Strays and Ferals

You want to piss me off righteous and proper? Let me catch you dumping a dog.

Considering how much I talk about the boys, you'd be justified in assuming that I'm a "dog person." Not so much, really - I always used to joke that I like other people's dogs, because dogs are needy. I like to visit them, spoil them like grandchildren, and then go home. My current situation started as simple circumstance, but I've been around these fellows long enough that they've become my family no matter what my original inclination. But I'm not, temperamentally, a dog person.

Even so, though I'm not always simpatico with them, I understand enough about a typical dog's psychology that I know the greatest crime you can commit against a dog is to take it out and dump it. Dogs are pack creatures; they tend to find their whole identity in their family. Dumping is the ultimate rejection; the ultimate betrayal. It's no wonder that so many dumped dogs simply die, even in a food-rich environment. It's no wonder that so many that live, turn mean. Dogs understand devotion: Hell, they embody it. And so they understand its flip-side; betrayal, sorrow, fear, and anger. Or maybe they don't understand such things, I don't know. But they can surely express them.

I'm thinking about these things this morning because of two incidents that happened yesterday. My neighbors, D&L, are attempting to adopt a dog that strayed onto their property. I forget just what breed he told me it was; some sort of short-haired terrier. I caught a ride to town with him yesterday to arrange for the delivery of the new generator, and visited the dog at his property. It wanted nothing to do with me; it still will barely tolerate him, but it accepts attention from his wife L. The poor little thing is a mess; skinny, tick and flea-infested, worm-ridden. It's got a couple of broken teeth, is afraid of men generally, and has certainly been abused terribly. But it still had enough desire to live to give joining a new family one last try, and for that I wish it well. That little terrier will never know how very lucky it is. It will probably stay with D&L, and so it will probably live. Someday it might even recover some small measure of happiness. I hope so.

While in town D and I visited the local vet, and the conversation naturally turned to strays in general. The area has had quite an infestation of them, and they've been forming feral gangs that have the cattle ranchers (literally) up in arms. The local cattle operations are shoestring affairs. They depend on open range and can't put up with much predation.

The most common predators around here are coyotes, but even in packs coyotes aren't much danger to adult cattle. They'll cheerfully eat a dead or dying cow, but don't hunt healthy ones. The only time coyotes get interested in cattle is when they're calving, but cows with calves stay together and do not tolerate coyotes. Coyotes are not animals that like to take a lot of chances, and they don't have to; there are plenty of other things to eat that they're fast enough to catch.

Dogs are not usually fast enough to live on rabbits, and the ones that survive long enough to become a problem are too big to live on mice and rats. So those that form packs often go after slow, delicious cattle. They're not terribly professional about it: They rarely kill a cow outright, but rather tear off enough chunks for a meal and leave animals so badly damaged the rancher has no choice but to put it down. So you can imagine the ranchers' joy and delight in their company. They'll shoot any cattle-chasing dog on sight, which is one reason I try to chase cattle out of our meadow myself.

The thing that makes feral dog packs more dangerous to people than any truly wild animal is that they don't share wild animals' instinctive fear of humans; that's been bred out of them. Some of them have an absolute animosity toward humans. Given their individual history I don't blame them for that, but the fact remains. Like any other creature that wants to live, I'm inclined to kill what I fear and I fear feral dogs. So a stray dog I encounter in the desert has a limited window of opportunity to prove that it's not feral; otherwise it's going to get a bullet in the head. This ain't no city park.

I'd like to tell you a story about a time when that almost happened, but this post has already grown too long. Sometime I'll tell you the story of The Noob. Not right now.

But know this: Most such stories do not end as happily as The Noob's did, or as that of my neighbor's new visitor is likely to. Most such stories end very badly.

Now I speak to those inclined to dump unwanted dogs. I speak, unbidden, on behalf of the desert people, the ranchers and the townie commuters and the cedar rats, the people who live here - the people forced to defend their children and livestock and pets from the results of your irresponsibility and immaturity.

When you dump a dog, the very best thing it can reasonably expect is that it will go down with one of our bullets in its brain, with a little dignity, like a warrior. Far more likely it will die a slow, agonizing death of disease and starvation and dehydration and sorrow brought on by your callous betrayal. The chances that it will find a new home before it's too far gone to save are negligible. If you're the sort to dump a trusting but troublesome dog, you can lie to yourself about it all you want. You can pretend you believe that it will find a new family, or live a free, wild and happy life. But it knows what you've done. And so do we.

And while we're shooting the dog you betrayed, or burying its pitiful remains, we're cursing you.

Just so you know.