Richard Roth, author of “The Kawaii Pups” is a visual artist and a writer. His debut novel, “NoLab,” was published in 2019 by Owl Canyon Press. He lives and works in Southern California.
Its neck was broken. The exposed flesh was iridescent. Roiling maggots were visible in what remained of its hindquarters. The tourist couple from Nebraska who’d reported it to the police were sickened, not so much by the gore, which they’d seen plenty of in their rural Midwestern childhoods, but because it was a puppy, front paws and head still intact—sad, hazel eyes and a gumdrop nose. Not exactly what they’d expected to see Christmas eve in Central Park.
They argued about reporting it, knew they’d seem ridiculous to New York cops who had serious things to deal with. They were surprised when Detective Molina showed up as promised, took their statement, and treated them with respect. After getting their contact information, Molina thanked them and said they could go; he’d stay and wait for the remains to be photographed and removed. It was getting dark. The couple left the park feeling good about what they’d done.
They argued about reporting it, knew they’d seem ridiculous to New York cops who had serious things to deal with.
Of course they didn’t know why their report was taken so seriously. Detective Molina didn’t share the fact that this wasn’t the first puppy found dead in the city this year. Animal deaths rarely involve the NYPD, but when a string of dead puppies came to the attention of Captain Fowler, a dog-lover and fierce animal rights advocate, Detective Molina was assigned the investigation.
The first was found dead by starvation in the Park Avenue divider, November 12th, 2015. One week later, the second was pulled from the Hudson River, as puffed up as the Snoopy balloon in the Macy’s Day parade. An emaciated pup was found wandering on the Upper Eastside; it was placed in an ACC shelter. November 6th, a jogger came across a carcass near Chelsea Piers. It appeared to have been buried, then pulled half out of the ground. Detective Molina had the photos pinned to his wall as if it were a serial child-murder case. It made a gruesome display.
After the malnourished Upper Eastside puppy had been examined and cleaned up, and after its weight returned to normal, Molina adopted it and took it home for his son, Hector, eight years old, and daughter, Rose, five. They named her Lucy. Scampering around the house with Hector’s sock in her mouth, she delighted the entire family. One evening, when Molina pulled Lucy out from under the sofa, she attempted a growl and did a little flip. Everyone laughed. The Molina’s loved Lucy.
Like any experienced detective, Molina had his sources. Isolated incidents concerning animal deaths weren’t likely to get reported, nevertheless he learned of similar puppy deaths and abandonments in Los Angeles, and to complicate matters, all the L. A. puppies, just as those on Molina’s New York list, were, without exception, estimated to be eight weeks old.
Molina attended to his normal caseload in Homicide; the puppy investigation was just an add-on, an add-on that Captain Fowler wanted resolved yesterday, a case that Molina was surprised he’d found so deeply disturbing. After his Thursday shift, Molina drove home, tired and hungry. There was the usual back-up at the Queensborough Bridge. When he walked through the front door, Lucy ran to greet him; the kids raced after her. Molina put his Glock 19 in the safe and went to the kitchen for a beer. He kissed his wife, Iris, on the cheek, looked toward the pot on the burner and said, “Something smells great.”
“You’ve got to make an appointment with the vet, hun, please.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We’ve had Lucy for two months, right?”
“Right.”
“You haven’t notice anything strange?”
“Strange?”
“She hasn’t grown a single inch.”
“Okay. That’s not normal?”
“No, That’s not normal.”
“Maybe she’s one of those miniature dogs.”
“Somethings wrong, trust me. My mother bred border collies, remember? And also, something other than carnitas smells in this house. I’m beginning to think this dog will never be housetrained. I’m getting tired of taking out the dirty newspaper.”
“Okay, I hear you. I’ll bring her to the vet. Put it out of your mind.” Molina sipped his beer and told the kids to take Lucy outside till dinner was ready.
Saturday morning, Molina put Lucy in a cardboard box and drove to the vet’s office. The waiting room smelled like urine and antiseptic cleanser. A heavy woman in polka dot overalls sat next to a carrier that held a cat. A bearded man tried to distract his Brittany as it pulled on the leash and squealed from anxiety.
