After trying and failing to open a gelato store, she pivoted to selling organic pet food and keeping a few rescues in a small shop on Ventura Boulevard. The rent was pricey but the location was perfect.

“The second day, this woman walks in and there’s paparazzi, you know, and it’s Miley Cyrus,” Bacelar says. “Then, on day three, it’s Sarah Hyland.”

Celebrity customers brought free publicity, helping Wagmor boost its adoption numbers and move across the street in 2015.

The new space had a lobby big enough for a counter and an old couch. In the back, a large room was partitioned into pens where dogs could amble around, play or sleep on scattered beds. As word continued to spread through the Hollywood crowd, Bacelar says she got a call from DeGeneres.

The talk show host, who did not respond to interview requests, wanted to rescue a certain kind of dog, so Bacelar went looking for a female, purebred, hypoallergenic puppy. Another group says it, too, was notified and began scouring local shelters.

It was a tough ask, but Bacelar found a batch of poodles that fit the bill. DeGeneres, Chrissy Teigen and Kris Jenner each took one home.

“If a celebrity calls and asks for a specific type of dog, all of a sudden that dog turns up the next day?” asks Kim Sill, a veteran Southern California rescuer. “That does not happen with regular rescues.”

Bacelar offers an explanation: She recalls scanning a Facebook group for poodle lovers and coming across a local breeder who no longer wanted two adult dogs and eight offspring from separate litters. “I will never forget because they gave me a location to meet them,” she says. “I mean, it looked like a desert, like it was a parking lot in the middle of nowhere.” Saying that no money changed hands, she calls it a rescue.

“The Ellen DeGeneres Show” began featuring Wagmor in recurring segments. Then COVID-19 hit, trapping people at home, and triggering a rush on pets.

“I think Jennifer Aniston had adopted from us and a couple other [celebrities], so we had a decent Instagram following of 20,000 people,” Bacelar says. “We would post the dogs for adoption, and my overnight guy called me one night at 4 a.m., and I’m like, ‘What’s going on?’ We don’t open till 9, but he says all these people are lined up in front of the store.”

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Much was changing at Wagmor. The group soon touted 1,000 or more adoptions a year, an eye-popping number that included both purebreds and run-of-the-mill mixes. According to four former employees who spoke with The Times, Bacelar started making demands.

Francesca Bucci, an assistant manager in 2020, says the boss wanted dogs that would keep customers lining up and command fees as high as $1,500 or more — well above the standard $300 to $500.

“Floofy or young,” Bucci says. “It got to the point where she told me I had to scour Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist for puppies that were available for purchase.”

Bucci says she arranged a dozen or so transactions with “backyard” breeders and people whose dogs had accidental litters. She recalls personally buying six pit bull mix puppies for Wagmor from a Palmdale seller.

“We were purchasing these dogs and selling them off,” Bucci says. “If people asked, [Bacelar] would say they were owner surrenders.”

Bacelar denies pressuring employees to buy high-value puppies, saying only that she occasionally paid $25 to $75 to remove dogs from inhumane conditions. Still, other groups grumbled.

In 2020, word spread on social media that Bacelar had arranged to buy four golden retriever-rottweiler puppies from a seller in the high desert community of Phelan. Her messages to the seller would later be included in an ongoing class-action suit filed by three customers.

“I’ll take all 4,” she allegedly wrote. “2 for me and 2 for my mom … How much?”

At the time, Bacelar responded to critics on Instagram, saying: “Something that we do that probably isn’t the most popular is we look on Craigslist … and sometimes when we’re talking to people on Craigslist that are selling these dogs, we will tell them anything they want to hear.”

Now she recalls agreeing to pay $800 for the puppies but arriving to find them haggard. She says she threatened to call animal control and took them without handing over any money. Again, she calls it a rescue.

The seller did not respond to interview requests.

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By 2021, Wagmor’s Instagram account was growing toward a quarter-million followers and, according to federal tax documents, the group was generating more than $600,000 in revenue.

“In my years of dealing with Melissa, never have I called her about a rescue where she didn’t step up to the plate and help,” says Joey Herrick, who owns Lucy Pet products and runs an animal welfare foundation. “She does good work.”

