pet connection

Saving lives saves money.   I’m not asking you to take my word for it.  There’s data that backs it up. The Best Friends Animal Society commissioned a study by John Dunham & Associates, and funded by PetSmart Charities. Here’s the bottom line, from yesterday’s press release:

With an estimated 87 million free-roaming, homeless cats in the United States, it would cost governmental entities about $16 billion to trap and kill these cats as opposed to about $9 billion for supporting trap-neuter/spay-return (TNR) programs run by rescue organizations and individual volunteers.

OK, that’s a savings to John Q. Taxpayer of $7 billion, or $80.45 per feral cat not killed. As Sen. Everett Dirksen famously said, “A billion here, a billion there, sooner or later we’re talking about real money.”   This is real money, and it would make a real difference.  In fact it already is, in communities where TNR has been adopted.   I’ll get to that in a minute.

Meanwhile, the issue has direct applicability now. Today.  In the state of New Jersey.  Here’s the lede from our friend Alley Cat Rescue’s current post:

Fish and Game Council member Leonard Wolgast has sponsored a resolution to have feral cats reclassified by the NJ Department of Environmental Protection (DEP), which could put an end to TNR programs in the state and allow feral cats to be hunted.   [...]  Unfortunately, Mr. Wolgast is a member of this committee and owns property with a kennel (owned and operated by his wife’s family) that contracts with several communities in Central Jersey to pick up and euthanize cats.

First there’s the screaming conflict of interest, but let’s not waste time right now on the ethical violations haunting New Jersey’s regulatory agencies.  The bigger problem is the needless waste of both money and animals’ lives. Furthermore, hunting down feral cats to kill them doesn’t solve the problem.  You want proof of that?  I take you back to the Best Friends’ study.

“The city of San Diego had one of the earliest and most successful TNR programs. In the early 1990s, the Feral Cat Coalition of San Diego began programs aimed at curtailing the free-roaming cat population in the city as an alternative to exterminating the cats. Since 1992, not only has the city moved towards being a “no-kill” community, it has witnessed 50 percent decrease in the feral cat population.”

Fifty percent decrease.  Trap and kill didn’t do that.  TNR did, and this is conclusive data from close to two decades’ worth of TNR policy in a major city. But TNR isn’t just working in San Diego.  Again, back to the study summary:

“TNR programs have had much success on municipal levels, with some of the most comprehensive being San Diego, New York City, Mobile county, Alabama, Chicago/Cook County and Jacksonville, Florida.” (Best Friends, First Coast, the City of Jacksonville, and Jacksonville Humane Society have partnered in a program called “Feral Freedom.” The cats that arrive to the city animal shelter in traps are turned over First Coast to be spay/neutered then returned to their original trap location. These cats are referred to as “community cats.”)

TNR works, and it saves money.  So why are we still killing cats?

Photo credit: feral kitten, flickr creative commons.

We tore across the grassy scrubland, as much as one can tear across grassy scrubland. Our top speed was probably 40 kilometers per hour, a little slower when there were obstacles in our way.

Who knew that I would find a DogCar to write about in Botswana? Except this one is not for hauling dogs to shows or agility trials or the veterinary clinic. No, this one is for going cross-country, following after packs of African wild dogs as they move through their enormous territory. It mows down bushes and small trees (which usually spring right back up again) and goes over logs with ease.

The 4×4 URI (which means “jump” in the Khoisan language) was designed by a Namibian farmer and is used by Kwando Lagoon Camp, where we stayed, and its sister camp Lebala, specifically for seeking out the wild dogs who live in the area. The open vehicles seat up to seven passengers, plus the guide in the driver’s seat and the tracker, who sits on a seat firmly attached to the hood.

What makes it different from the vehicles at other camps? Carlos, our guide, thumped the hood. “This is steel. That’s why we don’t mind bumps. We can go over stumps and big logs on the ground.”

Sometimes there were big holes that we didn’t see until we were in them or big logs blocking our route. We’d start over them and then stop. I’d think, ‘Well, this is it. We’re not going to get out of this one. Someone will have to come tow us.” And then Carlos would put it in high 4 and off we’d go.

The only trick, he says, is you have to know how to drive through sand and mud. If you don’t, that’s when you get stuck.

I’m thinking field trialers and Malibu dog owners in mudslide areas might want to special-order a few of these babies.

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Image: Jerry Thornton

I have been tiptoeing around for the past year, holding my breath. Even now, I’m almost afraid to write it: Bella is 14 today. The best part is that she’s a fairly active 14. Not in the sense of walking around the block or anything–she definitely sleeps a lot–but she still goes places with us and does some walking before reluctantly entering her stroller. She walks the eighth of a mile around the complex and does the dinner dance with as much verve as when she was a 3-year-old.

