A Disposable Commodity
Spending the day with Doña Ana County's understaffed, often-maligned Animal Control Officers and the pets discarded into their care.
Story and photos by Jeff Berg
It only takes three hours for Doña Ana County Animal Control Officer (ACO) Paul Richardson to collect 17 unwanted dogs and eight discarded kittens during my recent ride with him. Hardly a record, as a former Doña Ana ACO who now works for the city told me the other day that she once got 29 dogs in one morning.
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Animal Control Officer Paul
Richardson cuddles two puppies at the shelter — moments before they're euthanized. |
But the Doña Ana County Animal Control office is in transition. Oft maligned — unfairly by those who don't have a clue what they are talking about — Animal Control is completely and utterly overwhelmed.
Ellie Choate, the supervisor for the last few years, recently resigned, apparently after some disagreements with upper-level supervisors. The office is already short at least three officers that it has funding for, and Richardson told me they could use at least five more. The four new trucks procured by Choate prior to her departure have had numerous factory-related mechanical problems. One truck broke down just outside of Dallas, where it was purchased.
Animal Control has also just relocated to a new facility. The new office, located across town from most other county offices, is shared with codes-enforcement officers.
The constant drubbing by the community has probably hurt the morale of the few officers that remain. There are only six officers for the whole county, which covers 3,807 square miles, although animals in the city of Las Cruces are handled by a separate, better funded office. One of those county officers is off on extended sick leave and may not be back.
Help is so short that on the day I ride with Richardson, he is the only officer available for the entire county, until acting supervisor Joe Jacquez is able to hit the streets after getting caught up on mounds of paperwork. We leave the office at 8:30 a.m., already delayed an hour by another mountain of paperwork that Richardson needed to wade through.
Our first stop is in Vado, just south of Las Cruces, involving a possible vicious dog. A woman had called in to report she'd cornered a blue pit bull that had broken down the fence holding several chickens she owns. She is mad, mad as hell, not to mention 80 years old and courageous enough to take on a dog that probably could have taken her hand off.
As we turn down the road to that first call, three scruffy little mutts trot down the road in front of us. It is like an omen for the rest of the day. After a moment, Richardson catches up to the dogs, one of which takes off like a shot, while the other two allow their curiosity to get the best of them. Richardson speaks softly to the dirty, black, poodle-size mongrel, and soon it is safely tucked away in one of the air-conditioned cages in the back of the truck. The second dog proves not as dumb as it looks, and makes a beeline for cover. Richardson follows it to a nearby trailer set back in a junk-strewn yard. There he briefly speaks with a young man, reminding him of the county leash law. The second dog reappears briefly, but runs off when he sees me standing by the truck.
A quick U-turn, and we are at the home of the pit-bull-nabbing abuelita. Richardson, a slightly shy but determined young man originally from Animas, NM, leads the way to the scene of the crime.
The elderly woman speaks excitedly in Spanish. We are able to discern that the dog had destroyed three of her birds. The evidence lies where it fell. The pit bull looks at us and wags its tail, acting like we are old friends. Indeed, Richardson has been to the home of the pit bull owner in the past, another trailer with a yard full of cages built with, of course, junk.
A young man answers the door of this trailer, and is sent to fetch his dad, who hobbles down a wooden ramp on an artificial right leg. Casually lying in answer to everything Richardson asks him, the father is soon yelling over Richardson's shoulder at three women walking by: "HEY! Your goddamn shepherds killed the neighbor's chickens!"
I have to suppress a laugh, since the man's pit bull was caught red-pawed at the scene of the crime. A short, heated discussion ensues until the pit bull man accepts responsibility for his dog, one of nine, which is also illegal. "I ain't had the time to get the permit," he whines.
Another lie, of course.
Richardson asks the man if he breeds the dogs, which would require another permit. He scuffs his real foot in the dirt a bit, and says halfheartedly, "Well, I do, but not 24/7. . . ."
Richardson politely lectures the pit bull "rescuer" (as it said in sticky letters on the back of the man's truck) as he writes citations for having too many dogs and a loose dog. I watch, wishfully thinking the man should also be cited for a lack of common sense.
