Why I Decided Against Breeding My Dog

[Calin]

This story completely changed my mind about breeding my dog.

**********

BY TY PHILLIPS BEE STAFF WRITER

It is early morning at the Stanislaus County Animal Shelter. And for you, the animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.

You walk to the computer and print out the list of dogs that fill dozens of the agency's kennels. You sit there with your coffee, highlighting in yellow marker the ones that have been here for five days. They've all got a story.

Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved her. He got too big. She started chewing on sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is out of town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got out but didn't bother to call the shelter. Whatever happened, it doesn't matter now: Their time is up.

You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the door, a few dogs try to escape, while others cram themselves into the far corners to avoid you. Everyone on the outside says the animals have no idea what's coming, but you've seen too much proof to the contrary. Yes, on some sad level, they know.

You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash, your noose, around the neck of one. You lead him back to the gate and open it just enough for you to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to the gate, and get ready. Then you jerk him out quickly and slam the door so the others don't get out. He's scared and whimpering, looking around frantically, but he does what he's told and follows you, faithfully, to the end of the line.

The killing room is a large, cold place with a small row of metal cages along one of the concrete walls. There's a large, stainless-steel table in one corner, holding syringes, needles and bottles of tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a solution of sodium pentobarbital that usually kills within seconds.

As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're kneeling, holding the dog still, cuffing one leg with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight them. Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to forcing them between a gate hinged on a wall, immobilizing them long enough so you can get the needle in.

But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts you. He even gives you his paw: He's obviously someone's pet. So you stroke his head softly as the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that, he melts in your arms. You grab his paw again and drag his limp body to a corner.

One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor. One by one. Though county records show roughly 15,000 animals are killed each year at the shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that defies comprehension. But when one considers the solitary act of each animal death, and the people who do the dirty work, the number 15,000 comes into better focus. One death is a tragedy; anything more than that is just a statistic.

On this morning, and every morning, there will be about 15 to 20 of these canine executions, not counting the ones that come in throughout the day that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to the cages to retrieve another, the anger swells inside you. Because you know most of this daily ritual easily could be avoided. Spay and neuter, people, you say to yourself.

Spay and neuter!

Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her puppies. When she showed up here last week, your only hope was that she wouldn't give birth before her five days were up. But she did.

You hardly could stand to watch her care for her pups, licking them, dragging them around to protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed her treats, telling her, 'That's a good girl.'

Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in vain. This day always comes. Once you've got them all gathered in the room, you put her down first. Because you've learned the babies cry when they're injected, and that only adds stress to the mother.

One by one. One after another. You stack the singles into piles. You load the piles into 55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into the walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels fill completely about twice a week. The barrels are emptied into trucks. It's like a factory here. And they call this a shelter?

The stench of death permanently haunts the air: It's a dull fragrance you won't forget the rest of your life. Someday years from now, you'll be served food at a restaurant, and something will trigger the memory of that awful smell. Just like that, the meal will be over. You wash your hands incessantly; trouble is, what you're trying to clean doesn't go away with soap and water. That would take a psychologist, better than the one you have.

An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the morning's kill. Next up is an adorable pop-eyed Chihuahua you had thought someone might claim. Or adopt. You start for her, but then you make a grave mistake: You look into her eyes. In a flash, your mind acknowledges that this is a living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's under your skin.

Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not this one. Your back yard already brims with the dogs and cats you've personally spared over the years, and there's simply no more room. So, you sneak her off the list and move her to another kennel. Your day off is tomorrow, and you just put it out of your mind. That's all you can do.

Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel. You squeeze into the cage, and he moves away. He's scared and hungry; he's not the alpha male in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And who knows what he went through before he ended up here? So you kneel and call to him in a pleasant voice. Now he's wagging his tail because he thinks you're going to rescue him from this awful place.

You get him outside and pet him to try to keep him calm. But he's excited, jumping up and down, because you helped him out of the chaos. You're his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you lead him toward the room and he trots along happily.

But halfway there, something shifts in him. You figure he's starting to smell that stench coming from the freezer. Yes, on some level, they know. He starts jerking his neck back, usinghis front legs to try to pull you back. The more you fight him, the more he realizes he should fight. So you drag him the rest of the way.

