I returned from a 2-week work trip to find a blue tattoo on my dog’s stomach after her stay at a 24/7 daycare. Any idea what this means? I wanted to ask here before I contact them myself.

That’s what I typed out on a local pet owners’ Facebook group the night I got home. I posted it with a photo of my pit-lab mix, Zuni, lying on her side, showing a tiny, faded blue mark near her belly. It looked like a single-line shape—maybe a number, or a letter—but it wasn’t there when I dropped her off.

I stared at it for a solid five minutes before even taking the picture.

I’d been gone for a training conference in Vancouver, two straight weeks of meetings, late dinners, and jet lag. I missed Zuni like crazy, and I’d paid extra to board her at a supposedly “luxury” 24/7 dog daycare called WagMore Acres. They had cameras, daily report cards, and were always posting happy dog pics on Instagram.

The check-in process had been smooth, and the staff seemed friendly. Zuni hadn’t acted weird when I picked her up. A little tired, maybe, but she wagged her tail, leaned against my leg, and slept the whole ride home. It wasn’t until later that night, when I was rubbing her belly before bed, that I saw the blue mark.

Within an hour of posting, my phone started blowing up.

People commented things like “That’s probably a spay tattoo” and “All shelters do this now—don’t worry.” A few others said it’s usually just a line to show the dog’s been fixed, to prevent unnecessary surgeries. That would’ve made sense… except Zuni had already been spayed when I adopted her two years ago.

And she definitely didn’t have a tattoo back then.

I emailed the daycare that night and followed up with a call in the morning. A woman named Carly answered, cheerful at first—until I mentioned the tattoo.

She got quiet.

Then said, “Oh, hmm, let me check with our shift manager. Can I call you back?”

I said sure.

An hour passed. Then three.

By lunchtime, I called again. No answer.

Something started to feel off.

So I drove down there. It’s only fifteen minutes from my house, tucked behind a strip mall with a yoga studio and a vape shop. The building looked the same as before—bright murals of cartoon dogs, fake grass out front, a sign that said “WagMore: Where Dogs Are Family!”

Inside, the girl at the desk didn’t recognize me.

When I asked for Carly, she said Carly wasn’t working there anymore.

“She left last week,” the girl said, glancing behind her like she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “She quit kinda suddenly.”

I asked to speak with the owner or manager. The girl hesitated, then went into the back.

I waited almost ten minutes.

Then a tall, pale man with a clipboard came out, introduced himself as Jeff, and gave me the tightest smile I’ve ever seen.

I explained about Zuni, showed him the photo, told him she was already spayed before I brought her in. He leaned over, squinted at the picture, then said flatly, “That’s definitely a spay tattoo. Standard practice. Some vets just do it late.”

“But she’s already spayed,” I repeated.

He shrugged. “Could’ve been done as a safety measure. We sometimes coordinate with local vet clinics if there’s any doubt.”

“What do you mean, if there’s doubt?” I asked. “You weren’t supposed to do anything medical without my consent.”

That’s when his tone shifted. He got defensive. Started talking in circles about “standard procedures” and “miscommunication.” Told me I signed a general waiver, which included a line about necessary veterinary actions.

I told him I wanted the name of the clinic they used. He said he’d have to “check the system” and email it to me.

I walked out without saying another word.

And sure enough, no email came.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking—what else had they done to her? She was acting normal, but what if something went wrong in there and they covered it up?

So the next day, I took Zuni to our vet.

Dr. Nguyen had treated her since adoption. He knew her medical history. When I told him about the tattoo, he frowned and lifted her onto the exam table.

He examined the mark carefully.

Then he said, “This was done recently. And not very neatly.”

I asked if it was definitely a spay tattoo.

“It’s meant to look like one,” he said slowly. “But it’s not in the typical position. And the ink is irregular. I’d guess someone without proper training did it.”

My stomach dropped.

He looked over her spay scar—it was the same as before, unchanged—and confirmed she hadn’t had any new surgery.

“So they tattooed her,” I said. “Just… to make it look like she was spayed?”

“Or to cover something else up,” he said.

I felt sick.

He offered to run bloodwork, just to be safe. I agreed.

When the results came back, everything was mostly normal—except one thing.

Zuni’s microchip information had changed.

The chip still worked, but when scanned, it now registered a different owner name: Rachel Nevin.

I stared at the name on the printout like it might rearrange itself if I looked long enough.

I never heard that name in my life.

Dr. Nguyen showed me the report from when we first scanned her chip—under my name, with my address. He said someone must’ve contacted the chip registry and filed a change of ownership. With forged documents.

And suddenly, everything clicked.

The tattoo. The shift in microchip info. Carly quitting. Jeff stonewalling me.

Someone at WagMore had tried to claim my dog.

