Back to Our Roots
In 1866, Henry Bergh, the son of a wealthy New York City shipbuilder, started the nation’s first humane society, the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. With top hat and cane, gentleman-turned-humane officer Henry Bergh began patrolling the streets of New York City in an effort to protect animals. Within two years of the ASPCA’s incorporation, animals were better cared for, and water troughs and buckets for thirsty horses could be seen throughout the city. The modern humane movement was born.
The article was adapted from the book Redemption: The Myth of Pet Overpopulation and the No Kill Revolution in America (Almaden: 2007) by Nathan J. Winograd. Mr. Winograd, a graduate of Stanford Law School and a former criminal prosecutor and corporate attorney, is one of the foremost national No Kill leaders. For more information, visit nathanwinograd.com.
And while early humane efforts often focused on protecting “working” animals such as carriage horses and others, Bergh’s SPCA labored equally hard to protect dogs from being killed at the local pound. In New York City, for example, the dog pound was nothing more than a rough shed where as many as 300 dogs were kept with little or no shelter and no food or water. The dogs were left lying in their own waste, tied up in close proximity, and sometimes fighting each other until they were killed. Henry Bergh battled with the city, advocating for more humane conditions, and in each instance won.
Tired of fighting Bergh, New York City offered Bergh’s ASPCA money to run the dog pound. But Henry Bergh refused. He believed the SPCA he created was a tool to champion and protect life, not to end it. Bergh’s answer was clear. “This Society,” he wrote, “could not stultify its principles so far as to encourage the tortures which the proposed give rise to…” Henry Bergh would not allow his ASPCA to do the city’s bidding in killing unwanted dogs.
Whether fighting for the rights of animals or protecting stray dogs, Bergh’s ASPCA grew in both scope and influence. In a very short period of time, Canada and 25 states and territories across North America had used the ASPCA as a model for their own independent humane societies and SPCAs and the numbers continued to grow. By the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, virtually every major city in the United States had an SPCA or humane society. And all of them owed their existence and their platform to a single man—Henry Bergh. But then, something happened. Somewhere along the path, the humane movement lost its way.
Following Henry Bergh’s death—and contrary to his wishes—the ASPCA capitulated and accepted a contract from New York City to run the dog pound. It was a tragic mistake. In little more than a decade, animal sheltering became the ASPCA’s primary role. By 1910, the ASPCA was doing little more than impounding dogs and cats on behalf of the city, with all but a small percentage put to death. Other SPCAs around the nation followed. The guaranteed source of income provided by contracts helped sway many SPCAs and humane societies to abandon their traditional platforms of advocacy and cruelty prosecutions in favor of administering dog control for cities and counties. In virtually every American city or county, the pound work was placed in the hands of the humane society. Within a decade or two, most mainstream humane societies and SPCAs did little more than kill dogs and cats.
From the ASPCA in New York City to humane societies throughout California, the twentieth century saw killing become the centerpiece of shelter strategy. It is the paradigm we live with to this very day. And while many of these organizations became very large and influential, they also became bureaucratic, with none of the zeal for reform that characterized the movement’s early founders. A critic of this shift, Ed Duvin, summarized it accurately:
Historically, SPCAs made the tragic mistake of moving from compassionate oversight of animal control agencies to operating the majority of kill shelters. The consequences in terms of resource allocation and sacrificing a coherent moral foundation have been devastating.
Put more bluntly, when the ASPCA took over the pound contract in New York City following Henry Bergh’s death, it began a century of squandering not only his life work, but more significantly the ASPCA’s vast potential. Bergh’s ideal of a humane agency founded to save the lives of animals was replaced with shelters across the country whose primary purpose was—and unfortunately in some places, still is—killing animals, whether or not they are suffering.
For far too many years, shelters across the U.S. have routinely killed millions of dogs and cats. Many of
these animals were healthy and friendly, and would have made excellent companions had they been afforded a little bit of space and time—space and time enough to find a loving home. But with holding periods ranging from zero to 10 days, most did not, under the outdated belief that solutions were impossible, no one would adopt them, and the best we can do for homeless animals is provide a quick death behind closed doors.
But thankfully, we are coming full circle. Shelters are moving back to their roots. Thanks to the No Kill
movement, shelters are challenging the status quo. These new leaders, bringing with them a deep and abiding love for animals and a “can do” attitude, are taking on positions of leadership at SPCAs, humane societies, and animal control shelters across the nation. With no allegiance to the status quo or faith in conventional “wisdom,” new leaders are causing dog and cat deaths to plummet in cities and counties by
rejecting the “adopt some and kill the rest” inertia of the past 100 years.