When asked about allegations against her, Bacelar responds forcefully, speaking rapid-fire, sometimes giving conflicting answers. She describes her approach to rescue work.

“When I get goldendoodles, even if they’re in bad shape, that’s my click bait. I put that dog on Instagram,” she says. “People come to see the goldendoodles and if they’re all adopted, they say, ‘Well, what else do you have?’ So it helps me get other dogs a home.”

This strategy eventually prompted Wagmor to start acquiring purebreds from the Midwest through a process that began with a Springfield attorney named Elise Barker.

For years, Barker has raised donations to buy dogs at auctions throughout the region, saying she wants to remove them from an industry that breeds females repeatedly and sometimes euthanizes unsold animals.

At one of her regular stops, the Southwest Auction in Rocky Comfort, Mo., breeders parade their wares before bidders sitting in rows of metal bleachers. The place smells of urine and feces. Veterinary documents obtained from the state of Missouri show that, over the last year or so, Barker listed Wagmor as the final destination for dozens of dogs she purchased there.

The dogs were given to a Missouri rescue; Bacelar acknowledges sending transporters to pick them up on numerous occasions.

Some people complain that buying from auctions only serves to encourage puppy mills. Barker replies: “My feeling is why blame the victim? These dogs, it’s not their fault.” She says she recognizes that sending dogs to California is also controversial because the state already has more than it can handle.

These debates have not deterred Bacelar. Though she knows about Barker, when the intermediary rescue group in Missouri has animals for her, she says she doesn’t ask where they came from. “I’ve never given anybody permission to buy from an auction,” she says. “If a rescue group buys dogs and needs to place them, I’ll take them.”

Bacelar offers a similar explanation for another issue involving her group.

Last summer, a Southern California family adopted a doodle from Wagmor and, after digging through veterinary records, discovered it came from a professional breeder in Joplin, Missouri.

Diamond Doodles owner Colleen Slaughter confirms the puppy was one of hers and says it was among a group of 17 she sold for $1,950 last August. The Times viewed copies of the vet records and a receipt for the transaction, but could not verify the buyer’s identity.

Bacelar acknowledges receiving the doodles in a shipment, but says she didn’t know they came from a breeder, didn’t pay for them and doesn’t know who did.

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Animal right advocates propose a way to bring order to the world of rescue.

Create a set of rules for private groups. Check for compliance. Insist upon documentation and transparency so adopters know where their new dog came from.

In Colorado, all private groups must complete online training, apply for a license and file a plan to ensure proper care. The state’s Pet Animal Care and Facilities Act calls for annual inspections.

“I would love to see something like that in California,” says Judie Mancuso, a Laguna Beach activist whose Social Compassion in Legislation group championed California’s pet shop law.

Bacelar is less certain about the need for strict regulation, saying that “we’re all just doing what we think is best.” Having settled a number of lawsuits out of court on the advice of her insurance company, she continues to fight the class-action lawsuit, denying allegations that she has misrepresented dogs and skimped on veterinary care.

The defamation suit she filed is also ongoing, though a judge has dismissed two of the three defendants.

Wagmor supporters characterize the turmoil surrounding the group as rescuers haggling over best practices.

“Their hearts are all in the same place but they go about it in ways that are different,” says Warren Eckstein, host of “The Pet Show” on the Radio America network. “Whenever a group starts getting publicity, there is going to be an onslaught of people who disagree with the approach.”

For now, Wagmor still charges high fees. Bacelar says she needs the money to cover $40,000 in monthly overhead that includes salaries for a 24-hour staff, marketers and social media people to keep her name in the news.

“I want to do whatever it takes to get these dogs and myself, like, a little publicity so these dogs can get more homes, right?” she says.

The group is also seeking donations for another facility and taking more trips to the Midwest, acquiring dogs from the Missouri rescue group that serves as a go-between for Barker.

A recent shipment included more than 40 corgis and other breeds. Wagmor advertised them as rescues on Instagram posts that featured pictures and videos. Potential adopters were encouraged to submit an application.

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Times staff writers Alene Tchekmedyian and Melody Gutierrez contributed to this report.

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