Once you get him into the room, he's still fighting pretty hard. Your arms are getting tired. To get him to the table, you both trip over piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor. Finally, you get him stopped. The soft talk helps a little, and you're able to hold him still enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once it's in, you let go. He moves away, woozy. They don't always die immediately. He wanders over to the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little before collapsing onto the floor.

Spay and neuter, people!

Leaving the room, you remember something you wanted to tell a co-worker. She's working alone in the cat room, putting down several dozen to start her day. You open the door, but the scene makes you forget what you wanted to say. There she is, sitting in a corner, crying, surrounded by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You make eye contact and get ready to say something, but she waves you off. It's a quick shake of the head that says, 'I'm fine; just leave me alone.' So you do. For those who do this for a living, it's mostly business as usual, life goes on. But there are occasional meltdowns. Not to mention divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares, antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side effects.

Walking away from the cat room, a simple question forms in your head, one that plagues you often throughout your days here: Does anybody care about animals? Anyone at all?

Inside, you know there are thousands of people, just like you, who cherish their pets and treat them like family. Or even royalty. Working here, you rarely see those folks. They take care of their animals.

Instead, you get the people who before business hours drop off a cardboard box of mangled kittens that were used to train pit bulls to fight dirty. Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the road somewhere, but for some reason, someone brought these in. You open the box to discover all but one are dead, and the only one alive is using its front legs to crawl toward you because its back legs are crushed.

Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping feral cats and bringing them to the shelter. Once you asked about strange lines etched into the stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you were wrong. But, yes, like notches in a gun, that's how they track how manycats they've captured. It's a game to them.

Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in an ice chest he placed in his trunk. In the middle of summer. When you open the lid, most of the horror has played out. You look up and scold him, asking him what he was thinking. And he shrugs. Not like it matters, he says, they didn't belong to anyone.

Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van to drop off their family pet, saying that they can't take the dog with them and that they were unable to find the animal a home. They drive away, conscious clear, leaving the dirty work for you. Like you're some kind of sin-eater.

And to think, you took this job because you wanted to save animals. Standing there at the kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask yourself again: Does anybody care?

Anyone at all?

A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there is one, you finally remember, trying to cheer yourself up. That poor young woman from the west side, the one who's been coming by twice a week for the last six months, looking for her beloved red Doberman pinscher. She keeps asking you, 'How long should I keep looking?' And you keep telling her, 'As long as your heart needs to.' Who are you to take away hope?

And now, come to think of it, you did notice a nice-looking Doberman in the back kennels this morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He disappeared six months ago. But, needing a miracle, you go and check anyway. You look him over for a while. There is some red in his coat, but you're not certain.

Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be sure to tell her we're not sure, you say, but let her know we might have her dog. An hour later, the woman is scurrying through the hall toward the back kennels. You can barely keep up with her.

I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly. She keeps calling out his name. All you hear is what you always hear: the deafening din of scores of barking dogs. When you get to the back kennels, a lowered metal guillotine door is keeping everything outside. So you raise the door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding inside, wildly running around the cage. You think to yourself, how would he even know she was coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.

Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself against the chain-link fence, licking the fingers of a woman who's pressing herself against the fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on a beach. It's him, it's him, she keeps saying. All the while, this enormous dog is emitting the strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard, almost like a puppy.

Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the cement gutter and starts sobbing into her hands. You sit next to her to offer some comfort. Then, before you know it, you're right beside her, bawling uncontrollably. She's crying because her life is complete again. And you're crying because, after working this job, your life never will be the same. Because for every animal that leaves with its owner, half a dozen are hauled off in garbage trucks.

No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no place for an animal lover.

****

Written by Ty Phillips, the Modesto Bee

[Mini Me]

Good God!!! Why, why, WHY don't people get it?!?!?!

This reminds me of the editorial I sent to my Mom to convince her to de-sex Thor's parents. It was called 'My name is Sam' or something like that. I made the mistake of reading it when I found it, even though I was at work. I actually had to hide from a customer so I could stop crying and get ahold of myself before dealing with him.

