Anatomy of a Scam
A Cautionary Tale
Like millions of Americans, I’ve been looking for ways to supplement my income. As a professional dog walker, it made sense to open a Rover account and post a profile featuring my dog walking services. It’s a whole process, joining Rover, including a paying a fee for a background check. What’s thirty-five bucks when I could potentially make that amount per hour walking dogs, right?
For two weeks, my Rover profile sat there collecting digital dust. Then, one evening, I received a notification from Rover. Someone wanted to procure my services on behalf of her “aunt” who was relocating from Georgia to Los Angeles. “Debby” gave me a brief run down on the specifics and then requested I email her aunt directly.
Now, this should have been my first clue, but, no. I was so excited about this potential new client who was willing to pay me $250 per week for three 2 hour visits (which is basically unheard of, by the way ) I didn’t even consider that this person reaching out to me was violating Rover’s terms and conditions by sharing personal contact info.
So, what did I do? I emailed her aunt and introduced myself.
Within minutes, I received a response from “Rose Patterson.” She told me she worked for a non-profit organization and that her husband, “Dave”, worked as an HIV/AIDS cure researcher/critical care specialist. She included photos of herself, her husband, and their dog, Billy, a 4-year-old bulldog. She explained they were relocating to the L.A. area to manage the health of a CEO of a private company. “This position may be permanent or temporary depending on your availability and schedule.” I found this a bit strange since her niece, Debby, was specific with the days and times my services were needed — Monday-Wednesday-Friday evenings — not “at least twice a week” or “you can feed him anytime you are around.” I remember thinking this discrepancy was weird, but also possibly a simple miscommunication between aunt and niece.
“We’re a lovely family and we show people around us with the same gesture and upmost respect.”
Now, the way this sentence is phrased should have been another red flag, as this is how so many of the scam emails I receive in my junk folder are worded, in a sort of telling, awkward English-isn’t-their-first-language kinda way.
I’m embarrassed to admit, though, that I nevertheless complied with Rose’s request that I tell her a little bit more about myself. I offered her fairly basic info, like where I went to school and how long I’ve been walking dogs. I included photos of my own dogs, and in one of the photos, you can see part of my face. Thankfully, something told me not to include a full face photo. She also asked for my zip code, “for an insight of how close you’ll be to our new home,” and, yes, I gave it to her.
The following day, I received another email from Rose, informing me their bulldog would be arriving on Friday, September 15th. However, they wouldn’t be arriving until the next day, on Saturday, September 16th. She told me they’d send me a certified check to cover my first week of services and that I was to use the remaining funds to pay for items they’d like me to procure before their arrival. The check would be from Dave’s employer, she explained, who was covering the cost of their relocation, and their realtor would contact me with their full address once I received the check.
“We hope that is fine by you? We would have preferred to make this first payment through one of the payment transfer apps (maybe Zelle, Venmo or Cashapp) but my husband’s employer are the ones taking care of the cost to cover all our expenses for the relocation and they’d rather make a check payment so to enable them to have everything documented for record purposes. What is the name and address you want the payment sent to?”
The only thing I’d have to do on Friday the 15th was let the dog out, feed him, and put him back in his crate until they arrived like, 24 hours later. This didn’t seem right to me. I asked Rose several questions and expressed my concerns about their dog being left alone in a crate, in a an unfamiliar place, for that much time. And in regard to payment, I told her I wasn’t comfortable receiving compensation for services in advance; that I’d rather we iron out those details once we met in person. Nevertheless, I provided my home address.
In response to my concerns about the well-being of her dog, she casually dismissed them, saying not to worry about it, that he’d be just fine. She then provided a list of items they wanted me to purchase before their arrival — dog food, a brush for the dog, as well as a “kitchenware unit” (whatever that is). She reassured me that I “will have a beautiful experience with us” and that they would “love to let me know the dog would arrive with [a] water bowl, walking leash and shampooing towel.”
This is when it finally sunk in that I was being scammed, I mean, because, what the hell is a kitchenware unit? And who refers to a leash as a walking leash? Everyone knows what a leash is for. It kinda goes without saying. Also, what’s a “shampooing” towel and why would the dog be would be arriving with one?
