One day, when he was playing in the yard belonging to the family of my girlfriend (at the time), he disappeared. Her other dogs remained but Moose was nowhere to be found. Panicked, we ran around her neighborhood (between Koreatown and Hancock Park in LA) scouring the streets and yards. Nothing. We put up signs offering a substantial reward (probably too substantial, in retrospect, but we were desperate and not thinking clearly).
The next day I got a call from a man who said they’d found our dog. I had just started to eagerly thank him when he interrupted me to coldly ask “So, can I get that reward money in cash?” In my excited relief, I’d forgotten about the reward and, more importantly, how substantial we’d made it. Red flags went off by how blunt and inconsiderate his tone was. I told him I could get half in cash and would he accept the rest in check form. “Uh… no, it’s gonna have to be all cash”, he responded. More red flags. I could’ve opened a whole red flag store, if that weren’t too niche a thing and not at-all sustainable from a business perspective. I agreed to get him cash and we set a time to meet up….
Before we made the reward-for-dog exchange with Moose’s temporary (and potentially shady) guardians, my girlfriend and I decided to consult with the police. We went to the station and met a hard-boiled, Ed Harris-type detective who took pity on us after seeing how distraught my girlfriend was (“I hate to see a pretty lady crying” I remember him saying). He agreed to accompany us to the exchange, just to make sure it went smoothly. I told him I didn’t know if I could get enough cash to deliver to Moose’s chaperone and he scoffed and said “Doesn’t matter, you don’t have to give them a goddamned penny” I tried to lighten the mood by suggesting the reward money would be too cumbersome if I delivered it all in pennies.
#container<At this point, any fleeting amount of respect he may have had for me was gone and he no longer felt it necessary to give even the occasional glance in my direction. We left the precinct and I called Moose’scustodian to confirm the meeting time and exact location (across the street from my girlfriend ‘5 parents house). My girlfriend thought it best if she waited in the house and that I did the exchange alone – whichmade sense, for a few reasons – mostly, because we didn’t want to behave in a way that scared this guyoff and I’ve always been extraordinarily non-threatening. As I made my way to the corner, I spotted the detective sitting on the front porch of the house across the street! He nodded to me, conspiratorially, as he pretended to casually read the newspaper. My pulse began to race a bit more and I hoped that he was just being overzealous to impress my girlfriend. I waited on that corner for about 20 minutes when a college aged boy and girl wearing black shirts cautiously approached me.
The guy asked if I was the dog’s owner, I confirmed that I was and when I asked why they didn’t havehim, they both gave very vague answers that amounted to what sounded like he was being heldnearby in a waiting car. “He’s close by” and “her cousin has him” and “yeah, my uncle has him”
‘ .Ieir answers and general restlessness confirmed my suspicions about their shitty intentions. I wastrying to remain calm. They put me on the phone with the girl’s “cousin” who supposedly had Moose.He was immediately hostile and insisted I show the cash to the two teenagers brokering the deal.
I took out the rolled up wad of cash (with the bigger bills on the outside so as to pass for the full amount).The boy nervously confirmed to the man on the phone that it was enough (thankfully he didn’t count it) and the girl was told to bring the cash to wherever this guy was and he’d give her the dog to bring back.Trying hard not to sound like I was losing my fiatience, I told him I’d give her the cash when I had my dog.
When the girl returned a few minutes later without moose but with his unmistakable hairs all over herblack shirt, she was out of breath and on the verge of crying – “he wants to make sure all the money’s there”.
I demanded the boy call back and insist he bring the dog immediately. My girlfriend must’ve seen thingsunraveling from the window of her parent’s home because she shot out the front door and beganmarching towards us. As I was on the phone, melodramatically requesting “Bato” show his faceand bring us our dog, the Ed Harrisish detective on the porch across the street had gotten up and calmljstarted walking towards the fracas. Relieved, I remember thinking “oh good, he’ll easily and quicklyresolve this nonsense”. He was steps away from us when I saw his face and realized what I’d read ascalm, peaceful reassurance, was actually steely, authoritative resolve.
“Thank you, offi—“ but he quickly cut me off – “Get the fuck back”, he barked. At the sametime, TWO other cops jumped out from somewhere (the bushes?) – one, wearing abullet proof vest, grabbed the college-aged gil (who was now shrieking), spun her around andput her in handcuffs. Ed Harris(h) did the sam to the boy and the third cop took off running inthe direction from which the girl had returned empty-handed and hairy-shirted. Ed Harrishtook the boy’s phone and redialed his last call.