[Mini Me]

Found it. This one is a bit more emotional that the one Calin posted, but different people respond to different things. Figured it might not be a bad idea to include this. Can't hurt to have a couple options available when you're trying to convince people right?

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"My Name is Sam"
After I was discharged from the Navy, Jim and I moved back to Detroit to use our GI bill benefits to get some schooling. Jim was going for a degree in Electronics and I after much debating decided to get mine in Computer Science. One of the classes that was a requirement was Speech. Like many people I had no fondness for getting up in front of people for any reason let alone to be the center of attention as I stuttered my way through some unfamiliar subject, but I couldn't get out of the requirement and so I found myself in my last semester before graduation with Speech as one of my classes.

On the first day of class our professor explained to us that he was going to leave the subject manner of our talks up to us, but he was going to provide the motivation of the speech. We would be responsible for six speeches, each with a different motivation. For instance our first speech's purpose was to inform. He advised us to pick subjects that we were interested in and knowledgeable about. I decided to center my six speeches around animals especially dogs.

For my first speech to inform, I talked about the equestrian art of dressage. For my speech to demonstrate, I brought my German Shepherd, Bodger to class and demonstrated obedience commands. Finally the semester was almost over and I had but one more speech to give. This speech was to take the place of a written final exam and was to count for fifty per cent of our grade.

The speeches motivation was to persuade.

After agonising over a subject matter, and keeping with my animal theme, I decided on the topic of spaying and neutering pets. My goal was to try to persuade my classmates to neuter their pets. So I started researching the topic. There was plenty of material, articles that told of the millions of dogs and cats that were euthanised every year, of supposedly beloved pets that were turned in to various animal control facilities for the lamest of reason, or worse dropped off far from home, bewildered and scared. Death was usually a blessing. The final speech was looming closer, but I felt well prepared. My notes were full of facts and statistics that I felt sure would motivate even the most naive of pet owner to succumb to my plea.

A couple of days before our speeches were due, I had the bright idea of going to the local branch of the Humane Society and borrowing a puppy to use as a sort of a visual aid. I called the Humane Society and explained what I wanted. They were very happy to accommodate me. I made arrangements to pick up a puppy the day before my speech.

The day before my speech, I went to pick up the puppy. I was feeling very confident. I could quote all the statistics and numbers without ever looking at my notes. The puppy, I felt, would add the final emotional touch. When I arrived at the Humane Society I was met by a young guy, named Ron. He explained that he was the public relations person for the Humane Society. He was very excited about my speech and asked if I would like a tour of the facilities before I picked up the puppy. I enthusiastically agreed. We started out in the reception area, which was the general public's initial encounter with the Humane Society. The lobby was full, mostly with people dropping off various animals that they no longer wanted. Ron explained to me that this branch of the Humane society took in about fifty animal a day and adopted out twenty.

As we stood there I heard snatches of conversation, "I can't keep him, he digs holes in my garden" "There such cute puppies, I know you will have no trouble finding homes for them." "She is wild , I can't control her." I heard one of Humane Society's volunteer explain to the lady with the litter of puppies that the Society was filled with puppies and that these puppies, being black, would immediately be put to sleep. Black puppies, she explained, had little chance of being adopted. The woman who brought the puppies in just shrugged, "I can't help it" she whined " They are getting too big, I don't have room for them."

We left the reception area, Ron lead me into the staging area where all the incoming animal were evaluated for adoptability. Over half never even made it to the adoption centre. There were just too many. Not only were people bringing in their own animal, but strays were also dropped off. By law the humane society had to hold a stray for three days. If the animal was not claimed by then it was euthanised, since there was no background information on the animal. There were already too many animals that had a known history eagerly provided by their soon to be x owners. As we went through the different areas, I felt more and more depressed. No amount of statistics, could take the place of seeing the reality of what this throw away attitude did to the living breathing animal. It was over overwhelming.

Finally Ron stopped in front of a closed door. "That's it." He said. "Except for this." I read the sign on the door. "Euthanization Area." "Do you want to see one.? He asked.

