Animal Shelters

Public animal shelters will never look like -- or be run like -- the Four Seasons. But according to animal welfare activists, volunteers and private rescuers, the shelters operated by the Los Angeles County Department of Animal Care & Control sometimes resemble dog pounds of yore.

After months of criticism -- and three lawsuits -- about the shelters operated by the Los Angeles County Department of Animal Care & Control, the agency's director appeared before the Board of Supervisors on Tuesday to defend her stewardship. Los Angeles County Supervisor Yvonne B. Burke had asked director Marcia Mayeda, in December, to prepare a report on the Carson shelter, after Burke's office was inundated with complaints.

When Chloe the gibbon and her mate Ivan hear trucks rumbling along nearby streets and helicopters clacking overhead, they dart and leap erratically. Betty, Truman, Sasha and Tuk soon join the frenzy, along with 28 other apes. But the residents at the Gibbon Conservation Center aren't just monkeying around. "It's a stressful situation for them," said Alan Mootnick, founder of the nonprofit center just outside Santa Clarita. "They don't know which direction to turn.

They are the people who take care of the cats and dogs that other people don't want. In Los Angeles' seven city-run shelters, animal care technicians calm traumatized animals, feed hostile ones and clean hundreds of kennels. They also administer the drugs that euthanize those would-be pets that never get adopted, and, in a last act of comfort, hold them close as they succumb. During the day, they play matchmaker for adoptable animals and potential owners.

San Francisco officials have rejected a plan to turn the city's zoo into a sanctuary for rescued animals. Seven city supervisors voted Tuesday against the legislation, which opponents said would have hurt the zoo's donor base and left the facility with only sick or injured animals. Supporters argued that the proposal would have improved the city's oversight of the zoo and forced it to take better care of its animals. The zoo is owned by the city but operated by a nonprofit organization.

Across California, municipal animal shelters and humane societies are reporting increases in pet relinquishments this year as high as 30%. Families losing their homes in the credit crisis or losing their jobs are dropping off their Fluffies and Fidos, adding moral and emotional insult to economic injury. And Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger has found a way to make matters worse.

As the city of Los Angeles spends millions revamping its animal shelters, 10 of 12 veterinary positions in the Department of Animal Services, including that of chief veterinarian, go vacant. The lack of veterinarians has raised questions about the department's ability to care for the thousands of animals under its charge. It is especially notable given the stated priorities of the department's general manager, Ed Boks, whose promises upon taking the job a year ago included more humane treatment.

On any given day in the six city-run animal shelters, there are roughly 1,000 dogs, cats and rabbits, most available for adoption. On average, 56 are adopted daily and 50 are euthanized -- or killed, as private animal welfare groups bluntly put it. A "no-kill" policy is the holy grail for municipal shelters nationwide.

The city shelters didn't empty out all of their 1,000 or so animals during last weekend's big adoption promotion, but business was brisk enough to extend a moratorium on the euthanasia of healthy animals through today. The Los Angeles Department of Animal Services said that from Friday through Sunday, the city adopted out 323 animals -- cats, dogs, rabbits and a few other creatures, including a snake.

Ed Boks says he runs the Los Angeles city department that "most people love to hate." Taking over as general manager of Los Angeles Animal Services a little more than a year ago, he became the fourth person in four years to oversee the care of thousands of animals in city shelters. The turnover rate alone illustrates the political pressure that historically hangs over the department as it manages the population of unwanted pets whose treatment people care about deeply -- even radically.