “No. See. He has no teeth. He’s no more than 2 weeks old. He should not have been taken away from his mother.”
“What do you mean he’s only 2 weeks old?!”
We had been duped. Bamboozled. He was not an eight week old anything. He couldn’t eat solid foods because he was still breast feeding. He didn’t have any shots because he was an infant! We immediately called the seller’s cell phone. DISCONNECTED. She was a puppy mill con-artist.
My instincts were correct all along but our better judgment had been blindsided by the cuteness of a living cotton ball. Now what are we to do?
We are now responsible for a fragile little life with no immune system, who can’t even chew food.
The next two months we found ourselves new parents of an infant, waking up every three hours to make a bottle. Talk about Sleepless in Seattle. We were Zombies. I have never been so foggy in my life. Eat, poop, and sleep, became our routine.
Well I’m happy to say that he grew into a healthy, buoyant, and nippy little pup. What I didn’t realize is how this creature would completely change our lives. The joys and pains of watching our little fur child grow formed a bond I didn’t know I was capable of ever having again. See, in the end we did rescue him from a puppy mill - with hard cash. We regret that we didn’t rescue his sister too.
We named him Frap Pacino because he looked like the whipped cream on a Starbucks Frappucino and also because one of our favorite actors is Al Pacino.
Frap Pacino turned one year old a few months ago and I have become one of those people. Ya know, the ones who pull out their phones to show you photos of their dog instead of their children. One of those excited about doggy dates but not human ones. One of those that turn their nose up at dog foods with grains, filler, and artificial colorings while I eat McDonalds.
One who simply can’t imagine how life would be without him.
I was conned in the best way. This old dog was taught new tricks and I am now a proud card carrying member of the Cult of Canine of California.
Now ain’t that a bitch?
