back to 2005 about the new kennel addition. Shaw had told me the kennel cost the county’s taxpayers about $600,000. Yet back in 2005, Shaw told the newspaper the new addition was costing taxpayers “a little over $500,000.”
The actual figure, according to Person County’s financial records, is $562,954—in the ballpark of what Shaw told me, but an awful lot of money, I thought, to be so cavalierly discussed. Inconsistencies like the ones I was uncovering often lead rescue groups to cast an even harsher glance at operations like Person County Animal Control. They look at the high-kill rate, they scour the numbers, and they assume the shelter director is just plain lying about everything.
I tried hard not to cast so harsh a glance, but the more I researched, the more I felt compelled to keep asking questions. For instance, I wanted to know how much money was spent on the gas chamber during the most recent year, versus the amount of money spent trying to find homes for the dogs like Blue who were on death row. My thinking was that if adopting dogs into new homes was indeed a priority, then it should have been reflected in the current budget.
Yet again, the numbers did not match what I’d been told. While more than $7,600 was being spent on training and supplies related to the gas chamber, only $1,000 was in the budget for advertising. That thousand bucks includes money given to the local newspaper for something other than dog advertisements— someone at the shelter had kindly noted for me that the “Pet of the Week” advertisement is free. The person had handwritten that note on my budget printouts after creating a new line that did not exist in the official printout, a budget line titled “marketing for animals.” The only three items under it, added in ink from a blue pen, were the free newspaper ad, the free use of Petfinder.com , and the free use of the social networking site Facebook 3 . So, not only were adoptions not a financial priority, but they only became a written afterthought when a journalist like me asked to see them on paper.
Taken together, all of this information made me a lot more inclined to listen carefully to the rescue advocates who had been crying foul from the day I first called to learn more about Blue’s background. Sometimes, I will admit, they sounded a little hysterical. On more than one occasion, the rescue advocates I interviewed from all across America ended up screaming at me through the telephone, they wanted so emphatically to make their voices heard. Even though I was listening, even though I was not arguing, a good many of them still felt the need to shout.
Just maybe, I was starting to think, that’s because they had been so frustrated for so long by the reality that they say they encounter day to day—a reality that is far more in keeping with the numbers I’d crunched and far less rosy than the prearranged picture that had been presented during my tour.
3 I went on Facebook to check out the Person County Animal Control page about two weeks after I visited the shelter. It had just twenty-three fans, no contact information, and not a single photograph of any dog who was currently available. It appeared that nobody had posted anything on the page, ever.
Incoming Fire
So far, the only human being I’d met face-to-face in Person County was Animal Control Director Ron Shaw. But I’d also gotten an earful of information about what happens to dogs like Blue in this place by way of telephone. I’d called Annie Turner several times to get more details, since she was president of a local rescue group. I’d also spent some time chatting with Rhonda Beach, the society volunteer who had first met Blue at the shelter. My plan was to meet both Turner and Beach later that week, after trying to reconcile what they’d told me with everything that I had seen for myself. Just as I’d done with the animal-control
The actual figure, according to Person County’s financial records, is $562,954—in the ballpark of what Shaw told me, but an awful lot of money, I thought, to be so cavalierly discussed. Inconsistencies like the ones I was uncovering often lead rescue groups to cast an even harsher glance at operations like Person County Animal Control. They look at the high-kill rate, they scour the numbers, and they assume the shelter director is just plain lying about everything.
I tried hard not to cast so harsh a glance, but the more I researched, the more I felt compelled to keep asking questions. For instance, I wanted to know how much money was spent on the gas chamber during the most recent year, versus the amount of money spent trying to find homes for the dogs like Blue who were on death row. My thinking was that if adopting dogs into new homes was indeed a priority, then it should have been reflected in the current budget.
Yet again, the numbers did not match what I’d been told. While more than $7,600 was being spent on training and supplies related to the gas chamber, only $1,000 was in the budget for advertising. That thousand bucks includes money given to the local newspaper for something other than dog advertisements— someone at the shelter had kindly noted for me that the “Pet of the Week” advertisement is free. The person had handwritten that note on my budget printouts after creating a new line that did not exist in the official printout, a budget line titled “marketing for animals.” The only three items under it, added in ink from a blue pen, were the free newspaper ad, the free use of Petfinder.com , and the free use of the social networking site Facebook 3 . So, not only were adoptions not a financial priority, but they only became a written afterthought when a journalist like me asked to see them on paper.
Taken together, all of this information made me a lot more inclined to listen carefully to the rescue advocates who had been crying foul from the day I first called to learn more about Blue’s background. Sometimes, I will admit, they sounded a little hysterical. On more than one occasion, the rescue advocates I interviewed from all across America ended up screaming at me through the telephone, they wanted so emphatically to make their voices heard. Even though I was listening, even though I was not arguing, a good many of them still felt the need to shout.
Just maybe, I was starting to think, that’s because they had been so frustrated for so long by the reality that they say they encounter day to day—a reality that is far more in keeping with the numbers I’d crunched and far less rosy than the prearranged picture that had been presented during my tour.
3 I went on Facebook to check out the Person County Animal Control page about two weeks after I visited the shelter. It had just twenty-three fans, no contact information, and not a single photograph of any dog who was currently available. It appeared that nobody had posted anything on the page, ever.
Incoming Fire
So far, the only human being I’d met face-to-face in Person County was Animal Control Director Ron Shaw. But I’d also gotten an earful of information about what happens to dogs like Blue in this place by way of telephone. I’d called Annie Turner several times to get more details, since she was president of a local rescue group. I’d also spent some time chatting with Rhonda Beach, the society volunteer who had first met Blue at the shelter. My plan was to meet both Turner and Beach later that week, after trying to reconcile what they’d told me with everything that I had seen for myself. Just as I’d done with the animal-control
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