Molina got home in time for lunch. Iris said, “How’d it go?”
“The vet said, Lucy appears to be healthy. Since her birthdate was unknown, he couldn’t say if she was underweight. He said to weigh her regularly and keep a journal. He also said, you are right, puppies her size should be growing and adding pounds weekly.”
After fingerprints and photos were taken, Molina put on nitrile gloves and gently tilted the head up off the floor, just enough to see that the dead woman was in her thirties. There were no signs of struggle, and no wounds. Molina figured it was an overdose or suicide but would have to wait for forensics to be certain. After the scene was fully documented and the victim was zipped into a body bag, Molina walked to his car; it was double-parked on East 87th. A group of youngish teens were gathered in a doorway, Dalton kids, thought Molina.
He walked close to see what the fuss was. He had to really lean in to get a view. It was nothing but a puppy getting a lot of attention. Two kids looked at Molina like, hey, dude, back off. Molina grinned. He was about to walk away when it dawned on him; the puppy looked like Lucy. He turned and got closer. It was uncanny. It was exactly like Lucy. Molina pivoted and said, “Whose puppy?” One kid said, “Who are you?” Molina took out his badge and said, “NYPD.” Two of the girls in the group walked away.
The aggressive kid said, “Is it illegal to own a puppy?” Molina saw the small boy holding the leash, and said, “What’s your name?” The boy hesitated. Molina said, “Relax. No one did anything wrong.” Molina obtained the name of the boy and the name, address, and phone number of the kid’s father. He took a photo of the Lucy lookalike and left.
When Molina arrived home, Rose yelled, “Daddy, Daddy, come see!” Lucy was getting a bath. Iris said, “I’m gonna dry her off before she shrivels up. She really likes the water.”
“Wait, let me take some pictures,” said Molina as he pulled his phone from his pocket. Lucy with suds on her head—snap! Lucy splashing—snap! Lucy chewing on a rubber duck—snap! Lucy in the big blue towel—snap!
Alan Short, the father of the kid with the Lucy lookalike, worked at Morgan Stanley. Two days after spotting the pup, Molina had enough free time to pay Mr. Short a visit. He seemed quite flustered, embarrassed to have a detective visit him at the office, but since his son told him about being questioned by a cop, he knew why Molina was there, something about the puppy. Molina came right out with it and asked Short where he got it.
“The puppy…yes, Fuzzer. Well, I bought her from a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Fisher—J. Fisher Ambrose.” Molina wrote the name in his pad, then added Mr. Ambrose’s contact information.
“How long have you had the dog?”
“Just a few weeks. What’s the problem?”
“Is your friend Fisher some kind of dog breeder?”
“No, no,” said Short, laughing, “He’s a fund manager.”
“So, why did he sell it?”
“I don’t really know, except…except for his fantastical claim, something I didn’t really pay much attention to…I mean…I assumed he meant it as some kind of metaphor…since it’s really impossible…what he said, you know. I figured he meant it was one of those designer dogs. Like a labradoodle, or something.” Molina didn’t respond. He knew when he waited long enough, people volunteered what he wanted to know.
Mr. Short said, “Fuzzer is a perpetual puppy, at least that’s what Fisher called her.”
“A perpetual puppy?”
“Yes, Fisher went on and on about it. Said it would stay a puppy forever. Never grow old. Said it cost him 10 K. He sold it to me for a grand. I certainly don’t expect she’ll remain a puppy, but what the hell; the kids love her.”
“A perpetual puppy, I imagine that would be quite the thing.”
“It would, if only it were possible.”
“Do you have any documentation? You know, from the sale.”
“No, sorry. Fisher requested cash.”
Between two homicides—one, a gruesome slashing, the other, an elderly man who either fell or was pushed in front of a northbound A train—Molina found time to talk to J. Fisher Ambrose. He waited in the glass conference room at Magnus & Ambrose Capital Management. It had a sweeping view of the Hudson. Sail boats, tugboats, ferries, and helicopters moved north and south as if in a time-lapse film. Molina had to smile when Ambrose entered; the man looked way too much like Gordon Gekko.
