Crispin at 6 years old with his pal Aiden, 2

by Paley Frances ~

Even a year after my cross-country move to Vermont, I was still homesick for Los Angeles. I missed my friends, family and animal rescue compatriots. During one of my frequent visits back home, I was asked to speak at a protest against a Beverly Hills pet shop that sold dogs, allegedly acquired from puppy mills in Midwestern states. It was just a few weeks before the holiday gift-giving season, and the hope was to discourage the public from buying puppies, and to encourage adoptions from shelters or rescue groups.

I’d spoken in public on many occasions on a variety of animal welfare topics. The horrors of puppy mills always shocked the unsuspecting consumer and the graphic photos attracted the media. But before linking a business with such unsavory practices, I’d learned to do my research. The day before the planned event, I made the time to visit said pet shop. I knew the business had recently moved to its current location and I had a feeling it was owned by the same people who had a documented history of neglecting their “inventory” in other stores.

Half a dozen miserable little dogs

The moment I stepped through the doors, I knew I’d found the same business, operating under a new name. I recognized the sales women—stunning, tall blonds in heavy makeup, not a hair out of place, with multiple karats of diamonds on their fingers and around their necks. No one who sold collars, squeaky toys and the occasional over-priced, sickly, sad little puppy made that kind of money. It had always been assumed that the store was just a “front” of some sort—maybe for the Russian mafia.

Along the back wall was a bank of stacked plexiglass boxes housing roughly half a dozen miserable little dogs. They were mostly toy breeds, shivering on a cold December day, in their sterile enclosures, no blankets, bedding or even newspaper to cushion their boney bodies against the chill, They curled up as best they could in their solitary confinement, trying to warm themselves. I saw a rat terrier, an Italian Greyhound, a pug, several Chihuahuas and in the very last box, at the end of the top row, was a scrawny figure covered with tufts of silver and gold.

His warm brown eyes called me to him. As I peered into the fluorescent-lit box, this fuzzy little thing put his paw up on the front pane at just the moment I did the same. The energy flowed through us. Him to me and back from me to him. All of a sudden, getting this funny-looking puppy out of that pet store became a moral imperative. But how?

The heart overcame the mind

The card on his box said “Yorkshire terrier, 5 months old, male, $2,300” He didn’t look like any Yorkie I’d ever seen. At five months, he already outweighed a beefy adult Yorkie. And as for looking like a prime example of the breed, he clearly had a lot of something else’s DNA in his frail body.

Crispin was at my side for some of the most important moments in my life, including my wedding.

By now, I had forgotten my reason for visiting the pet shop. Protesting against stores selling animals seemed far less important than saving this one individual. (The heart overcame the mind.) So I had to think fast. I approached the highly polished granite desk that served a as checkout stand and inquired about the puppy.

“Of course you can buy him,” came the reply. “For $2,300. Cash or credit card. No personal checks.”

“Twenty-three hundred dollars?” I repeated. “A week before Christmas? He’s five months old already. How are you going to sell him? Can we talk about the price?”

“No negotiating,” she squawked back at me, her large gold hoop earrings swinging as she shook her head.

“Oh, but he looks just like my other Yorkie who is so old and will die soon,” I pleaded. “I’d give him the best home but that’s just too much money.” Then I walked back to the puppy in the box and bid him a loud farewell and gave him a secret wink.

“Well, you come back next week. If he’s still here, I’ll lower the price.”

“But I go back to Vermont in two days,” I replied. “And I’d have to have a veterinarian check him out before they would let him on a plane.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’m sorry, “ I said. “I guess you’ll have to find him another home.” And I made my way toward the door.

“Wait!” I heard. “Let us talk.” Her Russian accent became more apparent. “What will you give me for that dog?”

“I would take him for $1,200.”

“Fine, she harumphed. “But I need cash from you.”

“Cash? It’s after 5 o’clock on a weekday and my bank is is Vermont. I can only get $200 cash out at one time. Will you accept my American Express card?”

“Yes, but you take him now! I want to be done with you!”

My son Aiden at 10 months with Crispin

So I handed over my credit card. She processed the transaction. And I walked out the door with a 15-pound something-or-other, who was just about the cutest puppy I’d ever seen.

A mortal sin?

Now I had a puppy. In Los Angeles. Two thousand miles away from home. While staying at a friend’s house for two more days till I boarded the plane back.

I had just committed a mortal sin, as judged in animal rescue circles. I had bought a dog from a pet shop. The purists and militants wouldn’t care that I had technically rescued him from God knows what fate. I knew I would take a lot of flack for what I had just done. And I did.

