County Animal Control about saving dogs who were destined for its gas chamber in North Carolina, she was unceremoniously turned away, just like the advocates in California and Delaware were for so many years before her.
“All shelters operate differently,” Beach told me, “and this is one that tried to stop me from pulling out dogs that they called unadoptable. They do not want change. I had to fight for two years to get the right to go in and save a lot of dogs who were very adoptable.”
The effect of rescue advocates getting inside is undeniable, even by the shelter’s own statistics. In 2008, according to the documents Shaw gave me, 74 dogs were saved by rescue groups in Person County. That’s about the same number that the shelter itself adopted out. In 2009, though, the number saved by rescue groups nearly doubled while the shelter’s own number of adoptions stayed virtually static. In 2010, the rescue group number climbed to 292 (including Blue), again with the county’s own efforts showing little movement. During the first eight months of 2011, rescue groups had already saved several hundred dogs—more than in the entire previous year. The shelter itself, at that point in the year, had a record of adopting out just 38.
So rescue groups in Person County that tapped into the crosscountry network of transports and distant adopters like me had achieved a four-fold increase in success in less than four years. And that’s on zero budget beyond donated time, money, and supplies, compared with more than a quarter-million taxpayer dollars that the shelter itself receives annually.
Again, these kinds of statistics raised my eyebrow. I remembered that Shaw told me his job duties were clearly outlined by the county—and how he’d specifically mentioned that the state has no law requiring him to run an actual shelter. Yet when I read his job description, which was most recently updated by Person County in 2008, the first sentence beneath “essential duties and tasks” requires the animal-control director to plan and supervise the “care, feeding, medical attention, adoption, and euthanasia of animals.” It seemed to me, looking at the statistics from recent years, that the volunteer rescue groups were the ones doing most of the care, feeding, medical attention, and adoption that was supposed to be happening inside the shelter’s walls.
And even with such recent progress and momentum, rescuers in Person County still cry out that the shelter is getting in their way as they try to save even more dogs like Blue. Beach and Turner both told me that they have tagged dogs to be saved only to learn that the staff had gone ahead and killed them, anyway.
“I’d go to get ’em out of there, and he’d say, ‘They’re gone,’” Turner told me. She didn’t mention whether she’d been on time to get the dogs, or whether she’d asked Shaw for an ex- tension of a few days. I could imagine her swinging her head low and shaking it with disgust. “He killed them,” she said. “Just like that.”
I’ll never know exactly what goes on during killing days at Person County Animal Control. I did not see a dog killed during my tour, and I have never seen a gas chamber in use. The precise fate that seems to have once awaited Blue will forever be a mystery to me.
But it’s not a mystery to everybody. Plenty of rescue workers have seen the gas chambers in action at shelters nationwide— and some of those advocates were carrying video cameras.
Behind Closed Doors
If you type “animal shelter gas chamber” into the search engine on YouTube, you can see for yourself how they work. Supporting information from the American Humane Association documents what I saw in a gas-chamber video, lest anyone believe it was doctored to make a point. To me, it certainly sounded like the dogs were suffering as the gas overcame them. If Blue made a noise like that, I’d go running to find out what was wrong. What I heard in the video
“All shelters operate differently,” Beach told me, “and this is one that tried to stop me from pulling out dogs that they called unadoptable. They do not want change. I had to fight for two years to get the right to go in and save a lot of dogs who were very adoptable.”
The effect of rescue advocates getting inside is undeniable, even by the shelter’s own statistics. In 2008, according to the documents Shaw gave me, 74 dogs were saved by rescue groups in Person County. That’s about the same number that the shelter itself adopted out. In 2009, though, the number saved by rescue groups nearly doubled while the shelter’s own number of adoptions stayed virtually static. In 2010, the rescue group number climbed to 292 (including Blue), again with the county’s own efforts showing little movement. During the first eight months of 2011, rescue groups had already saved several hundred dogs—more than in the entire previous year. The shelter itself, at that point in the year, had a record of adopting out just 38.
So rescue groups in Person County that tapped into the crosscountry network of transports and distant adopters like me had achieved a four-fold increase in success in less than four years. And that’s on zero budget beyond donated time, money, and supplies, compared with more than a quarter-million taxpayer dollars that the shelter itself receives annually.
Again, these kinds of statistics raised my eyebrow. I remembered that Shaw told me his job duties were clearly outlined by the county—and how he’d specifically mentioned that the state has no law requiring him to run an actual shelter. Yet when I read his job description, which was most recently updated by Person County in 2008, the first sentence beneath “essential duties and tasks” requires the animal-control director to plan and supervise the “care, feeding, medical attention, adoption, and euthanasia of animals.” It seemed to me, looking at the statistics from recent years, that the volunteer rescue groups were the ones doing most of the care, feeding, medical attention, and adoption that was supposed to be happening inside the shelter’s walls.
And even with such recent progress and momentum, rescuers in Person County still cry out that the shelter is getting in their way as they try to save even more dogs like Blue. Beach and Turner both told me that they have tagged dogs to be saved only to learn that the staff had gone ahead and killed them, anyway.
“I’d go to get ’em out of there, and he’d say, ‘They’re gone,’” Turner told me. She didn’t mention whether she’d been on time to get the dogs, or whether she’d asked Shaw for an ex- tension of a few days. I could imagine her swinging her head low and shaking it with disgust. “He killed them,” she said. “Just like that.”
I’ll never know exactly what goes on during killing days at Person County Animal Control. I did not see a dog killed during my tour, and I have never seen a gas chamber in use. The precise fate that seems to have once awaited Blue will forever be a mystery to me.
But it’s not a mystery to everybody. Plenty of rescue workers have seen the gas chambers in action at shelters nationwide— and some of those advocates were carrying video cameras.
Behind Closed Doors
If you type “animal shelter gas chamber” into the search engine on YouTube, you can see for yourself how they work. Supporting information from the American Humane Association documents what I saw in a gas-chamber video, lest anyone believe it was doctored to make a point. To me, it certainly sounded like the dogs were suffering as the gas overcame them. If Blue made a noise like that, I’d go running to find out what was wrong. What I heard in the video
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