Ambrose insisted that the dog he’d sold to Mr. Short was, in fact, a so-called “perpetual puppy,” the product of a biotech startup he knew little about, except that it was a kind of stealth operation. “You could only get one…a puppy…if you knew someone, if you knew the right someone,” said Ambrose. “The more exclusive and difficult to obtain, the greater the desirability, the greater the value. You know how that works.” And yes, Ambrose confirmed he did pay ten thousand dollars for the dog, but the guy he got it from, a Facebook executive, said he paid ten times that. Ambrose got the puppy for his wife about a year ago. He sold it to Mr. Short when his wife got sick of it.
Molina soon learned that the perpetual puppy business had been going on for years. There’d been tweets and Instagram posts, rumors and jokes; Molina wondered how he’d never known. If only he’d been tuned in to social media.
Ambrose’s information was helpful, but in April, two credible whistle blowers came forward. The story made the news and Molina began to understand the magnitude of what he was up against. The Times reported, Martha Stewart had been the first. She plunked down a cool hundred grand for her pup. It wasn’t an easy purchase to arrange, more like an illicit adoption.
Based on research originating at Stanford University and Imperial College London, a group of post docs from the Molecular Genetics Research Lab at the University of Tokyo established a biotech startup, Kawaii Bio Bio (pronounced kuh why by-oh by-oh). KBB was originally housed in a former soba noodle factory in Tokyo’s now trendy Shimokitazawa neighborhood but relocated to the Zhangjiang Hi-Tech Park in Shanghai two years later. Thanks to an overflowing shipping container of venture capital and a charismatic CEO, KBB hit pay dirt after only five years in development.
The next revelation came when The Tribune published an article that described an early KBB event. A small, elite group of investors had gathered at an oceanside estate in Montecito, California. A dozen puppies frolicked on a stage. KBB’s CEO, Dr. Arnot And, wearing white jeans and a black Yohji Yamamoto military jacket, bowed to the audience, hands extended in prayer mode. He said, “Ohayo gozaimasu. Distinguished guests, thank you for coming to our little reception. Permit me to begin the morning with a simple request, ‘Please guess the age of these delightful puppies.’” Dr. And waited, then said, “Don’t be formal, please, just shout it out.”
The next revelation came when The Tribune published an article that described an early KBB event. A small, elite group of investors had gathered at an oceanside estate in Montecito, California.
A woman in the audience said, “Five weeks.” Someone else yelled, “Seven.”
Dr. And responded, “My dear friends, these puppies are two years old, an age way beyond puppyhood.”
The audience murmured. Many appeared doubtful, some laughed.
“I’m here today to announce a discovery that is at once a world altering scientific breakthrough and a dazzling work of conceptual art. Puppies that never age—perpetual puppies—have long been the impossible dream of dog lovers and aficionados. Breeders have succeeded in creating ever smaller and cuter dogs, so called designer dogs, but alas, they’re not the real deal; they’re not actual puppies and never will be.
There is nothing closer to God than a real-life puppy. After many years dreaming, and five years of intense research, Kawaii Bio Bio has developed a protocol allowing us to arrest the process of biological growth. We have succeeded in halting the development of our puppies, physiologically and neurologically, at precisely eight weeks of age. We are able to terminate growth and development at any age, but as you can see, eight-week pups simply melt hearts.
Eight weeks is the age of the iconic puppy. The Kawaii pups are exactly like any other delightful puppies, except for one thing, they will stay eight weeks old forever. Forever puppies. Perpetual puppies! They’ll stay cute and cuddly until they die.” He paused, looked skyward, and said, “Death, we’re still working on.” The audience stood and applauded enthusiastically.