The man's attitude changes now, trying to cut a deal with Richardson and offering to pay for the dead chickens in return for a lesser fine. Richardson agrees to negotiate, and we head to the neighbor's house.
We walk past a shiny new Cadillac Escalade SUV parked in the driveway of the rundown trailer and Richardson knocks on the door.
Abuelita has gone to an appointment — she's probably taking martial-arts lessons — and a heavyset man wearing shorts and a "La soledad" tattoo across his chest answers the door. The conversation is friendly, and after a cell phone call, this part of the matter is settled for $5 a chicken. The pit bull is still going to the pound, and fines will be pending for pit bull "rescue" man.
As we head back to the truck, another little nosy pooch comes up to me, wagging his tail. No collar, tags or bath, the little guy is pretty happy until Richardson gently scoops him up, scratches his matted head, and places him inside one of the other cages.
Richardson calls central dispatch and finds that there are 21 — that's right,
21 — calls for him to answer, just in the southwest county area, east of I-10
and including Sunland Park and parts north. Most of the calls are from goodhearted
citizens who are reporting strays or wanting to borrow traps to humanely catch
a stray dog or cat hanging around their home.
Our next stop is in beautiful Berino, where the town motto seems to be, "If you stand still long enough, we will be glad to cover you with graffiti." One of the calls has come from a helpful citizen who reported two strays left behind by thoughtless tenants who have moved away.
Since many of the houses in this area lack proper addressing (I am always glad that I don't work with EMTs who might be trying to find a house that is not properly marked), we spend several futile minutes looking for the right house until a woman flags us down. She is pleasant and helpful, and describes the two medium-sized dogs, one black, one brown, she saw just a short time ago near the house where they were abandoned.
We drive around a bit in search of the dogs, but without success. It had rained the night before, and the roads are mostly mud and sand. Richardson notes the new Animal Control vehicles' lack of — and need for — four-wheel drive, something the older trucks had. But that is his only complaint about the new, otherwise improved trucks, which now have air-conditioned cages for the animals he picks up.
On our way back to the main road, we encounter a small brown dog. It turns out to be another stray, but taken in by the family whose house it ran to.
"The baby likes her," says the young teenage girl who answers the door and points to her toddling sister standing next to her, "so my mom said we could keep her."
Richardson encourages better care for the animal and tells the girl of the county leash law before we drive off.
County law, although thoroughly unenforceable, states that any animal that is chained outside must have water and shelter, and can be chained for no more than eight hours at a time.
"I'd like to see a ban on chaining altogether," Richardson says.
As we head south, Richardson tells me of some of the tribulations that Doña Ana County Animal Control is facing. Not only are they short-handed and in the middle of a move, but they have lost several officers to Las Cruces City Animal Control, which pays much better for less work and less stress.
I note Richardson's meager salary, but he tells me that he stays because of his sense of dedication to the job and to the animals.
Richardson moved to Las Cruces to attend NMSU, but dropped out before attaining the art degree he was working on. In his off hours, however, he still enjoys painting and sculpting. He maintains a Web site, www.prichardson.info, which shows a wide array of his interesting and beautiful work.
He and his fiancé, Kalee, an accounting major at NMSU who also works as an accountant part-time, have seven dogs and five cats. "A Chihuahua recently turned up on our doorstep," he says with a smile. "I wasn't going to take it in, but she fell in love with it." Somewhat embarrassed but with a laugh he adds, "I came home the other day, and she had put a dress on it. A dress!"
Richardson tells me that ACOs are supplied with pepper spray and "asps" — a kind of telescoping baton — but that he rarely uses either. As he is telling me this, he asks, "Do you mind if I turn up the A/C?" Since I can never be too cold, or cold at all, I readily agree.
As he cranks up the cooling, Richardson shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He says, "It wouldn't be so bad if we didn't have to wear these vests."
All ACOs wear bulletproof vests on duty, as a result of two different malcontents who took shots at former supervisor Choate a while ago. "Both times they shot at her truck as she was driving away," Richardson says. "We are supposed to call for a sheriff's deputy if a person becomes 'disagreeable.'"
