From an Animal Control Officer who Gasses Dogs
Yes, I gas dogs and cats for a living.
I'm an Animal Control officer in a very small town in central North Carolina.
I'm in my mid thirties, and have been working for the town in different positions since high school.
There is not much work here, and working for the county provides good pay and benefits for a person like me without a higher education.
I'm the person you all write about how horrible I am.
I'm the one that gasses the dogs and cats and makes them suffer.
I'm the one that pulls their dead corpses out smelling of carbon monoxide and throws them into green plastic bags.
But I'm also the one that hates my job and hates what I have to do.
First off, all you people out there that judge me, don't. God is judging me, and I know I'm going to Hell. Yes, I'm going to hell. I wont lie. It's despicable, cold, cruel and I feel like a serial killer. But I'm not all to blame. If the law would mandate spay and neuter, lots of these dogs and cats wouldn't even be here for me to gas. I'm the devil, I know it, but I want you people to see that there is another side to me the devil Gas Chamber man.
The shelter usually gasses on Friday morning.
Friday's are the day that most people look forward to, this is the day that I hate, and wish that time will stand still on Thursday night. Thursday night, late, after nobody's around, my friend and I go through a fast food line, and buy 50 dollars worth of cheeseburgers and fries, and chicken. I'm not allowed to feed the dogs on Thursday, for I'm told that they will make a mess in the gas chamber, and why waste the food.
So, Thursday night, with the lights still closed, I go into the saddest room that anyone can every imagine, and let all the doomed dogs out out their cages.
I have never been bit, and in all my years doing this, the dogs have never fought over the food. My buddy and I open each wrapper of cheeseburger and chicken sandwich, and feed them to the skinny, starving dogs.
They swallow the food so fast, that I don't believe they even taste it. Their tails are wagging, and some don't even go for the food, they roll on their backs wanting a scratch on their belly. They start running, jumping and kissing me and my buddy. They go back to their food, and come back to us. All their eyes are on us with such trust and hope, and their tails wag so fast, that I have come out with black and blues on my thighs. They devour the food, then it's time for them to devour some love and peace. My buddy and I sit down on the dirty, pee stained concrete floor, and we let the dogs jump on us. They lick us, they put their butts in the air to play, and they play with each other. Some lick each other, but most are glued on me and my buddy.
I look into the eyes of each dog. I give each dog a name.
They will not die without a name.
I give each dog 5 minutes of unconditional love and touch.
I talk to them, and tell them that I'm so sorry that tomorrow they will die a gruesome, long, torturous death at the hands of me in the gas chamber.
Some tilt their heads to try to understand.
I tell them, that they will be in a better place, and I beg them not to hate me.
I tell them that I know I'm going to hell, but they will all be playing with all the dogs and cats in heaven.
After about 30 minutes, I take each dog individually, into their feces filled concrete jail cell, and pet them and scratch them under their chins. Some give me their paw, and I just want to die. I just want to die. I close the jail cell on each dog, and ask them to forgive me. As my buddy and I are walking out, we watch as every dog is smiling at us and them don't even move their heads. They will sleep, with a full belly, and a false sense of security.
As we walk out of the doomed dog room, my buddy and I go to the cat room.
We take our box, and put the very friendly kittens and pregnant cats in our box.
The shelter doesn't keep tabs on the cats like they do the dogs.
As I hand pick which cats are going to make it out, I feel like I'm playing God, deciding whose going to live and die.
We take the cats into my truck, and put them on blankets in the back.
Usually, as soon as we start to drive away, there are purring cats sitting on our necks or rubbing against us.
My buddy and I take our one-way two hour trip to a county that is very wealthy and they use injection to kill animals.
We go to exclusive neighborhoods, and let one or two cats out at a time.
They don't want to run, they want to stay with us. We shoo them away, which makes me feel sad.
I tell them that these rich people will adopt them, and if worse comes to worst and they do get put down, they will be put down with a painless needle being cradled by a loving veterinarian. After the last cat is free, we drive back to our town.
It's about 5 in the morning now, about two hours until I have to gas my best friends.
I go home, take a shower, take my 4 anti-anxiety pills and drive to work... I don't eat, I can't eat. It's now time to put these animals in the gas chamber. I put my ear plugs in, and when I go to the collect the dogs, the dogs are so excited to see me, that they jump up to kiss me and think they are going to play.
I put them in the rolling cage and take them to the gas chamber. They know. They just know. They can smell the death....They can smell the fear. They start whimpering the second I put them in the box. The boss tells me to squeeze in as many as I can to save on gas. He watches. He knows I hate him, he knows I hate my job. I do as I'm told. He watches until all the dogs, and cats (thrown in together) are fighting and screaming. The sounds is very muffled to me because of my ear plugs. He walks out, I turn the gas on, and walk out.
I walk out as fast as I can. I walk into the bathroom, and I take a pin and draw blood from my hand. The pain and blood takes my brain off of what I just did.
