Adoption or death
Kalamazoo Gazette Cover Story
Sunday, February 11, 2007

Story by Chris Killian * Photos by Jill McLane Baker

Cheeko has no idea what is in store for him.

Cheeko's owner says the 1-year-old pitbull-mix is becoming a liability -- chasing after children and constantly getting loose. He wants Cheeko euthanized.

Sarah Harrison, the Kalamazoo County Animal Services and Enforcement shelter's kennel supervisor, leads Cheeko down the shelter's main hallway and into the euthanasia room. It's no larger than a walk-in closet. A shiny metallic examination table sits against a wall, next to an examination light. Shelves line an opposite wall, upon which rests several boxes of syringes.

The dog is greeted by three staff members who will perform a task they loathe, but one that, unfortunately, is necessary.

Even though he is moments away from death, Cheeko doesn't know it. He is playful, his tail wagging and nose sniffing around the cramped room's cold, concrete floor.

His demeanor casts strongly against the mood of the staff members, their faces a look of both disappointment and anger.

Harrison gets Cheeko to sit, then kneels down next to him, rubs his head a few times, and slowly wraps a leash around his snout to keep him from biting.

Several fabric muzzles hang from a pipe in the room, the tears in them a sign of past dogs' struggles in their final seconds of life.

Cheeko's eyes widen. Harrison slowly pulls him toward her, squeezing the dog tightly against her body. Behind them, staffer Eric Stuart is preparing the shot that will kill Cheeko, a solution of sodium pentobarbital.

Cheeko doesn't struggle, doesn't growl or whine. He seems paralyzed by a fear that keeps his paws glued to the floor.

In front of him, shelter Director Steve Lawrence and staffer Mark Vanderberg talk softly to Cheeko, trying to make the dog's last memories be of love and affection.

Lawrence bends over and gives Cheeko a kiss on the nose.

``It's OK, baby,'' he says. ``It's OK.''

Stuart asks the others, ``Ready?''

He then takes Cheeko's left paw, raises it and looks for a vein in the leg. In a few seconds he finds one, slowly pushes the needle in and administers the fatal sedative.

Within seconds, the shot takes effect. Cheeko's eyelids become heavy, then close around his large brown eyes.

Harrison gently lays him on the floor. In 10 seconds, the dog is unconscious. In a few moments, he's dead.

The only sound that breaks the silence in the room is a heavy exhalation of breath from the staff members.

Some dogs don't die as quickly as Cheeko, needing several shots before they pass away.

Three minutes elapsed from the time Cheeko entered the shelter until he was dead.

``The day this doesn't bother you is the day you quit,'' Vanderberg says, wiping a small amount of blood from the floor that dripped from where Cheeko was given the shot. ``The guy that dropped off this dog feels no guilt. The guilt is right here in this room.''

Harrison and Vanderberg pick up Cheeko's body and take him into a walk-in cooler attached to the euthanasia room. The temperature reads 40 degrees. Harrison opens one of the 55-gallon cardboard barrels in the room and drops in Cheeko.

Several of the containers are filled with dead animals, a temporary burial before they are hauled away to a landfill in Watervliet. Each container holds 30 to 40 animals, on average.

Lawrence enters the cooler and gazes at Cheeko.

``This sucks. It breaks your heart,'' he says. ``When people dump their animals here, they dump their guilt here. We have to pick up that guilt when the animal has to be put down.''

Then he opens a fresh barrel, which likely will be full in a few days.

A number of reasons

Cheeko is among thousands of animals that are killed every year at the shelter.

Of the 6,893 animals that came through the shelter doors in 2006, about 45 percent, or 3,122 dogs and cats, were put to death.

The shelter's employees all work hard to adopt out as many animals as possible. Last year, 1,167 animals were adopted -- an average of about one in six.

But animals are put down for a number of reasons, foremost being the owner requesting it. The other top reasons include sickness, aggression, unmanageable behavior and lack of space in the shelter.

Generally more cats are euthanized than dogs. Of the stray animals brought in by animal services officers in 2006, one in five stray dogs were put down compared to two out of every three stray cats.

``There's just more cats, that's why so many of them get put down,'' Harrison said. ``People don't spay and neuter them.''

For employees, the emotional stress of having to repeatedly end the lives of animals cuts deep.

``We have to have feelings for these animals,'' Harrison said. ``If I got numb to this, I'd quit.''

Outside the shelter are the Police Pens -- three dog cages enclosed by a chain-link fence and one smaller pen for cats. It's an area where police and owners can drop off animals -- strays or pets -- after the shelter is closed.

What workers sometimes find there in the morning can be chilling.

Last week, someone dropped off a 6-month-old pit bull overnight. By morning, the dog had frozen to death.

Two weeks ago, someone dropped off a litter of kittens. In the morning, they were dead.

``We take it personally here how some people treat their animals,'' Vanderberg said. ``Does it frustrate us? Yes. But you can't focus on all the negatives or it would kill you.''

`Playing God'

The shelter, built in 1984, was not originally intended to house animals for extended periods of time. The size of the parking lot says as much, with space for only 10 cars.