But that can be a challenge in itself since the county is also short of law-enforcement officers.
Besides the new trucks and vests, ACOs now have digital cameras and laptops, thanks to efforts by Choate. Oddly, though, Doña Ana County doesn't spring for rabies vaccinations for its animal-control officers.
"I've been bitten a lot," Richardson says as he notes the scars and the healing sores that dot his arms, "but not seriously." He adds that he and his colleagues are trying to get a group discount so that they can afford what should be a mandatory offering from their employers.
Paul Richardson has been an ACO for four years. The only officer senior to him now is acting supervisor Jacquez, who has been chasing strays and getting verbal abuse for 17 years. All of the other men and women who serve as county ACOs have been on the job for two years or less.
"They recently tried hiring some new ones," Richardson says, "but had to reject them because a couple of them had lengthy criminal records."
The search goes on, however, and Jacquez also told me earlier about a new ACO volunteer program slated to start this fall. It is hoped that the dozen or so people they have recruited for this program will serve to educate the public about the proper care for their pets, and also do follow-up calls, something Richardson laments not having time to do.
A fruitless stop at another rundown residence in Berino, across the street from a trailer house that looks like it's about to tip over onto the shiny new Hummer parked next it, and then it is on to the "big" stop of the day.
This one is in Chamberino, which Richardson says is one of the worst areas for animal neglect.
Richardson has been at this house before, and for the same reason: The family calls for Animal Control to come and pick up their unwanted litters of puppies. This is another frequent occurrence within the county, since common sense can't be legislated.
A small child yells for his mom as we pull up, and she comes out of the dilapidated house to meet with Richardson. There are three dogs tied on chains in the yard, and she tells us where to find the puppies.
There are eight of them. They lie piled atop each other under a camper shell, just another piece of junk scattered around a yard loaded with junk and feces.
The puppies are sound asleep a few yards from their mother, who is tied a short distance away with a rope, teats bulging with milk. It appears to be a blue healer mix; the father might have been the young German shepherd chained nearby. Another younger blue healer dozes in the shade of a shed.
The woman can't speak English, but Richardson knows enough Spanish to get her to sign a voluntary release.
A young boy darts out of the house next door to look at the puppies snoozing in what they might have imagined to be a safe world. Their older brother, perhaps a year old, may be dreaming about whatever dogs dream about. Perhaps it's freedom from the strong-looking chain that limits his world to 10 square yards.
"These yours?" I ask the boy.
"Sí," he replies. For a minute, I think he is going to play with one of the pups, but he disappears as quickly as he appeared.
Officer Richardson and I load the half-pound balls of fur into one of the stainless-steel holding pens of his truck. He then uses a leash to bring their older brother to the truck, tucking the dog inside a larger cage where it has a bit more room.
These trusting animals have no way of knowing that the paper signed by their "owner," a term I use in the loosest possible way, is actually their death warrant. Nor do I know that until we return to the Doña Ana County Animal Shelter.
Although Richardson maintains a pleasant and even demeanor, I can tell that this type of situation shakes him a little bit. Personally, I am appalled, especially knowing that the behavior will continue — as demonstrated by the nonchalance of the young boy who came to look at the pups before we took them away.
Across the street, the neighbor's dog barked non-stop while we were at this house. We might have been doing it a favor if we had taken it off its short chain and taken the dog with us.
Richardson remarks on the nice houses that are scattered among the trailers and tumbledown quarters that make up this area.
We are soon cruising down Hwy. 28 — "racehorse country," Richardson notes. Most of the houses in this area are large, well kept, and peppered with horse breeding or training facilities. County Animal Control doesn't usually handle large animal calls, which are left to the livestock agents. ACOs also no longer handle wild-animal calls, such as those for skunks or raccoons.
Snakes are still on the menu, but Richardson says he has only had two such calls this summer. Captured snakes are moved to the desert, but recent studies have shown this might not bode well for these fascinating reptiles. Where they are at is usually their territory, and moving them can mean their demise.
