In a city with such a sizable animal population, the task before him is as enormous as it is frustrating. "I never got blamed because a burglar broke into somebody's house," Walton says. "But here at Animal Services, we're responsible for all the loose dogs...that society didn't take care of."
Eddie Hooper, a muscled, Bible-quoting kennel attendant, arrives at 6:45 a.m. to begin cleaning two rooms of cages that house 40 or so of the shelter's "Lost and Found" dogs. He'll barely finish the job by 4 p.m. when his workday ends. The job is physically demanding and repetitive, but it is also essential to ensuring animals stay healthy and therefore adoptable.
Mark Graham
Lieutenant Scott Walton, interim division manager at Dallas Animal Services, has
demonstrated his compassion charge to shelter workers by fostering shelter
kittens at home. He believes responsible pet ownership, including strict adherence to spay and neuter laws, will be the best
long-term solution for the shelter.
Mark Graham
The 2010 Humane Society audit of DAS found that cat keepers were "overwhelmed" by minimum daily responsibilities. Here, veterinary assistant Ameha Gebremichael checks on a kitten after an exam.
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Supervisors rarely come in to check up on Hooper's work, which is done on an "honor system," he says. Of course, with pods full of defecating dogs, "If this process is not done, you'll know it."
Some of his coworkers come by to visit a puppy, a Chihuahua they've nicknamed Hope. Janet Henderson, who has a sweet voice made for soothing animals, does a lot of rescues from the shelter, as does Tina Mayfield, who works in dispatch. Mayfield has five rescue dogs at home, and Henderson has a passel, too. Mostly, the women say, they end up with the misfits—old, disabled, injured—animals that are often bypassed by those looking to adopt healthy, energetic puppies.
Gesturing to the brown pile of fur and ears in her arms, Henderson says, "basically my entire paycheck goes to this."
Things get started just before 10 a.m. at the Lost and Found desk, which today is being run by Kathryne Kimball. She makes calls to owners whose dogs have been picked up—one man has put off retrieving his dog for weeks, and she's giving him his final notice that the animal will be put down if he doesn't come this morning.
Pet owners can get combative, she says, but they can't keep lost and found animals indefinitely, and the city charges owners—$220 in fees in this man's case—to take their pets back home. "What are you gonna do?" Kimball asks aloud as she hangs up the phone. "People walk in and see a puppy and say how cute it is, but they don't understand it takes food, veterinary care, time." The lobby becomes backed up with families picking up found animals and hoping to find lost ones in the depths of the shelter. Volunteers from rescue organizations file in, dropping off snacks and hoping to take home animals at risk of being euthanized.
In the kerfuffle, a man brings in a wailing, bleeding pit bull. He says it's been hit by a car, but before anyone can get more details, he's disappeared. Turns out the dog has been shot in two places and is slowly bleeding to death.
Another man drops off a 10-year-old black cat. He's surrendering the family pet. "Why?" asks Kimball. The answer: The cat has stopped using its litter box. "You know this cat could be euthanized as early as today?" she tells the man. The shelter cannot afford to house all the animals that owners give up voluntarily. He says he understands, and he leaves.
An elderly gentleman who cannot afford to treat his aging terrier comes in to ask a veterinarian if his dog can be euthanized quickly once he surrenders her.
"I won't make her wait," the vet tells the man.
The compassion is here, says Eddie Hooper, if you hire the right people. What the shelter needs, he says, is consistent leadership.
"I think if we can get somebody in place, it'll be better," he says, and employees will be held to a higher standard. "We've got to get rid of this BS and get down to business."