We were a little too far from them to know exactly whatwas said but it looked like whoever was on the other enof the phone wasn’t reacting as submissively as I had t4the officer’s tough, authoritative energy
A few minutes later, the detective, looking defeated,angrily flipped the phone shut (it was 2004 or 05), ast’ie third cop trudged back empty handed. My heartsank and my poor girlfriend, sensing it hadn’t gone welstarted softly cursing. One cop took the college-agedkids away in a cruiser and the now-slightly-softer-boiled detective gave us a very odd and infuriatingspeech about how human life is more important than aranimal’s life and, at least, none of US were harmed.
I asked what we could do next and he said the casewould get transferred to another precinct (turns out thisarea wasn’t his jurisdiction) and it would take a few daysfor the paperwork to blah blah blah and in the meantime,chances are, “your dog will be long gone”. His guesswas that it would be driven to Mexico if it hadn’t alreadybeen, and he lowered his voice for this next part,
.ossed in the desert somewhere”. My girlfriend and Ireturned to our apartment in silence. I remember feelinga very strong but totally unfamiliar mixture of anger,sadness, and worst, helplessness…
I’m so sorry but I gotta give my thumb and eyeballs arest. I promise I’ll finish this story soon! And Mel 1- Bug +others, I’m weirdly flattered by your frustration D ’e‘
Moose was officially gone. Later that night, the twocollege kids who were supposed to return him had been booked and released from prisonand mygirlfriend and I forced a few bites of dinner down, still stunned by how quickly and thoroughly the supposed hand-off had unraveled. All we were left with was the distant hope that maybe one day a good Samaritan living in some remote corner of th California wilderness (perhaps theleader of an apocalyptic cult?) would call the number on Moose’s tags (if he was even stillwearing them). The detective had said it would take a few days to transfer the case from one jurisdictionto its proper one and I’d seen enough Cold Case shows to know how crucial those days were.
The only thing the cops had gotten out of the collegiate liaisons before their parents and lawyers came to bailthem out was that the man holding our dog in a nearby car (Bato} was not, in fact, their relative but their drug dealer – they’d apparent ly taken Moose from t he yard he’d been frolicking in and traded him to Bato for some weed and omet hing like 10 or 20 dollars (not accounting fn · inflation). Af ter they saw the reward signs in their neighborhood,they hatched a plan wit h Bato
Of course, none of this inf ormation was comforting at the time. But then it occurred to us t hat, at some point, the college guy had called Bato from myphone. I looked and, sure enough,there was a 213 number in the recently dialed calls!
Without hesitating, I redialed it. It rang a few times and then somebody picked up and said “”Que paso?”” Now,though I didn’t speak Spanish, Irecognized it as a greeting and responded with uh…que paso? In an attempt an ingratiating accent that was probably just offensive. Silence. “Bato?” I asked, almost completely dropping the offensive attempt at assimilation.Who’s this?” He demanded. Fair enough. I kind of resumed t he accent attempt, “Vo uh…you gotta give the dog back to those people, man”.Itried my best to sound friendly but firm and, like I said, vaguely regional.I’m sure I failed on all fronts because Bato launched into a tirade which included a lot of words you can’t say in PG-rated movies that basically amounted to a firm “no”.Then he hung up. My subsequent attempts to reach him went straight to his voicemail – on which, in the next few days, Ileft so manymessages – ranging from hostile and demanding tolling him some movies I’d been in and assuringhim I had money to pay a ransom and promising the cops were no longer involved.
My friends later teased me that, for a couple days, there was a guywho’d point to my little Moose and say to his friends “you ever seen Jeepers Creepers”? You know that dude in it who gets his eyes ripped out? Well that’s”his puppy””.
It stillmakes me laugh. Especially when we’dimagine his friends one-upping him with petsthey ‘d stolen – Oh yeah,well check this out …Jake Gyllenhaal’s ferret “”Speaking of great actors, my girlfriend,at t he time, had the same agent as Benicio Del Toro andconnected us witha guy who’d consulted Benicio in the movie “Traffic”.He was an ex-DEA agent who’d since become a private detective. Desperate for help,we called him and made arrangements to meet him at a restaurant in the valley. I’m also remembering him looking a lot like Ed Harris but much f riendlier than the first Ed
Harris detective who’d botched the handoff.He told us about his incredible history of drug busts, raids, takedowns,etc he’d been a part of in a casual off -handed way that made it sound unmistakably true. His confidence and resume was so comforting. Then he told us that he usually worked on much bigger,more high-stakes cases but he’d do us (and Benicio’s agent) a favor and find Moose.
My relief and joy was briefly interrupted when he told us his price – even his favor price “…”looks like Iwas definitely doing Herbie: Fully Loaded!
The next day when we met up wit the Second Ed Harris at another diner, he proved how good he was. He’d used the 213 number to somehow get all of this information: Bato had NOT gotten rid of Moose – in fact, he’d given him to his girlfiriend in an attempt to smooth things over after he’d (apparently) demanded she have an abortion.