"Sometime people call about a snake being on the road," he adds with a note of disbelief.
We make one more stop before heading to the Sunland Park Municipal Complex. This is at a house in a subdivision just west of Sunland Park, made up of larger homes packed tightly together, many with small yards with green grass. They look woefully out of place in this area — like a piece of a suburban metro area dumped in the desert.
"This is another voluntary release," Richardson tells me — an unwanted litter of kittens.
No one has questioned my presence all day, probably thinking I am in training or a supervisor. Richardson noted earlier that most new officers have to wear street clothes for a while when they first come on the job. Uniform orders seem to be slow in coming.
The house is tall, and a large rosebush adorns the front. The flowers have fragrance, unlike most desert rose bushes. I am lulled into a momentary respite from the day's unpleasant attacks on my olfactory resources.
A young girl answers the door, and lets us in. The house is disgusting, filthy with trash and clothing strewn everywhere. Pet food is spilled on the carpet, and containers of open food dot the kitchen countertops. It may be a good idea for this family to move that rosebush and its fragrance inside.
Four of the kittens are caught right away, and put into a cage Richardson has brought into the home. There are two others, one of whom escapes to a secret hiding place, and another that isn't seen at all. The family says they will call again when they catch the other two. As Richardson and the children look for the errant kittens, the mother cat comes out of hiding and approaches the cage.
Gently sniffing the contents, its babies, it meows softly several times, and walks slowly around the container. A tiny gray-and-white leg reaches out to it, several times, as does a black one. The mother cat tenderly sniffs the paws on the end of the small legs as Richardson closes the cage and we head for the door. I cannot wait to get out of this horrible house and its terrible energy. Two dogs also live here, but will remain residents — at least for now.
We head farther south to Sunland Park, which has its own animal control officer, but no shelter. Behind the police station, which is poorly placed just paces from the city sewage-treatment plant, are several holding pens that George Ortega, the Sunland Park ACO, uses until a county officer can make it down to haul his catch away. Ortega has been busy, and has picked up two puppies, four kittens and several older dogs. One sweet black-and-white pooch yaps happily at our arrival, and demands immediate muzzle scratching.
Richardson rearranges his charges so that all of the animals from Sunland Park can make the trip north. The new kittens join the kittens that were previously picked up. The two puppies join their counterparts from the Chamberino stop. The young black-and-white pooch barks and barks and wags its tail as Richardson completes the jigsaw puzzle that his truck has become. Dogs are doubled up, and a friendly Chihuahua with a collar gets to ride in a cage in the same compartment with the cats.
We bid farewell to Ortega, and head back to Las Cruces.
On what seems like a very long ride, Richardson answers my questions about the flurry of animal hoarders who have been busted in Las Cruces over the last few months. He took part in the latest one, where a Las Cruces Public Schools employee was found to have 125 animals including 59 cats, 33 dogs, 25 chickens, five ducks, two goats and a rooster on his property. Three other animal hoarders have been busted just since May, including one case that involved almost 100 cats; a second person had 130 cats, and the third had 50. Remarkably, in the ever-goofy "Sound Off" section of the Las Cruces Sun-News and even in signed letters to the editor, people have defended the man involved in the latest case.
If Richardson were an eye roller, this would be the time he would do it, but he does not. Instead he explains that even though these hoarders think they are being helpful, they are not. He tells me that the cats that were most recently rescued suffered from any number of diseases, the dogs were filthy and some were sick. "There were cats everywhere. We would open up a cabinet and a cat would jump out. The kitchen drawers had cat shit in them and the smell was overpowering."
Through all of these adventures and misadventures of the day, Richardson has remained calm and even-tempered with all of the people we have called upon. Each time he went to the door of a home, he would put his hands in his pockets, almost looking like he was sorry to have to bother the animal abusers. Perhaps in some way he is sorry that he even has to do what he does, as often as he does.
We arrive back at the shelter around 1 p.m. The threatening sky finally unleashes its fury, almost as though St. Francis of Assisi is weeping uncontrollably for about 15 minutes.