And while New York City is used to setting trends, it is currently being swallowed up by one. The No Kill movement, he would no doubt have championed, is now challenging the status quo in Henry Bergh’s hometown. After more than a century of silence, the voice of compassion remaking itself heard.
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A Personal Look at PAWS Chicago’s Evolution
Groups of people hurried toward the entrance, pausing to admire the cats and dogs at play on the other side of the glass. Sharing the eagerness of those around me, I made my way inside the new PAWS Chicago Adoption Center for the opening reception. As I toured the facility, the welcoming, homelike atmosphere was everywhere–in the sitting area complete with bookshelves and fireplace, the serene rooftop garden, and, of course, the cheerful animal suites. Flowing throughout the Center was the distinct blend of joy and determination that has underscored every experience I’ve had with PAWS Chicago since joining the organization as a volunteer in 1999. Warmed by this mood and my surroundings, I found myself reflecting on my first encounter with PAWS.
Blame the Jack Russell Terrier; before him I wasn’t sure. I was an unlikely PAWS volunteer. I didn’t grow up around dogs, though I’d admired them with a sort of distant reverence. Always delighted to spend time with friends’ canine companions, I hadn’t considered making them an ongoing part of my own life. Until I walked past a curious Lincoln Park store-front on Clark Street in early 1999. In sharp contrast to the neighboring retailers and offices, this window revealed a gathering of dogs, some playing with human companions, some resting, all looking quite content on this particular day. I would pass by several more times before deciding to go in and investigate. The organization was called PAWS Chicago, I learned. They were hoping to build awareness about pet overpopulation and improve the odds of adoption for homeless animals by increasing their visibility. And yes, they were taking volunteers. I signed up mostly because walking and playing with the dogs sounded like a fabulous activity. The larger cause, I fully confess, was quite secondary at the time.
I showed up the first day feeling a bit like a student starting a new school. What would the dogs think of me? Would I fit in with the other volunteers? Following an informative orientation, I headed across the room to the dog crates, greeting the occupants and reading their bios, before I settled into a metal folding chair to survey my surroundings.
Not thirty seconds passed when the Jack Russell Terrier appeared at my feet and catapulted himself from the floor into my lap, front paws thrown over my shoulder. The other volunteers laughed at my surprise. He was ready for a walk and had apparently selected me for the task. As I secured a signature, goldenrod scarf around his collar and located a leash, I saw that I did have something to offer here. When we returned from our walk, I signed up for a weekly shift.
Making my way through the new Center, peering into the suites at the precious occupants, I could hardly believe eight years had passed since I signed up to volunteer. So much had changed since I first walked into the modest storefront on Clark Street.
In the weeks to come, I was amazed by the number of visitors stopping through. Many had heard about the program and wanted to adopt, but others just happened by as I had, intrigued. Both inside the center and outside–on walks around Clark and Fullerton, led mostly by enthusiastic, scarf sporting mixed breeds, or at Angels with Tails events–people approached wanting to learn about the cause. My own explanations, I observed, gradually became more detailed as my knowledge and passion increased.
I continued brushing coats, straightening scarves, and filling water bowls, expanding my participation in Angels with Tails and special events when the dog adoption program on Clark eventually concluded. Traveling throughout the Chicagoland area, I met the Husky with the sorrowful eyes on Oak Street; the tiny, tiger striped terrier pup in the mall; the gangly black shepherd mix on Armitage; the Weimaraner litter at the Fur Ball; and the exuberant Australian Cattle dog in the suburbs, among so many others. Shopping trips slowly became like scrapbooks, filled with recollections of dogs I had chaperoned weeks, months, or even years prior.
Spending the day among dogs and designer clothing always seemed nearly too good to be true. Especially on those occasions when just the right adopter came by, and I witnessed that special connection, that unique bond between human and canine. Even though it often meant giving up my charge for the day, these experiences became one of my greatest joys as a volunteer.
Making my way through the new center, peering into the suites at the precious occupants, I could hardly believe eight years had passed since I signed up to volunteer. Even more stunning was the incredible evolution of PAWS Chicago during that same time. So much had changed since I first walked into the modest storefront on Clark Street. Even so, that same, persistent mood clung to the air–joy and determination; hope, perhaps. As tails wagged throughout the suites, I made my way back outside, filled with anticipation for the next eight years. Jennifer Beck is a freelance writer and tutor.
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