The Last Walk:
Tail wagging, the medium-sized
black pit bull tugged at the leash. He had spotted a large
dog biscuit on he floor and lunged for it. Once he'd pounced
on it, he flopped on the floor and snarfed it up, careful to
get every crumb. It was his last meal.
Less than two minutes later, the dog lay dead on the floor
at the City of Chicago's Animal Care and Control facility at
27th Street and Western Avenue, one of about two dozen dogs
and cats being euthanized on this Friday evening.
It's something that goes on nightly here--more than 10,000
times a year--a process that's both horrible and
unavoidable. "I'm just glad it's not my choice to say who
goes down," says Gloria Weaver.
Weaver is one of the facility's four euthanasia technicians
whose job it is to administer the fatal injections. How many
has she done in her 3 ˝ years on the job?
"Too many. That's one thing I don't want to think about. The
count. "I look at the list, and some nights it's 20 dogs, 15
cats. My God, that's too many. That's the sad part. But
where would they go?"
Animal Care and Control gets 80,000 calls a year. Some
30,000 animals, about 26,000 of them dogs and cats, are
impounded. Of the 30,000, about 3,000 are adopted out and
3,500 are taken in by other shelters and rescue facilities,
if they have room. Perhaps 5,000 more are reclaimed by their
owners. The rest? You do the math. "People have to
understand we don't have a choice," says Melanie Sobel,
director of program services at Animal Care and Control.
"This is an open-door shelter, we're open 24 hours a day,
365 days a year. People just don't realize the magnitude."
Gloria Weaver realizes it. So does Adrian Densmore, the
other euth tech on duty this night. "I remember the first
one I did, with the guy who trained me," Densmore says. "It
was a real old dog. And the first time I did it, I had tears
in my eyes."
That was 3 1/2 years ago. Since then, he says, the job
hasn't been quite so disturbing. "I understand why we do
it," he says. "It gets a little easier." But it's never
easy. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing a bad thing," he
says. "I ask myself. I wonder what God thinks about this.
It's my job; I'm supposed to do this. But you wonder."
Talk to the euth techs, or anyone involved in the process,
and you can't help but be touched when they talk about the
animals whose lives they end. Love them till the end.
"You gotta care; if you don't, you're just cold-hearted,"
Weaver says. "If you felt, `Oh, hell, put 'em down,' there's
something wrong with you. We gotta love 'em till the end. We
gotta show 'em some love. I find myself saying, `I'm sorry,
I'm sorry,' in their ears."
Such concern was evident with the black pit bull mix. No one
had to offer him that biscuit, and the animal care aide
holding the leash didn't have to take the time to let the
young dog--he was just a few months old--finish those last
morsels. But as with so much that goes on in Care and
Control's holding area each night after 7--after the
building is closed to the public--there was a measure of
dignity and respect offered to the pup.
"It's amazing, you know," Weaver says. "You're taking a
life. You find yourself petting them even after they're
dead."
The List:
The nightly process begins with "the list," which is drawn
up by shelter director Norma Torres.
"The smallest could be 10, but they average 25," she says.
"It could go as high as 35. I don't think I've ever gone
more than 40.
"And I don't think I've ever seen a day of zero. Not with
the number of impoundments we do. That'd mean every dog we
impounded was perfect for adoption. And that just doesn't
happen."
How do animals end up breathing their last on the floor of
the holding area at Animal Care and Control? The short
answer is because their cage numbers are on Torres' list.
The longer answer, the better answer, is that they're here
because of people's carelessness, stupidity or cruelty.
People let their dogs and cats run loose. People don't get
their animals spayed or neutered, leading to overpopulation.
People buy pets from puppy mills or pet shops when there are
thousands of animals filling shelters. People stage dog
fights. People do terrible things to animals.
Not on the list:
Most of the animals put down are the impoundments, strays
that had been running loose or dogs that were involved in
fighting. Badly injured or vicious animals that are brought
in by police or Animal Care and Control officers--animals
not involved in possible court cases--are euthanized right
away without even making Torres' list. Sick dogs brought in
by owners for euthanization also aren't counted on the list.
Dogs that are brought in as strays are held for five days,
waiting for their owner to claim them. After five days they
become the property of the city. The animal is put on an
evaluation list by the veterinarians and is tested for
health and temperament. Every animal is looked at on an
individual basis.
"It's not like we have a cutoff--oh, he's 5 years old, he
gets euthanized," Sobel says. "It depends on the animal."
Still, there are never spots for all the animals, and many
just can't be saved. Those are the ones that are led into
the holding area every night.
The process is methodical. There's no joking among the staff
members, no small talk about the Bears or the weather.
Paul Mui, the animal care aid shift supervisor, checks
Torres' list and calls out a cage number. An animal care
aide fetches the animal from one of the pavilions down the
hall, a three- or four-minute walk.
The dogs are led into the holding area one at a time. No
animal sees another one put down; even the cages of other
animals in the holding area are turned away so the occupants
don't see what's going on. A syringe has been prepared. The
dogs are muzzled, just in case.
A tourniquet is put on the animal's leg. One tech holds the
animal, another gives the injection of sodium pentobarbital;
in effect, an overdose of barbiturates (until about 3 1/2
years ago, Chicago still used a gas chamber.
It's over quickly and quietly. Within seconds the animals go
limp and are gently placed on the floor. Another 10 or so
seconds later, one of the techs will touch the animal's eye
to see if there is a reaction. Then they feel for a
heartbeat. And more often than not, the dog will get a
gentle pat on the shoulder or rump.
It's not an easy job:
"When I'm walking them down the hallway, I tell them that
everything will be OK, I tell them I won't hurt them,"
Densmore says. "You talk to 'em four or five minutes, and
you get to know them a little bit, you become friends, and
they'll be wagging their tails.
"Then you euthanize them, and, man, I just euthanized an
animal that I told everything would be OK. . . . that animal
trusted me."
"People say, `How do you get used to the smell in there?'"
Weaver says. "Well, you don't. But the smell is nothing to
what we have to do in here."
"I leave it here," Densmore adds. "I don't talk to my fiancé
about it. She doesn't know what I do here. It's a secret you
don't tell your family or friends."
The animals--they're "bodies," not "carcasses" or anything
less to the staff--are then carefully, at times almost
tenderly, slipped into heavy black plastic bags and lifted
onto a cart, from where they'll be placed in a freezer,
waiting to be picked up by an incineration service.
Tails wagging:
As soon as one animal is removed, another is brought through
the doors. Sniffing, wagging its tail, trying to lick
people.
A heavyset, older brown pit bull, a dog that appears to have
seen some battles in his day, is brought over. There's no
fight in him tonight. In fact, even after he's fitted with
the blue muzzle, he's wagging his tail, excited by the
attention he's getting. The tail keeps wagging as he gets
the injection. Almost instantly, the wagging stops and the
dog, in the arms of one of the techs, keels over.
And so it goes. A Rottweiler, another wagging tail belying
the aggressive tendencies that got her on tonight's list, is
next. Then another pit. A shepherd mix. A shaggy mix. More
pits, including the black one. The process goes on for more
than an hour. Finally it's over. The last cart of bodies is
taken to the freezer, and the crew is done well before 10
o'clock. That's when the trucks roll in and have to be
unloaded.
The trucks are Animal Care and Control's vehicles that have
spent the day on the streets, rounding up strays that will
refill the cages and start the cycle again.
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