Richardson gives me a quick tour of the shelter, which is overcrowded with lost or abandoned pets. He notes that 70 percent of the animals brought to the facility come from the county, as opposed to the city of Las Cruces. Shelter workers and volunteers outnumber potential pet adopters, and are busily cleaning, grooming and feeding the cats and dogs. Partially due to the influx of animals from the hoarder, some kennels are doubled up with dogs that are friendly with one another; some smaller dogs are in carrying cages in the hallway, as are some cats. Nearly every cage has at least one pair of begging eyes peering from inside. As expected, the mutts are noisy, but as I pass by their temporary homes, only one dog appears downright mean. Almost all of the others that aren't napping approach the cage door for attention. One young shepherd is almost able to leap over the eight-foot fence that keeps him off the streets.
Pit Bull Man is already at the shelter, ready to reclaim his smoky-blue dog. It gets unloaded first so it can go back "home" to a cage smaller than the one it is in while Richardson attends to the paperwork. Odd that the man has time to reclaim this dog, but not to do the right thing concerning licensing and such.
The rain stops, and then Richardson is able to unload the rest of the shelter's new guests. We are parked near the back of the building, behind a security fence.
Next off the truck is the young blue healer given up by the woman who surrendered the puppies. Perfectly docile, the dog, which does not look very healthy, is lifted to an examination table. Robert, a technician, shaves a small circle of fur off the animal's left front leg, reaches for a syringe filled with a blue liquid and injects it into the unsuspecting dog. It reacts for just a moment before crumbling to the table, eyes wide open, but dead.
John, Robert's assistant, strokes the dog while this occurs. Robert gives the healer another injection near the heart, and that is that. John places the animal in a body bag.
"Hold your nose," John says, as he opens the door to a large freezer. The bag containing the healer is placed inside with the bodies of who knows how many other animals that have been euthanized today. Briefly, the smell hits me and makes my eyes water. John closes the freezer and says, "They go to the dump," when I ask him where these former pets end up.
"On an average day, we put 15 to 20 animals down," Robert adds.
Doña Ana County euthanized 11,000 animals last year. 11,000. I'd recently read that Broward County, Fla., had to put down around 13,000 animals last year, so I checked: The population of Broward County is 1.8 million, while Doña Ana County has just under 200,000 humans.
"Everyone thinks we are the bad guys, the dog killers, but we know this is not true," Robert goes on. "I've been doing this for eight years, and still haven't gotten completely used to it. For a lot of these animals (the ones that are sick or unadoptable), the few days that they spend here are probably the best days of their lives. They get food, fresh water, shelter and attention from the dog walkers or from a 'foster' family. People really need to be educated about what we do here."
John goes outside for a smoke. He is new to this job, and certainly not very fond of this part of his work.
Richardson brings in the cage full of puppies next, who are still mostly asleep. The technicians quickly examine them. Richardson confers with them briefly — he worked at the shelter for three years before becoming an ACO — and the cage is lifted to the examining table. Some of the puppies squirm, and one tries to nurse on one of its brothers or sisters. This will be their downfall. The techs and Richardson have had to make the painful decision that these little balls of fluff will have to be put to sleep. They are too young and should still be weaned, a process that the overburdened shelter cannot take on. Several other technicians and volunteers wander in during this time, gently petting the pups and cooing softly to them.
John picks up the first puppy, and Robert injects the blue liquid into its tummy. Richardson explains that they have to do it this way for puppies and cats because their veins are not developed enough to hit with the needle. He tells me that the only pain they will feel is the pinch of the needle and a slight burning sensation. It is all over in a matter of minutes, he says, perhaps five at the most. They just go to sleep.
One by one, John picks up the puppies and Richard injects them. John then softly places them in a box near the table. Several yelp when Robert pokes them with the syringe, but are soon quiet. John holds the last couple of puppies for an extra minute or two, and strokes the soft fur. I reach over to touch the last two who are still breathing quietly, but I cannot see what I am touching through my tear-filled eyes.
Borrowing a line from another writer whose name is lost,
Las Cruces-based
senior writer Jeff Berg says he does these
"ride-along" articles
to '"lift people out of their preconceptions."