Word spread quickly that I wouldn’t be speaking at that Saturday’s rally against the pet shop because now I was one of its customers and I had the furry evidence in my arms.

I had no choice but to get him his traveling papers, buy an airline-approved case (he was small enough to accompany me on the fight rather than flying in the cargo hold), upgrade to first class, and go home to introduce the puppy to the dozen other rescued dogs who waited patiently in Vermont for my return.

While en route from Los Angeles to Burlington, the puppy and I enjoyed a gourmet meal and he snuggled on my lap, well-hidden by a blanket and the sworn secrecy of the dog lover sitting next to us. By the time we touched down, we were bonded for life and I was also learning a bit more about my new baby. He was needy, insecure, feisty, very smart and knew how to get his way. He was a scrappy survivor. Only later did I learn that he had been born in a puppy mill in Arkansas, where many of those personality traits had served him well. The other, more questionable traits became more understandable.

Once home, my other dogs were thrilled that I brought them a puppy for Christmas! They mothered him and mentored him and pounced and played. But now I really needed to get to work. My plan was still incomplete. Yes, I had saved the puppy but I still needed to pay for him… or not.

Luckily, I had used my American Express card to purchase the pup, who by now was named Crispin. And true to that company’s word, “membership has its privileges.” So when I told the representative that I wanted to dispute the charge because a pet shop had fraudulently sold me a mixed-breed dog instead of the purebred I thought I was buying, she said, “Can you prove he’s not a Yorkshire Terrier?”

“I can try.”

Crispin with his best buddy Leonardo, summer 2003

So I set forth to prove that Crispin was not a Yorkie. Which was easy, considering he was only half grown and already bigger than any Yorkie I’d ever seen. My vet agreed and said so in a letter, as did the director of a Yorkshire terrier rescue group, who also just happened to be a judge in the terrier category of regional dog shows. According to the experts, I was the proud parent of a very cute mutt!

American Express was more than happy to reverse the charges.

Sometimes you lose a few friends along the way

My ever-critical rescue peers still would not forgive me or even speak to me, even though, in the end, I never a paid a penny to the pet shop. But I didn’t care. When you’re fulfilling a moral imperative, sometimes you lose a few friends along the way. Rescuers are a funny, fickle breed of folks anyway.

But puppy piddle and nibbled woodwork were not the only consequences of my latest rescue. A few days later, when I answered the phone, an irate foreigner was on the other end, screaming obscenities and threats.

“You stole that dog from me! Why you cancel American Express? You cheating, rotten *#%*&. You pay me right now or I send someone to your house! I know where you live!”

Aiden at 9 years, with Crispin, 13 years

I was genuinely surprised to hear from the pet shop in LA. I knew they didn’t care about the animals they sold. And if the store was really a front for the “Russian mafia” (not that it exists!), a few thousand dollars surely wouldn’t mean anything to them.

I considered explaining that Crispin was not really a Yorkshire terrier, thus justifying my actions, but I hung up instead, after telling her to call American Express. I had already fought my battle and won. I had saved the puppy. Corporate America could handle it from here. And as far as I know, they did. After a few more angry phone messages from the pet shop, it was all over.

Strong bonds

Crispin grew up to be a funny, quirky, spirited terrier mix of some sort. He stood his ground as the only small dog in the family, bullying pack members twice his size. He was a homebody and never really liked going places. Our five acres were enough for him. When my son was born, they forged a tentative, then a strong bond.

On November 1, 2014, Crispin was diagnosed with lymphoma after I noticed swollen glands in his throat. Steroids gave him a few good days, but not the weeks we hoped for. Ten days later, it was time to let him go. The cancer was too aggressive. I had hoped he’d be with us for one last Thanksgiving. But leaving us when he did, he missed a frigid storm that piled snow two feet deep on the deck and drifts even higher in the yard below. Cris was 13 years old and he had always hated snow.

Paley Frances was born and raised in Los Angeles, studying film history and journalism at the University of Southern California in downtown L.A., where she started rescuing stray dogs. After working in documentary television for several years, Paley founded a dog rescue and adoption organization, leaving The Industry behind and placing more than 500 dogs in the next 14 years. Now she lives on five acres in rural Vermont with her husband, son, two rescued dogs, Chadly and Callista, three rescued cats, Tessa, Tori and Tango and five fish, who shall remain nameless.

Editors’ note: It is with great pleasure that we publish this debut article by talented writer and longtime friend Paley Frances. We at Spicy Stories Save Lives are proud and grateful to have Paley’s fine work grace these pages. Welcome and three cheers, Paley! May this thought-provoking piece be the first of many.

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