The Farce of Animal “Rescue” – SPCA ‘Kennels’

The Tender Mercies of the Wicked

Whilst working for an animal “rescue” organisation, I responded to a telephone complaint
of cruelty in which an animal had been injured, but whose owners refused to take it
to a veterinarian.

Calling at the luxurious – opulent – house, an older, overweight dog could be seen
limping inside.

The woman told me that her husband … “would not spend money on an animal”.

And then she told me why.

X-rays revealed that the limp was from a fractured leg that had never been treated.

With the animal in considerable pain, it had ‘healed’ over time, and now,
there was nothing more that could be done.

What haunts me to this day, however, is that the ‘rescue’ society refused
to return the dog to its plush-carpeted home – albeit with callous people.

I sicken inwardly, to recall one time when the family
arrived at the SPCA to argue (fruitlessly) for their dog to be returned …

The dog was in what passes for a “kennel” at these places and when it saw them emerge
from their car in the parking lot, limped quickly to the end of the stark concrete ‘run’
– and, at the chain-link gate, gave a little hop with clearly visible glee
at the very sight of them.

And I will never forget its utter dejection as they finally had to walk away again,
and leave him in the cold isolation of that concrete confinement.

The realisation that … I … had put him there
has haunted me these ten years; and I wake at times, overcome with guilt and despair,
that I had been the one to have taken the dog from that opulent home.

I never would have guessed that – when the injury was revealed to be years old – that dog
would not be allowed to return to its comfort; but had to spend its life
in the solitary confinement of a concrete box.

( The dog, I would later find from the Internet Site, spent ten months in that disgusting box
that the SPCA calls a ‘kennel’, before it was ‘fostered’. Had he not been, I was prepared
to write a letter begging to be allowed to adopt him – although certain that those people
would do me no favours. )

I quit, in disgust, at the apathy that was daily exhibited by those who call themselves
a rescue society.

The callousness of people to lock an animal in a concrete cage, without any toys or mental stimulation – and call themselves an animal “welfare” society, repulses me.

After 12 weeks, that tragic dog had been the last travesty that I could take
at that ‘SPCA’ – Cruelty from owners; cruelty from “rescuers”, and the animal
left to exist in misery, either way.

It would have been far better for me to have left the dog in the opulence
of that luxury house, rather than have it tormented in the misery of an SPCA … “kennel”.

I despise myself today, at my own wilful ‘blindness’ in being ‘caught up’ in “the work”
of animal rescue. I simply never thought that they would refuse to return the dog,
once it was revealed that the injury was so old.

The inevitable confusion of that affectionate dog
– to wonder what it had done wrong
to deserve to be put in concrete isolation –
will afflict me and prey upon my conscience,
until the day I die.

That had been the first and only time that I have encountered cruelty from neglect,
amongst people who lived in wealth and luxury.

It was the first time I had encountered the Mormons.

Mormons (it seems) maintain that an animal is to serve man;
which means – to minds that are brutal and callous enough – that, Mormons …

… do not have to provide medical care to any poor animal
that is cursed enough to find itself in their “care”.

The old proverb could not be any more direct:

“A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast;
but the tender mercies of the wicked, are cruel.”

Arriving on this side of the Atlantic a few years ago,
I took work with the SPCA, driving and investigating
various complaints made by the public.

But it was when in the office, that I became filled with trepidation
that all was not “as it seemed” at this SPCA.
I frequently overheard conversations between staff and people who came in
to adopt animals – only to be told that there were none matching the description
that they were seeking.

This – I knew – was a lie.

The staff of two women (my own age) were, it seemed evident, too filled
with a sense of their own self-importance and decision-making ‘power’ over others;
and quite enjoyed making instant judgments upon whomever entered the premises.

The most mind-wracking, prolonged abuse that I have ever seen with my eyes,
was in witnessing the existence of dogs who have been “rescued” from abusive homes
– to be then put into confinement without bed or toys, in concrete boxes
which were perversely termed “kennels”.

Here, the animal existed with absolutely NO mental stimulation,
for 23 hours a day – their only relief being IF a dog-walker happened to choose them
for a walk that day.

Concrete walls, concrete floor, no view, save that of the mentally-tortured animal
in the “kennel” opposite.

It drove me to despair: seeing the lacklustre eyes,
the constant look of defeat: of being past all hope.

And here were the two women on staff
telling people that there were no animals for adoption.

The contempt held by those ‘in office’ was unbelievable:

One Friday afternoon, an older couple had managed to adopt a
dog … only to return on Monday morning – their faces stained with tears
and red from crying: they were here to bring the dog back.

For two days, the dog – now freed from its mind-altering confinement, and overwhelmed
with sights and sounds – had run rampant in their house, finally jumping through
the glass window of their living room.

Heartbroken, they had to admit that they could not keep the dog.

With barely concealed derision, the woman behind the counter – my … “colleague” …
officiously got the adoption papers and impatiently scribbled on them.

As the distraught couple tearfully left the office,
the woman huffed loudly, turned to her co-worker and said:
“WHAT were we thinking, ever imaging that people like THAT
could handle a dog?!!”

I was disgusted – and let them know it. “At least, they tried to do something kind”, I said.
The pair of them looked at me and sighed audibly with evident disgust.

Running down to the parking lot, I thanked the couple for doing their very best;
hugged them both; and wished them well.

Bringing the matter up to the manager only made it plain that she believed that nothing
would be done: It was me – and not the staff – who was seen as the one “with a problem”.

A letter, then sent to Head Office, resulted in an official memo being sent to my boss,
directing her to inform me that ‘his last day will be May 4th.’

When it is a crime to speak the truth;
when any business, organisation, or nation
regards moral decency … as treason;
when one can be punished for questioning lies, corruption, treachery –
then that society ( whatever else it may pretend )
is a totalitarian regime.

And folk such as me, will find no home in such a place.

[ Continued in Part 2 ]

P Livingstone

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