The Pl knew where the girlfriend lived and told us he planned to simply approach her or her boyfriend and ask for the dog back. “But what if they refuse?” Iasked. And, as calmly as you’d explain what you’d eatenfor breakfast, he said “then I’ll show them this and he lif ted his suit jacket back revealing a handgun holstered to his side in a shoulder strap.
Trying to match his calm cool, I asked what kind of gun it was (like Iknew the difference between a glock and a super soaker!) -“It’s a Beretta he confirmed. I nodded to my girlfriend like “”yeah, that makes sense. That’ll do the trick and, I don’tremember, but she probably rolled her eyes.
The Pl then said his partner had gone to the shop that the college kid’s dad owned, in order to try and get more intel from the kid about Bato. He invited us to come but warned that it’d be best to not talk or get directly involved. We went to the store on Larchmont street where the kid, it turns out, wasrefusing to say anything.
At one point, her anger got the better of her and forgetting (or ignoring} he Pl’s instructions, my girlfriend got in the face ofthe frustratingly tight -lipped kid, demandinginformation. I took her aside and tried to calm her down.
While we were sitting on the curb in front of this strip mall of stores, my girlfriend crying and me trying, in vain,to comfort her, a feeble old bespectacled man walked out of the kid’s dad’s store and asked us what was wrong.
At that point, I’d been telling the story about Moose to anyone who’d listen so it just spilled out, rote and automatic. This little old Yoda-of -a-man told us his name was Deeno (“Dino?} and he was from the Philippines where he’d been a member of Ferdinand Marcos’s secret service. “People know me he kept reassuring us. He referenced a hospital bracelet he was wearing and told us he’d JUST checked himself out, against his doctors orders, because he didn’t want to die there and he’d rather live fewer days as a free man than hooked up to machines in ahospital.
He told us with even more calm than either Ed Harris had that he’d find our dog and that he wanted to do something nice for somebody, tomake amends for some of the things he’d done in his life. He added another “People know me” and asked me for the phone number I had for Bato.
As I’d already been giving it out like it was candy onHalloween, I didn’t hesitate. But, as riveting as his story was, Ididn’t believe a word of it. Dino meekly shuffled away and I went back to the business athand – consoling my barely consolable girlfriend•…
A couple days had passed since the second Ed Harrishad tried to squeeze information out of the, nowcompletely uncooperative, college kid. During thattime, the P.l. had become frustratingly unresponsivehimself. In an act of desperation (and stupidity), Idrove down Normandie Ave in South Central LosAngeles (near where we’d heard Bato had beendealing) and began to go door-to-door in an attemptto hand out fliers and find out any more informationabout where Moose might be. Most of the doors Iknocked on didn’t open or, if they did, they did soVERY slowly/suspi ously. One older woman, a sliverof her face exposed through a still chain-locked door,told me very bluntly that she’d never heard of anyonenamed “Bato”. As I was thanking her and sliding aflier to her through the cracked door, a voicebellowed from somewhere in the house, “Who’saskin’ for Bato?!?”.
She quickly shut the door, wisely not giving me anopportunity to explain, and I backed away from thehouse. As I did, I could see someone watching mefrom behind a curtain hanging in front of a window onthe second floor. Just as I noticed them, theydisappeared behind the curtain and I put a littlebounce in my step as I headed back to my 2005Toyota Prius (the same exact car I’m still driving 15years later). From behind me I could hear the soundof a door opening and footsteps approaching me.”Hey! Why you askin for Bato?!” I turned around andthe guy I’d seen in the window wasjogging towardsme. He studied my face as I explained mypredicament. Before I could finish doing so, heinterrupted to ask, his face scrunched in incredulity,if I was an actor. “I used to be before I became anamateur vigilante”, I should’ve clarified but ljust said”yes”.
Turns out, he really enjoyed the movie “Jeeperscreepers” and I’m so glad he did because he thengave me some fantastic advice. He had heard of Batoand knew him to be a local dealer BUT, he explained,nobody in the area is gonna give any informationabout a known dealer to someone who “looks like[me]” – that everybody will assume I’m a cop (unlessthey’re “Jeepers Creepers” fans… or, less likely,.ans of the short-lived early 2000’s NBC dramedy“Ed”). It hadn’t occurred to me that people who looklike me (and I don’t mean “boyish”) are almost neverseen in this neighborhood. The guy seemedsurprised that I hadn’t considered the danger ofdoing what I’d been doing for the last few hours andkindly suggested I leave. I thanked him and took hisadvise.