In the Q & A session that followed, one gentleman asked, “Can you tell us how you’ve accomplished this; I mean the biological mechanics of it all?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” said Dr. And, laughing. “How we’ve done this little miracle is proprietary secret, as I’m sure you understand. We owe it all to our brilliant research team, and to God and CRISPR.” As the puppies frolicked, Dr. And said, “I expect you’re one step ahead regarding the implications of what we’ve done here; what we’ve accomplished goes far beyond the miracle of perpetual puppies. I’m sure you can imagine the sea-change that awaits us. We stand at the precipice of a world previously only dreamed of. We are one step away from an awesome power, the ability to halt the aging process in human beings, one step away from becoming the God we once worshipped.”
The fabulously wealthy—masters of the universe and mega celebrities—had fought fiercely for the first hundred Kawaii Pups. They became the sparkling ornaments of the moment. Obtaining a Kawaii Pup was not just about getting your hands on a rare bundle of eternal cuteness, not just about possessing an authentic miracle, as if an ordinary puppy weren’t miracle enough; it was the mark of your standing in the rarefied hierarchy of the one percent.
Kawaii puppy owners were members of a secret society. Eager buyers had offered more than the asking price. Some pups were flipped for crazy amounts of money, crazier than KBB’s already crazy asking price. Those first sales, along with investment capital, supplied all the seed money KBB required to scale up production, with the goal of lowering the price for a mass market. Cash flooded in, and all of it in under the radar, no advertising, no media coverage, no government regulation. Kawaii pups had been couriered to Qatar, Mumbai, Seoul, Paris, and Moscow. Bezos bought a dozen; handed them out as Christmas gifts.
Just one year after the first pups had been delivered, KBB was in trouble. Angry investors, disgruntled employees, and frustrated puppy owners were coming forward. Some owners began unloading pups by selling them to friends at greatly reduced prices. On Twitter, one early adopter said, “They’re not perpetual puppies, they’re perpetual shitting machines.” Ownership proved exhausting. Fathers screamed at their kids, “You begged your mother and me for this puppy, and now you don’t want to take care of her.” Kawaii pups weren’t sustainable. Some were sold, others abandoned.
That’s when they began showing up dead. Then new problems became apparent. There was something wrong with KBB pups, something seriously wrong. Chromosomal abnormalities were detected on karyotypes. At the actual age of 32 months, the Kawaii pups began to display neurological aberrations. Many became lame—rear legs buckled. Others developed seizures and behavioral issues.
Puppy owners, especially the early adopters, tried to sue KBB, but KBB could not be found. It remained artfully hidden within a network of dummy corporations. And as for the charismatic Dr. And, he was a black hole in the internet. Interpol came to believe he’d never really existed, that he was just an actor who showed up when needed.
One whistle blower reported that some at KBB thought there’d be a market for perpetual human babies, but everyone at KBB knew, the ultimate prize was the cessation of human aging. What would people pay to be twenty-five forever?
KBB hadn’t waited years monitoring the future health of a small control group of inoculated pups, and it refused to submit its stunning accomplishments to peer reviewed journals. No, this little venture was all about money, fast money—science and ethics be damned. Did it ever occur to them that chromosomal abnormalities might occur? Did they even care?
A ground-breaking scientific discovery was transformed into a vulgar novelty, and a vulgar novelty was transformed into an international Ponzi scheme.
Molina knew his job was done. Even if KBB could be found, the NYPD wouldn’t be bringing charges against it. The local puppy deaths were clearly not the work of some crazed puppy mutilator, as Molina first suspected, but the crimes of many individual owners, desperate acts that will never be unraveled. KBB was far more sinister than the serial killer Molina had imagined. The case become an international CIA/Interpol investigation. The big guns had it now. The only thing left for Molina was to decide what to do about Lucy.
Out of stubborn curiosity, and long after the story dropped from the headlines, Molina continued to monitor news concerning the KBB case. He followed celebrities on Twitter and kept an eye on some disturbing sites on the dark web. As he expected, Dr. Arnot And and the KBB conspirators were never found, but one year after Molina’s involvement and the official termination of the case, a social media posting caught his attention. A company named Forever And, LLC was selling foals, baby horses, perpetual baby horses! They could only be purchased with bitcoin, something else Molina had never heard of.
*****
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