And behind that sleepy-eyed expression, she’s as sharp and funny as my 100-year-old Aunt Martha. Last night after I took her out to potty, I told her to wait while I stepped into the garage to throw the bag away. Naturally, when I came back in, she had already walked up a few steps. She stood there, smiling at me.

“You wait until I dry off your feet,” I said, and picked up a towel.

She turned tail and ran the rest of the way up. I’m sure she was laughing.

Her eyes are still good, according to the ophthalmologist who checked them at the Cavalier health fair a couple of weeks ago. No signs of glaucoma or cataracts. Not much wrong with her hearing, either. We’re pretty sure that she truly is deaf on one side, but I notice that she almost always hears it when I rattle the lid of the cookie jar. Must be the vibration.

I don’t know what the secret is. I wish I could bottle it and hand it out freely to dog owners. I do think that keeping her on the skinny side has been important, although I suspect that Bella would probably give up a few months in exchange for more cookies. Not me, though.

She is my dear heart.

Loyal Pet Connection reader Mary Mary sent me a fascinating posting, and asked if I thought it was legitimate.  The owner of a German Shepherd is offering $2000 plus expenses for someone who would be willing to donate their German Shepherd’s healthy kidney to replace the failing kidneys of his dog Orso.  Orso is suffering from kidney dysplasia (a genetic, irreversible disorder).  Without a new kidney, Orso will die.  With an organ donation, there’s still no guarantee — organ rejection syndrome works the same way in animals as it does in people, but a small chance is admittedly better than none.

It appears the listing is most likely not a hoax.  Organ transplantation for animals does exist, though it’s prohibitively expensive ($11-13,000 plus post-surgical immuno-suppressive medication costs that can reach $2,000/month for the rest of the recipient’s life) and entails risks on both sides.   The man is understandably hoping against hope that a miracle donor of the same bloodline as his dog is out there, and could save Orso’s life.   Whether it’s legitimate or not, I can’t help.

However, even if Cami or Harry were shepherds, and were from the same bloodline, I still wouldn’t do it.    In people, organ donations happen one of two ways.  Either a living person who matches agrees to donate, or it’s done post mortem, presumably by a donor who agreed to donate while they were still using the organs in question.  Neither scenario is possible with pets.   Neither a cat nor a dog can say “sure, I can live on one kidney. You can have the other one”.  Additionally, post mortem donation isn’t done.  The technology doesn’t exist for that, and even if it did, an elderly pet’s organs are generally not useful for young ones.

But my central point is that I would be violating my responsibility as a conscientious pet owner to allow such a donation.  Cami and Harry can’t give consent, and I have no right to agree to donating their perfectly healthy body part, unnecessarily risking their health (or their life) on behalf of any other animal.  My responsibility is to care for them to the best of my ability, to promote their health and welfare their entire lives.  Most of all, to borrow a line from the Hippocratic Oath, I promise to do no harm.   Although I’m their “owner”, their organs aren’t mine to donate.  Selling or donating [insert body part here] is intentionally doing harm, no matter the justifying rationale.  Seems to me I’d be demonstrating myself to be an irresponsible dog owner, and I’d rather cut off my own right arm than break faith with my best buddy.

I love animals. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t.   My own pet’s health and safety will always be far more important than that of any other animal, without exception or hesitation.   My heart truly goes out to Orso’s owner.   Watching his beloved dog suffering from progressive renal failure has got to be a pain like no other, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy (well, maybe my WORST enemy, but nobody else).   Nevertheless, my pet can’t be their putative savior.  I wouldn’t bet my pet’s health (and life, perhaps) on the speculative gamble that might, perhaps, still not save Orso (the success rate for canine renal transplants is only 40%).  Even if the success rate were better, to me that still wouldn’t be sufficient justification for causing intentional harm.

So what do you think? For purposes of the discussion, let me stipulate three assumptions.

1. The reward money wouldn’t make you or break you.  Of course $2,000 is great to have, but it won’t make the difference between keeping your house or homelessness, food or starvation.  The money doesn’t constitute a critical need.
2. You are a responsible pet owner.  You aren’t going to steal another dog for the reward.  You love your animal(s), you treat them as your children, and you do whatever is best of them.  In other words, you’re not Michael Vick.
3. Your pet won’t die in the process of organ donation.  There are the usual, customary risks of anaesthesia, surgery and recovery, but not more than normal.   Otherwise, they’ll live and eventually be ok, minus one organ.

If you had a pet who matched the breed, bloodlines, age, size and all other relevant parameters, and were faced with the prospect of $2,000 plus expenses to donate your otherwise healthy pet’s organ to a complete stranger, would you?  Please comment and check back to follow.  I’m interested in your opinions.

Photo Credit: Orso: pedigreedatabase.com.  Surgery: flickr creative commons