I went home and called the microchip company directly. They were surprisingly helpful—after I proved I was the original registered owner, they froze the chip and flagged it for fraud. I asked how the info had gotten changed.

The rep told me: “It was updated via email. Someone sent in scanned forms. Photo ID, vet records, the usual.”

I asked if they could send me copies of what was submitted.

They said yes—but only if I got legal clearance.

So I called my friend Junie, who works at a law firm. She wasn’t a pet lawyer or anything, but she knew enough to write a formal request and send it under my name.

Three days later, I got the documents in a ZIP folder.

And when I opened them, my blood ran cold.

The photo ID was blurry, but the name said Rachel Nevin. The address was in a nearby town—Riverside.

The vet records were mostly falsified, but I spotted a few real ones—ones that looked like they were scanned from Zuni’s actual file, which meant someone at WagMore had access to her paperwork.

And then, in the corner of one form, I saw it: Carly’s signature.

She hadn’t quit. She’d gotten fired—or left—after trying to steal my dog.

I posted an update on the Facebook group. Within an hour, I got a DM from another woman named Luisa. She said she recognized the name Rachel Nevin—she had a friend whose dog had disappeared after a stay at WagMore two months earlier.

I asked her for more info. She called me instead.

Her voice trembled.

“My friend Marta had this golden retriever, Miso. She dropped him off at WagMore before going to see family in Mexico. When she came back, they told her the dog had run off during an outdoor break. Said he slipped his collar. But Marta always double-checked that harness. And he was chipped.”

“And then?” I asked.

“They gave her a refund and a sympathy card. But she never found him. The shelter had nothing. Vets had nothing.”

I asked if Miso had a spay/neuter tattoo.

Luisa said yes. Blue, on the belly.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, I did what any overly caffeinated, slightly feral dog mom would do: I started digging.

Property records. Yelp reviews. Employee profiles on LinkedIn. I found out that Carly had once been listed as the “intake coordinator” for WagMore, and before that, she volunteered at an overcrowded shelter that had been shut down for misplacing animals.

I also found that WagMore wasn’t owned by Jeff at all—it was registered under an LLC connected to a man named Marcus Liddell. A quick search pulled up some nasty civil suits—none criminal, but all unsettling. Lost dogs, poor record keeping, one lawsuit settled quietly for an undisclosed amount.

The next day, I reported everything to animal control.

They took me seriously. The microchip tampering alone was enough to open an investigation.

And once the ball started rolling, it picked up speed fast.

Turns out, my complaint wasn’t the only one. Over the next two weeks, three more pet owners came forward with similar stories: odd behavior, mysterious injuries, lost dogs that didn’t make sense. One woman even had paperwork showing her dog was neutered twice—according to different records.

Within a month, WagMore was shut down.

The local news ran a segment about it. Called it “A Betrayal of Trust at a Beloved Daycare.” Dramatic, but honestly, not wrong.

Carly was never formally charged—there wasn’t quite enough proof—but the investigation found she’d been quietly placing dogs with friends or distant contacts, claiming they were abandoned or strays. Marcus, the owner, was fined for negligence and banned from operating any future pet-related business in the state.

As for Jeff? Vanished. Probably on to the next scheme.

But here’s the twist I didn’t expect.

Two months after it all came out, I got a letter. Handwritten. From Riverside.

It was from a woman named Rachel Nevin—the same name that was listed as Zuni’s false owner.

She wrote:

“I had no idea Zuni was stolen. Carly told me she’d been surrendered by a family that couldn’t keep her. She even gave me adoption papers. I only had her for four days before the microchip company contacted me about a fraud flag. I’m so sorry for everything.”

She included her phone number, in case I wanted to talk.

At first, I didn’t.

But a week later, curiosity got the better of me.

I called.

Rachel was soft-spoken. Apologetic. She said she’d recently lost her own dog to cancer and had been desperate to adopt again. Carly told her Zuni had bounced between homes and needed someone calm.

“She was the sweetest dog I ever met,” Rachel said, her voice cracking. “But I understand she’s not mine.”

I didn’t say anything for a second.

Then I asked, “Did she seem okay?”

Rachel gave a little laugh. “More than okay. She slept on my feet. Followed me from room to room.”

That night, I held Zuni a little closer.

Here’s the thing. I was furious at first. Betrayed, shaken, paranoid about who to trust. But now, nearly a year later, I look at Zuni curled up on the couch and think—maybe something bigger was at work.

Maybe her story helped stop something worse.

And maybe she reminded a stranger how to feel loved again, even for just four days.

Hold tight to your pets. Ask questions. Trust your gut.

And never assume the safest-looking places are always safe.

Like and share if you believe in standing up for those who can’t speak for themselves. 🐾