In 40 minutes, I have to go back and unload the dead animals. I pray that none survived, which happens when I overstuff the chamber. I pull them out with thick gloves, and the smell of carbon monoxide makes me sick. So does the vomit and blood, and all the bowel movements. I pull them out and put them in plastic bags.
They are in heaven now, I tell myself.
I then start cleaning up the mess, the mess, that YOU PEOPLE are creating by not spay or neutering your animals. The mess that YOU PEOPLE are creating by not demanding that a vet come in and do this humanely.
You ARE THE TAXPAYERS, DEMAND that this practice STOP!
So, don't call me the monster, the devil, the gasser, call the politicians, the shelter directors, and the county people the devil. Heck, call the governor, tell him to make it stop.
As usual, I will take sleeping pills tonight to drown out the screams I heard in the past, before I discovered the ear plugs. I will jump and twitch in my sleep, and I believe I'm starting to hallucinate.
This is my life. Don't judge me. Believe me, I judge myself enough.
My Foster Dog
My foster dog stinks to high heaven.
I don't know for sure what breed he is.
His eyes are blank and hard.
He won't let me pet him and growls when I reach for him.
He has ragged scars and crusty sores on his skin.
His nails are long and his teeth, which he showed me, are stained.
I sigh.
I drove two hours for this.
I carefully maneuver him so that I can stuff him in the crate without being bitten.
Then I heft the crate and put it in the car. I am going home with my new foster dog.
At home I leave him in the crate 'til all the other dogs are in the yard.
I get him out of the crate and ask him if he wants "outside."
As I lead him to the door he hikes his leg on the wall
and shows me his stained teeth again.
When we come in, he immediately goes to the crate because that's the only safe place he sees.
I offer him food but he won't eat it if I look at him, so I turn my back.
When I come back, the food is gone.
I ask again about "outside." When we come back, I pat him before I let
him in the crate; he jerks away and runs into the crate to show me his teeth.
The next day I decide I can't stand the stink any longer.
I lead him into the bath with cheese in my hands.
His fear of me is not quite overcome by his longing for the cheese.
And well, he should fear me, for I will give him a bath.
After an attempt or two to bail out he is defeated and stands there.
I have bathed four legged bath squirters for more years than he has been alive.
His only defense was a show of his stained teeth, that did not hold up to a face full of water.
As I wash him, it is almost as if I wash not only the stink and dirt away but also the hardness.
His eyes look full of sadness now.
And he looks completely pitiful as only a soap covered dog can.
I tell him that he will feel better when he is cleaned.
After the soap, the towels are not too bad. He lets me rub him dry.
I take him outside.
He runs for joy. . . the joy of not being in the tub and the joy of being clean.
I, the bath giver, am allowed to share the joy. He comes to me and lets me pet him.
One week later I have a vet bill.
His skin is healing.
He likes for me to pet him (I think).
I know what color he will be when his hair grows in.
I have found out he is terrified of other dogs, so I carefully introduce him to my mildest four-legged brat.
It doesn't go well.
Two weeks later a new vet bill for an infection, that was missed on the first visit.
He starts to play with the other dogs.
Three weeks later his coat shines and he has gained weight.
He shows his clean teeth when his tongue lolls out after he plays chase in the yard with the gang.
His eyes are soft and filled with life.
He loves hugs and likes to show off his tricks.....if you have the cheese.
Someone called today and asked about him. They saw the picture I took the first week.
They ask about his personality, his history, his breed. They ask if he is pretty now.
I ask them lots of questions.
I check up on them.
I pray.
I say yes.
When they see him the first time they say he is the most beautiful dog they have ever seen.
Six months later, I get a call from his new family.
He is wonderful, smart, well behaved, and very loving.
They ask - how could someone not want him?
I tell them I don't know.
He is beautiful.
They all are.
Live a Life that Matters
Ready or not, some day it will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no minutes, hours or days.
All the things you collected, whether treasured or forgotten, will pass to someone else.
Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance.
It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.
Your grudges, resentments, frustrations and jealousies will finally disappear.
So too, your hopes, ambitions, plans and to-do lists will expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.
It won't matter where you came from or what side of the tracks you lived on at the end.
It won't matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant.
Even your gender and skin color will be irrelevant.
So what will matter? How will the value of your days be measured?
What will matter is not what you bought, but what you built; not what you got, but what you gave.
What will matter is not your success, but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned, but what you taught.
What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage or sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.
What will matter is not your competence, but your character.
What will matter is not how many people you knew, but how many will feel a lasting loss when you're gone.
What will matter is not your memories, but the memories that live in those who loved you.
What will matter is not how long you will be remembered, but by whom and for what.
Living a life that matters doesn't happen by accident
It happens by choice.
People that are admired by others do not directly seek that admiration.
They instead have sought to change things. Real value, they create.
If the videos and the words that you just viewed above had any impact on you at all, PLEASE help us speak up for the animals. We always need fosters, volunteers and donors.
Email us and let us know how you can help!
