This wasn’t quite the northernmost part of the vast city of Los Angeles, but it came close. It definitely wasn’t far from Pacoima, where Efram lived, and also where the puppy mill was located. And where my mind remained, at least for now.

How could Efram? How could anyone?

I entered the main building through the side door, right into the back of the cheerful room where we greeted visitors. Bright lemon yellow walls displayed photos of happy pets with their new adoptive humans. In fact, most of HotRescues was designed with happiness in mind—for the sweet animals waiting for their perfect forever homes, and even more for potential adopters, to put them in the right frame of mind for picturing themselves bringing home a new addition to their families.

The most eye-catching piece of furniture in the welcoming room was a waist-high reception counter of leopard print veneer—a new addition, after Dante sent a friend, CEO of a renowned furniture company, here to adopt a dog. This was how he’d shown his appreciation, including a full redecoration of this room.

Nina Guzman, in charge that morning in my absence, sat at a table behind the counter, answering phones and working on a laptop computer. Walking in from the side entrance, I saw that Nina was online, scanning a Web site that described local animals available for adoption at a high-kill facility run by a neighboring city. One of our favorite sites . . . not. But we visited that shelter often, bringing back as many dogs and cats as we could to ensure their continued longevity. And, hopefully, quick adoption.

I was glad Nina staffed the welcome room that morning. She was one of the few people I wanted to talk to just then.

“Trawling for new residents?” I asked before she noticed me.

“Lauren!” She stood immediately and rushed to where I stood near the door. “Tell me what happened. Was it really a puppy mill? Was Efram there?”

“Yes to both, as if you didn’t know.”

Nina was taller than me, a bit more curvy, and over a decade younger. I could have been jealous of even one of those features, and all three, blended together, might have made a less tolerant person in charge want to fire her perfect butt right out of there.

Not me. I really liked Nina. She was conscientious and energetic, and one of the most pet-oriented people I’d ever met. On top of everything else she did, she helped to coordinate our volunteers. Plus, our divorces gave us something in common. But as much as I now despised my ex, he was only a fraction as appalling as Nina’s. She’d been divorced now for about eighteen months—and had a restraining order against the jerk who’d abused her before she’d finally gotten the nerve to walk out.

“Okay, I want to hear all about it.” Nina headed back to the table, where she pulled out another chair in invitation for me to join her.

I complied and sat, but still asked, “Anything I need to know about or work on first?” I doubted it. If something had come in that required an executive decision, Nina, my assistant administrator, would have gotten it started, and if whatever it was demanded my immediate input, she’d have contacted me.

“I took a call from a woman who said she was bringing her dog in later. She lost her job and can’t take care of it anymore.” Nina, seated again behind the computer, grew silent. We stared at each other. Nina’s brown hair was shoulder length, and bangs framed her waiflike, large eyes. Her skin was taut and pale, with worry lines creasing her forehead—hinting of the angst she had once faced every day of her life.

“Did she seem for real?” I finally asked.

“Who knows?”

As a private facility, HotRescues was not permitted by its LA Department of Animal Services permit to take in stray pets off the street. If anyone brought in an animal they’d found, we had to turn it over to LA Animal Services, at least temporarily. Of course, our turnovers always came with a strongly worded request—demand, really—that if no one adopted the pet within a reasonable period of time, they were to let us know. We’d take it back.

Assuming custody of endangered pets from high-kill shelters was another story. That was how a large percentage of our wards came under our protection. We always attempted to take in animals that were suitable for adoption, and avoided those with aggressive tendencies unless we were certain we could resolve them with training.

We were also permitted to take in owner relinquishments—animals whose owners couldn’t keep them any longer, for whatever reason.

And when the reason was combined with sorrow—which wasn’t always the case—those situations became difficult not only for the person bringing in his or her baby for placement in another home, but also for us. Especially when we had to turn animals away for lack of room.

Fortunately, HotRescues wasn’t just any shelter. It had been founded by Dante DeFrancisco, the same guy who’d paid for the settlement with Efram. Dante was a wealthy business mogul who’d gotten rich selling pet supplies at the huge HotPets network of stores. He still provided most of the funds for HotRescues, a nonprofit corporation, and remained on the board of directors. Where situations could be resolved by throwing money at them, he could usually be counted on to help.

I already had to let Dante know about Efram. If the woman brought in her pet, I’d mention that to Dante, too.

Of course she could just be one of the numerous, unfathomable people who shed crocodile tears about how sad they were to give up their pets but were utterly relieved to get rid of them.

“We’ll see how that goes.” I proceeded to tell Nina about the rescue of the dogs from that hell-inspired puppy mill. “How could anyone throw those adorable, tiny beaglets down a storm drain?” I spat. “Let alone Efram. After all we taught him here.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“No, but he didn’t exactly deny it.”

“What a horrible excuse for a human being.”

“Absolutely. But . . . he’ll pay.” My ire had risen enough to make it hard for me to talk. Nina obviously noticed, since she went into the small kitchen near the entry and brought me a cup from the coffeemaker we kept in there. I took a sip of the hot, strong brew as visions swirled through my mind all over again of those poor, frightened, abused dogs.

“I’ll check on the rescued doggies later,” she assured me. “I’m scheduled to volunteer this evening at the East Valley Care Center. They’ll probably be taken there. If not, I’ll find out where they are. Did all the parents look like they’d be okay?”

Typically, in puppy mills, adult male and female purebred or designer dogs were bred over and over again, procreating as fast as nature allowed, until they could no longer reproduce, and then they were adopted out, too.

Or kicked out on the street.

Or, much too often, they were in such bad shape that they had to be euthanized if taken to a vet or a shelter.

“As far as I could tell,” I said. “I didn’t see them all. I was distracted by Efram and the little beagle he handed me while I was inside, so I’m not even sure what other breeds were there. All relatively small ones, though. I saw Yorkies and cockapoos and maybe some Boston terriers, but there could have been others, too.”

“I’ll find out.” Nina’s connections had told her about the rescue in the first place. She spent even more time than I did, if that was possible, helping to care for animals. I was affiliated with only HotRescues, but she also devoted her off hours to volunteering at city shelters. She made a lot of helpful associations that way. And she’d made it known that anyone who heard of a situation where animals were being rescued, and might ultimately need someplace to go if not adopted quickly, was to tell her. She, in turn, told me.

“I know you will,” I responded with a laugh.

“So . . . I’m a little jealous,” Nina said. “You got to see SmART in action. I haven’t been able to do that yet.”

“Even with all the people you know?” I was surprised.

“Well . . . it’s partly my own fault. It’s bad enough to understand what they’re up to—SmART, D.A.R.T., and the Animal Cruelty Task Force. But bringing myself to go see the endangered animals before they’ve been rescued . . .”

I got it. As kindhearted as she was, Nina had gone through her own version of hell and didn’t need to see other creatures, human or not, in that kind of peril.

I decided to nudge the subject a bit. “You know, the whole time I was there I didn’t even think to ask who the puppy mill owners were, though I think I saw them. I was just so upset that Efram was aiding and abetting . . . Did you happen to hear more about them?”

I wouldn’t really have a hard time finding out. By the time I’d left, media vans besieged the area, with their little satellite dishes reaching way up into the ether to send whatever sensational pseudo-news stories they could to their media home planets. Between them and the vultures in the helicopters, they would either know whose property it was, or they’d find out.

“I think their name is Shaheen,” Nina said. “Patsy and Bradley, or something like that.”

I wondered how Efram knew them. Not that it mattered. He was there that day. The place was a puppy mill. He hadn’t ratted on them but instead had seemed to know the place.

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 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.