Before I could decline, he interjected, "You really should, you can't tell the whole story unless you experience the end." I reluctantly agreed. "Good." He said " I already cleared it and Peggy is expecting you." He knocked firmly on the door. It was opened immediately by a middle aged woman, in a white lab coat. "Here's the girl I was telling you about." Ron explained. Peggy looked me over. "Well I'll leave you here with Peggy and meet you in the reception area in about fifteen minutes. I'll have the puppy ready." With that Ron departed, leaving me standing in front of the stern looking Peggy.

Peggy motioned me in. As I walked into the room, I gave a audible gasp. The room was small and sparten. There were a couple of cages on the wall and a cabinet with syringes and vials of a clear liquid. In the middle of the room was a examining table with a rubber mat on top. There were two doors other then the one I had entered. Both were closed, one said to incinerator room, and the other had no sign, but I could hear various animals noises coming for behind the closed door. In the back of the room, near the door that was marked incinerator, were the objects that caused my distress. two wheel barrels, filled with the bodies of dead kittens and puppies. I stared in horror. Nothing had prepared me for this, I felt my legs grow weak and my breathing become rapid and shallow. I wanted to run from that room, screaming. Peggy seemed not to notice my state of shock. She started talking about the euthanizaton process, but I wasn't hearing her. I could not tear my gaze away from the wheel barrels and those dozens of pathetic little bodies. Finally, Peggy seemed to noticed that I was not paying attention to her. "Are you listening?" She asked irritably. "I'm only going to go through this once. I tore my gaze from the back of the room and looked at her. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing would come out, so I nodded. She told me that behind the unmarked door were the animals that were scheduled for euthanasia that day. She picked up the a chart that was hanging from the wall. "One fifty three is next." She said as she looked at the chart. "I'll go get him." She laid down the chart on the examining table and started for the unmarked door. Before she got to the door she stopped and turned around. "You aren't going to get hysterical are you?" She asked " Because that will only upset the animals." I shook my head. I had not said a word since I walked into that room. I still felt unsure if I would be able to without breaking down into tears.

As Peggy open the unmarked door I peered into the room beyond. It was a small room, but the walls were lined and stacked with cages. It looked like they were all occupied. Peggy opened the door of one of the lower cages and removed the occupant. From what I could see it looked like a medium size dog. She attached a leash and ushered the dog into the room in which I stood. As Peggy brought the dog into the room I could see that the dog was no more than a puppy maybe five or six months old. The pup looked to be a cross between a Lab and a German shepherd. He was mostly black, with a small amount of tan above his eyes and on his feet.

He was very excited and bouncing up and down, trying to sniff everything in this new environment. Peggy lifted the pup onto the table. She had a card in her hand. which she laid on the table next to me. I read the card. It said that number one fifty three was a mixed Shepherd, 6 months old. He was surrendered two days ago by a family. Reason of surrender was given as jumps on children. At the bottom was a note that said Name: Sam.

Peggy was quick and efficient , from lots of practice, I guessed. She laid one fifty three down on his side and tied a rubber tourniquet around his front leg. She turned to fill the syringe from the vial of clear liquid. All this time I was standing at the head of the table. I could see the moment that one fifty three went from a curious puppy to a terrified puppy. He did not like being held down and he started to struggle. It was then that I finally found my voice. I bent over the struggling puppy and whispered "Sam." " Your name is Sam." At the sound of his name Sam quit struggling. He wagged his tail tentatively and his soft pink tongue darted out and licked my hand And that is how he spent his last moment. I watched his eyes fade from hopefulness to nothingness. It was over very quickly. I had never even seen Peggy give the lethal shot. The tears could not be contained any longer. I kept my head down so as not to embarrass myself in front of the stoic Peggy. My tears fell onto the still body on the table.

"Now you know." Peggy said softly. Then she turned away. "Ron will be waiting for you."

I left the room. Although it seem like it had been hours, only fifteen minutes had gone by since Ron had left me at the door. I made my way back to the reception area. True to his word, Ron had the puppy already to go. After giving me some instructions about what to feed the puppy , he handed the carrying cage over to me and wished me good luck on my speech That night I went home and spent many hours playing with the orphan puppy. I went to bed that night but I could not sleep. After awhile I got up and looked at my speech notes with their numbers and statistics. Without second thought I tore them up and threw them away. I went back to bed. Sometime during the night I finally fell asleep.