For many years the shelter -- which looks more like a warehouse -- served as a holding facility for animals, which stayed there for seven days and if not adopted or claimed in that time, were euthanized on the eighth day.

That policy still stands, but there is much more emphasis on adoptions now than ever before, Lawrence said.

Animals are held for as long as possible. If space is available, animals can live for weeks -- and sometimes months -- past the deadline.

Though employees now do their best to keep up with routine maintenance -- cleaning cages and making the most out of limited space -- the shelter's inadequacies loom large every day.

The cages are too few and too small.

Dogs are placed in cages 5-feet-wide and 2-feet-deep, which is adequate for small dogs but stressful for larger animals.

The 8,000-square-foot shelter has 67 dog cages and 53 cat cages, Lawrence said.

Modern shelters have much more space. For instance, individual kennels with a 6-by-6 display area, along with an attached 6-by-10 dog run, would be appropriate, said Bill Neade, director of planning and design for Shelter Planners of America.

``That shelter leaves a lot to be desired,'' said Neade, who has toured the building. ``There's not enough room there for the animals to be taken care of humanely.''

The ventilation system also is inefficient. It constantly needs to be cleaned, and even then, a scent of animal waste constantly hangs in the air.

Sometimes bacteria from dogs with upper-respiratory infections, called ``kennel cough,'' can colonize in waste troughs that run along the backs of the cages, said Stuart, the shelter worker. That can lead to the possibility of more dogs getting sick and possibly having to be euthanized.

But the biggest problem is lack of space.

Lawrence admits, though, that even with more cages, the shelter would still have to put down animals if people don't start taking the care of their animals seriously.

Too few pet owners spay or neuter their pets, he said.

Cats can have up to three litters of kittens per year, with four to six kittens in each litter. Dogs can have two litters per year, with six to 12 puppies in each litter for medium to large breeds and four to eight puppies in each litter in small breeds.

During the summer months, the shelter is almost always full because animals are more free to roam. If new animals arrive and there is no space, the answer is simple: kill more animals.

``If I get five dogs coming in, I've got to find five dogs to kill,'' Lawrence said. ``It's like I have to play God.''

Last year, 374 animals were put down because of a lack of space.

The reason so many animals get put down, Lawrence said, is because their owners simply fail them.

He regularly talks with shelter directors across the area, and said they encounter the same challenges seen at his facility -- namely a lack of space, the need for more funding and frustration over the way some people treat their animals.

``We live in a throw-away society,'' Lawrence said. ``Some people get tired of the responsibility of taking care of their pets so they just give up on them. It's sad, because the animal never gave up on them.''

A favorite animal

Every shelter worker has their favorite animal.

Vanderberg has taken a shine to a spotted white pit bull named Boss. He was found by animal-control officers chained to his sister, who was dead when officers found them. A pup was lodged in her birth canal.

Boss was emaciated and near death himself. A choke-collar had made deep cuts in the dog's neck.

His owner is to stand trial for animal cruelty, Vanderberg said, but a conviction won't help to allay Vanderberg's anger.

A sign attached to Boss' cage reads ``Will Bite.'' He's not an aggressive dog by nature, but is so because he was abused, Vanderberg said.

He undoes the lock to the cage and steps in. Boss, now healthy, immediately jumps up on him and starts licking his face in a frenzy of affection.

``It's not these dog's fault the way they are. If they're guilty of anything, it's wanting to be loved,'' he said. ``We get these dogs healthy and then have to kill them.''

Boss will be put down, perhaps as early as this week.

`I belong with you'

On a recent afternoon, Tracy Griffith comes into the shelter with four excited kids in tow. The goal: find a family dog.

They go from cage to cage, looking for the perfect pet.

Finally, they settle on Bud, a 4-year-old black Labrador retriever, one of the older dogs in the shelter.

Tracy tells staff member Stuart they want to get to know the dog a little better. He gets a leash, goes to Bud's cage and lets him out.

The children -- Molly, 14, Mary, 8, Joe, 7, and Allison, 4 -- immediately surround Bud, petting and playing with him.

After the kids take turns walking him up and down the shelter's main hallway, Bud sits down by the family, proudly, as if he has been with them since he was a puppy.

Other dogs in the hallway don't bother him a bit. As he looks at the family, he might as well have been saying, ``I belong with you.''

Tracy says she likes him.

``We have to get him, Mom,'' Joe says.

The final OK, however, has to come from Ben, Tracy's husband.

After a flurry of phone calls on her cell phone, Tracy reaches her husband.

The conversation lasts several minutes.

``Please, please, please,'' the children shout, as they circle Tracy, jumping up and down.

She ends the call.

The air is nearly sucked out of the room with anticipation.

``I've got an answer,'' she says.

There is a long pause.

``He said, `Yes.'''

The children burst into shouts of joy, patting Bud on the head and rubbing his dandruff-filled back.

``We're going to need to give him a bath,'' Molly says.

The Griffiths lead Bud out of the cage area and through the shelter doors.

In the parking lot, they load Bud into their minivan. He sits in the front seat, turning his head to look at the shelter as the vehicle pulls out onto Lake Street.

He's going home.

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