Later that night, my girlfriend and I were supposed toattend a screening of a movie we’d both been intogether but neither of us could muster enoughdesire to see friends or a movie or, really, anythingthat wasn’t our dog. We went, instead, to arestaurant adjacent to the farmer’s market offBeverly Blvd. This is apropos of nothing but I REALLVmiss the Iaksa soup and roti from Singapore’sZ‘anana Leaf in that farmers market – and the peoplewatching is GREAT (ugh, can’t wait for this vaccinel).ANVWAY, we were sitting at ANOTHER restaurant,both struggling to accept what was becoming clearerwith each passing hour: we had run out of options.Even the hot-shot Hollywood private detective hadfailed to make any real progress (he had been unableto track down exactly where Bato’s girlfriend, andalleged recipient of Moose, was living).
My phone buzzed. I only answered it because Ithought it was someone from the screening -someone whom I’d failed to let know we weren’tattending. “Hello?” I said. “Uh… hi… um…” it was awoman’s voice, nervous and shaky – “uh… are youthe owner of Moose?” My pulse immediately beganto race. She explained that there’d been a hugemisunderstanding and that her boyfriend had givenI‘er our dog but she had had no ide ‘t belonged tosomeone else. I was REALLY struggling to contain myexcitement and, as hard as this may be to believe, mygratitude. I remember feeling such overwhelmingwaves of excited relief and…yeah, gratitude – somuch so that I mentioned the reward money! “I canget cash! 500 dollars! It’s your’s!” There was apause, then; “oh… could it be maybe closer to whatit said on the reward sign?” I mouthed “Do you havecash?” to my girlfriend, who shook her head no.
I asked if $1,000 would be enough of a reward forher… kindness(?). She said it would and we agreed tomake the handof in the parking lot adjacent to theFarmers market In an hour. She described that she’dbe arriving in a white car, I thanked her profusely andhung up. Then I called my best friend @iontogo andasked him if he could bring me $500 in cash (as I’dexhausted my daily ATM limit). I hope I never have to‘ sk a friend to drive to the farmers market at 10 PMwith 500 dollars in cash… especially if it’s for aransom – But if I do, it’s comforting to know I’ve gotfriends like Jon who would do it, in a heartbeat -“ransom friends” you might call them. Jon playeddetective Ryan Wolfe on CSI: Miami so, includingfictl ous detectives, there had now been a total ofthree involved in Moose’s case – not bad for ascrappy little beagle/something mix.
Jon’s presence at that restaurant was alsocomforting because I knew if anything went awrywith the handoff, he wouldn’t be afraid to step inand… assist. A tough amateur boxer from workingclass Boston, Jon is the guy you want around ifthere’s any potential for fun, interestingconversation or violence. But then I decided, since Ihadn’t mentioned there’d be another person there, Ididn’t want anything to scare Bato or his missus by’ eviating at all from what we’d planned on thephone. I had also called the private detective, just tofill him in and let him know it looked like it would beresolved. But he insisted on being parked nearby, incase Bato showed up, knowing I had $1000 in cashon me. “We need to assume they’ll be armed – sosomebody near you should be too”, I remember himsaying. Gulp. I guess he didn’t become a decoratedmember of the DEA for his gentle bedside manner.
Though I hadn’t been sleeping much over the daysleading up to it, I remember feeling so hyper awakeand alert. While I stood in that, now nearly empty,parking lot, my head whipped towards everyapproaching white car, wondering if it was the onecontai ng little Moose. Ironically, Moose used to sitby the window reacting with similar nervous, head-whipping-excitement to cars passing by. Finally, onepulled in and stopped and a woman got out holding…« oose! He was panting and wagging his little nub ofa tail, without a single care in the world. We camerunning up to them and when Moose saw us he wentberserk. The woman put him down and let him jumpall over us. My girlfriend was beside herself with ioyand I threw my arms around the woman, hugging hertightly until just before it got uncomfortable. Sherepeated what she’d said to me on the phone andsaid he’d been a great dog for a few days. I think Imay have even thanked her for watching him.
I gladly gave her the envelope with the cash in it andshe gladly accepted it. I truly didn’t think twiceabout it. It felt like it was going to someone who bothneeded it and just did something REALLV nice -someone who MORE than deserved it. My girlfriendand I were both too happylrelieved to have Mooseback that we failed to really examine how and why,suddenly, Bato had such a dramatic change-of-heartFor anyone who was anxious about Moose’s fate, youcan relax. He was back. After several sleeplessnights, thousands of dollars, and two (and a half?)detectives. BUT the real hero to this saga will berevealed in the final THRILLING (or, maybe, it’sthrilling that it’s FINALLV ending?) installment of TheDognapping of Moose. Thanks for sticking with it!It’s been fun to reminisce about it.
This is a true story – apparently -originally posted on instagram by @justinlongJustin holds full intellectual trauma over this.