The next morning I arrived at my Speech class with Puppy Doe. When my turn came to give my speech. I walked up to the front the class with the puppy in my arms. I took a deep breath, and I told the class about the life and death of Sam. When I finished my speech I became aware that I was crying. I apologized to the class and took my seat. After class the teacher handed out a critique with our grades. I had got a "A". His comments said "Very moving and persuasive." Two days latter, on the last day of class, one of my classmates came up to me. She was a older lady that I had never spoken to in class. She stopped me on our way out of the class room. "I want you to know that I adopted the puppy you brought to class." She said. "His name is Sam."

[jlaack]

Those are awful accounts and were painful to read. I know having worked AC that the emotional toll is a huge burden that results in high turnover at shelters and for a good reason. I personally would not have the stomach to perform such duties on a regular basis, not even for a 6 figure salary. This is another reason why I will probably never buy a dog from a real breeder. I completely respect and appreciate what they do but I would rather have a save a less than perfect dog from such a fate even if it causes me heartache sooner rather than late or large medical bills. I do believe there are dogs that simply should not be adopted nor allowed to live in the public but so many simply lack the time to find a good home.

I really wish shelters would focus on stories like this. They try to spin their work into the rosy new instant family but I think a good dosage of the grim reality is needed as well.

Calin--I am glad this changed your mind about breeding and I hope it does for many, many other people as well. Ditto for decisions about whether or not they can really keep their dog due to an income loss, move, new child, etc.

[Valentine]

OMG that is so sad. WHY don't people get it? They think us "snooty show" people only want to push our good dogs on them. "Why should I buy from you when I could get the same breed of dog from someone else for cheaper?" or "I just want one litter then i'll spay her" or "I want to be a breeder i KNOW my pups won't end up in the shelter" YES and I am SURE thats what people said about EVERY FRIGGING DOG in the shelter TODAY!! WHY DON'T THEY SEE IT? They think they are special and their dogs won't end up in the shelter, well do they even follow up on ALL the dogs they produce? Do they know where they are for the rest of their lives? NO!!! All they care about is the money they get and IT'S NOT THEIR PROBLEM afterwards!!!

I am so sick of this! WHY? Why are people so SELFISH?

[jlaack]

Valentine I think you missed the other group that doesn't bother to spay/neuter and then suddenly there are puppies! Oh well, we'll just take them to a shelter. We had a neighbor whose lab had 38 puppies over the course of her life and never spayed.

[hennie400]

Trouble is people often dont think past the wanting to have cute puppies or the thought that it will be good for their bitch to have a litter. They often believe in urban myths

A woman I know bred from a temperamentally unsound bitch because she thought motherhood would settle her down.

A woman joined my dog club because the puppy she bought from this woman turned out to be fearful, aggressive and a complete nightmare and she needed help. She struggles on trying to deal with this dogs issues.

Goodness knows what happened to the littermates if they had similar temperaments. The woman who bred them wouldnt care less. Our rescue people in town work overtime trying to rehome dogs, there seems to be a never ending supply of dogs and cats. The new year is always a nightmare post xmas.

[jlaack]

A woman I know bred from a temperamentally unsound bitch because she thought motherhood would settle her down.

Goodness! I hope humans don't use this as a factor for having kids!

[hennie400]

Originally Posted by jlaack

Goodness! I hope humans don't use this as a factor for having kids!

From some comments I have heard in my workplace the myth is out there! or maybe they are just joking.

[Inga]

So many things made me angry when I was volunteering at our local shelter. The thing that made me the most angry was the women that brought in 16 puppies from her Rottie mix and made it sound like she was doing us a favor because they were so cute and we would have no problem getting them a home because people knock the doors down for mix breed large puppies with uncertain backgrounds. She actually said, don't put them down either you guys do way too much of that. Are you kidding you idiot? I had to stop volunteering out there when new management started to adopt unfixed animals out to people just like that and quit doing any background checks of people. They have now become more of the problem instead of any of the solution. Makes me sick, the whole thing. I have rescued lots of dogs and all of them were wonderful with a little work. I wish people would get over the idea that they are all already messed up. That simply is not true.