But the biggest red flag? Not only did she not answer any of my questions concerning the dog specifically, I found it seriously disturbing that they were totally cool leaving their dog alone in a crate until the following day. Not one pet owner I know would ever allow their pet to be crated, unsupervised, for 24 hours. Not a single one.
Fortunately, I was en route to a client when that last email came through, so I couldn’t respond — and I didn’t respond — even when I was able, due to the sick feeling I felt in my belly. Later that evening, I read the emails aloud to my young adult daughter. I don’t even think I got further than a few sentences when she sharply interrupted me. “Nope! Mom, that is a scam!”
I gotta say, I never felt so stupid, yet at the same time, so grateful I figured it out before it was too late, only they had my home address. After a momentary freak out, I reminded myself that addresses were basically public record — anyone can get a hold of someone’s home address if they really wanted to.
I promptly took steps to protect myself from this scam artist. I flagged and reported the emails and blocked the sender. I changed my email password. I’m pretty vigilant in maintaining the security on all my accounts, and thanks to John Oliver’s deep dive into identity theft prevention, I froze my Experian, Transunion, and Equifax accounts years ago, in order to prevent fraudulent accounts from opening up in my name, as I’m the only one with access to the PIN that unfreezes them.
Three days after I blocked this scammer, I received a USPS Priority Mail envelope. Inside was a check in the amount of $2,480.55. The check looks totally legit with its watermark and hologram and was issued to me by the Steel Equipment Company in Pontiac, Michigan. I don’t know anyone from this company. No letter of explanation accompanied the check. Why would a company with whom I have no affiliation send me a check? Was I unknowingly part of some kind of class action suit?
Oh, wait. Didn’t the scammer tell me they were going to send me a check?
I did a little Google investigating. The Steel Equipment Company appears to be a legitimate business, although their website is a throwback to the early aughts. Their CEO has a LinkedIn profile, but it seems sketchy. When I Google mapped the business address, what popped up was a nondescript warehouse on a rural two-lane road across the street from a church. There is no signage on the building, so who knows if it’s actually the Steel Equipment Company. Regardless, I emailed them and let them know I had mistakenly received a check issued by their company. I’ve yet to receive a response.
Curious, I checked the return address on the envelope. Oddly, the return address is for a logistics company located in Roswell, New Mexico. Now, why would the Steel Equipment Company in Pontiac, Michigan send a check to me, a totally random person, via a logistics company in New Mexico?
XPO Logistics, it turns out, is a legitimate entity. According to their website, XPO is global. They’ve even got a Twitter — sorry — X profile. They’re all over Google. Lots of info. I emailed them as well, to let them know their address was being used by the SEC as part of a scam. Again, I’ve yet to receive a response.
How are these two businesses related? How does a check issued from a company located in Pontiac, Michigan end up getting sent from a completely different kind of company in another state? Are these companies unwittingly part of an elaborate scheme? Are they in on it?
On Friday, September 15th, the day I was supposed to take care of Billy the bulldog, I received a text message from an unknown number. Hello Victoria, this is Rose Patterson. This is about the dog walking position. How are you doing today? The phone number had a Florida area code. That’s funny. Wasn’t “Rose” relocating from Georgia? Instead of responding, I reported and deleted the text and then blocked the number. Best not to engage.
There are so many different types of scams out there nowadays it’s hard to keep track. Some of them are super obvious, like many that show up in my junk email telling me I’ve been locked out of my Amazon account or that I’ve won something. Just click on the link! Some of them are so authentic looking, though, it’s really hard to tell.
Whenever in doubt, I’ll contact the bank or credit card directly via the phone number listed on my debit or credit card. I never click on the link provided in the email. I don’t answer unknown numbers. What never occurred to me was that I could get scammed through the Rover app.
I’ve since reported this scam to the USPS. Who knows if it’ll make a difference, but if there’s a chance they could get caught, it’s worth taking the time.
It could’ve been a whole lot worse. I recently found out from a friend of mine that someone we both know also got scammed through Rover, only this woman fell for it and cashed the check, and before too long, her entire bank account was drained. The check I received will remain uncashed. I’m keeping it though, as a cautionary reminder that this story could’ve had a very different ending.
