Condemned

An abandoned dog, known only as No. 48, dies at hands of strangers who care

AURORA — Dog No. 48 does not know Tuesday, Jan. 13, is her day to die. She seems curious just to be out of her cage, moving to a new place.

The other dogs don't know it's her day either, but, at 8 a.m., in the crowded, windowless back room of the Aurora Animal Control and Care Facility, they want to be heard.

So, as No. 48, an abandoned 6- to 8-month-old, brown and black German shepherd walks down her own death row, dogs of all other breeds yelp, howl and bark. They leap up against the cages, their paws occasionally slipping through the bars.

But No. 48 passes those dogs without interest. She occasionally lunges to get free from the "snare pole" the strong animal control officer is using to handle her. The six-foot metal pole with a wire cable on the end holds hostile animals like No. 48 a safe distance from employees.

The tall man directs her to a back room of the building on River Street, where a second man prepares a needle near a small metal table.

When No. 48 scampers through the door, the short man lays down the needle to greet her. He crouches down, putting his nose inches from the dog's. He rubs her head and ears and talks in the high-pitched voice people use for babies.

"Hey girl, hey girl. How ya doing?"

No. 48 is active, curious about her new surroundings. As the tall man attaches a thick, red and white leash to her collar, she looks like she might run if given the chance.

"Do you think we will have to tranquilize her first?" the tall man asks in his deep voice.

No. 48 swings her head back and forth as the short man covers her mouth with a red cloth muzzle. Once it's on, she uses her front paws to pull unsuccessfully at the fabric.

"I think so," he answers.

The short man grabs a tranquilizer needle from a metal box attached to the wall.

"You're OK, girl," he says as he approaches with the needle. The other man holds her gently against his body. "You're OK."

Both men know No. 48 will not be OK.

• • • • •
At one point, the condemned dog probably had a real name. At the shelter, she's called "48" for the number on the cage she's lived in for the eight days before she is scheduled to be put down.

No. 48 ended up on death row because, like nearly one-fifth of the dogs brought to the shelter, she was nasty. She can't be adopted out because she is a "fear biter" — so afraid of people that she will attack them to protect herself.

All week, she lunged, put her hair on end and barked at anyone who dared pass by her cage. How did she end up as such a hostile animal? No one at the shelter knows details, but it isn't exactly a mystery.

No. 48 was captured in a subdivision near the Oakhurst Forest Preserve on the far East Side of Aurora — a popular place for people to dump dogs they've gotten tired of. She was wearing a collar when animal control officer Quentin Johnson caught her the previous Monday.

"Who knows about the shepherd?" Aurora Animal Control manager Linda Nass said of No. 48. "All these animals had to belong to somebody at some time."

In 2003, the city-run facility handled 1,658 dogs that were either abandoned, lost or given up by owners too lazy, too burdened or too uninterested to care for them. Additionally, 1,731 cats were brought in for most of the same reasons.

Whoever dumped No. 48 did not come to the shelter looking for her.

The staff checked her against the lost dog reports and waited seven days for someone to claim her. As with all dogs, after a week, the staff evaluated her health and temperament to determine whether she could be put up for adoption.

But No. 48 was too mean. Nass couldn't take a chance the dog would bite someone — friendly, curious kids make likely targets — after it left the shelter.

Ben Torrance, Nass and Johnson are three of the five Aurora employees qualified to euthanize animals. That means at least once a week, each of them must take the life of a dog or cat.

The deaths of these unwanted animals eat at the employees. But Torrance and other employees say the real fault lies with the negligent owners who condemn their pets to a death sentence.

There's a saying among shelter employees that's only partially a joke: They love animals, but they hate people.

That's because people leave dogs alone, without food. It's people who let cats get sick but won't pay for a veterinarian. And it's people who, with no more emotion than if they were returning a deflated football, bring in bruised and cut dogs with bodies so beaten the only merciful thing to do is euthanize them.

"You've just got to realize you're not the source of the problem; you're just trying to help," Johnson says. "There are times when you know it's really a merciful thing to do."

• • • • •
When the shorter man gives No. 48 the tranquilizing shot, she howls and presses her head against the wall.

Her soft brown eyes look up at the ceiling as she struggles to avoid the needle that is stuck in the muscular area between her knee and hip.

Once the needle is out, she turns quiet.

She is dizzy, walking in slow circles. Her back legs buckle.

"Hey baby, it's OK," the tall man whispers while holding the dog against his body. "Hey girl. Hey girl. Don't be scared."

At 8:04 a.m., No. 48 lies down. The tall man slowly removes the muzzle and she begins to lick the floor, slowly and without purpose.

"It's OK, it's OK, the worst part's over."

The dog can't hear anyone or feel anything. The tranquilizer knocks her out but her heart keeps beating and her lungs still push.

The tall man carries the limp body to the gray metal table where he lays No. 48 on her left side. The scale embedded in the table records her weight as just over 48 pounds. The only movement is her stomach rising and falling.

She is blinking less often and more deliberately as the first man shaves her right front paw. He eases a needle filled with the euthanizing chemical into her skin, and a small red splash shows up in the syringe, indicating he has hit the vein.

"It's OK, it's OK," the second man says as he pets No. 48.

Her snout extends over the edge of the table and her tongue hangs down, drool occasionally dripping to the floor. Her eyes are open but they look at nothing.

• • • • •
The officers hear it all the time from people on the street, from people who find out where they work, sometimes from friends:

Dog killer.

Animal hater.

Monster.

The reaction of outsiders to their job is a combination of anger and disgust, and most employees avoid the subject in social conversation. The paranoia of backlash is so intense the two men who euthanized No. 48, wouldn't allow their names or pictures to be associated with the event.

Angry residents have given Johnson, who earned a liberal arts degree in Scandinavian and African-American studies before coming to work at the animal shelter, the moniker of "red-haired, four-eyed dog killer."

"A lot of times, it's hard to make people understand why they should have compassion for us," he says. "Everybody thinks all we do is kill animals. And that drives their fear."

The days of the cartoon dog catchers and dangerous dog pounds, however, have long passed, employees say. Now, they're "animal control officers," and the shelters are modern, sterile facilities inspected by the state's Department of Agriculture once a year.

At home, Johnson has two dogs, Niko, a husky-Samoyed mix, and Skippy, a Jack Russell terrier from the shelter — plus a cockatiel and fish. He grew up around dogs but was afraid of them as a kid. "Obviously, I overcame that," he says. "But I can especially relate to people who are afraid."

In fact, every employee at the Aurora facility has more than one pet, most of them from the shelter. At one time or another, the workers have all grown attached to a cute mutt or a friendly kitten. But you can only bring so many dogs and cats home before it's unpleasant for people and unsafe for the animals.

• • • • •
At 8:08, the second man pulls the needle from No. 48's leg. By now, the animal is motionless.

The injected euthanizing liquid is already flowing through her body, shutting down her central nervous system in a few seconds.

The short man pinches the paw of the dog and taps the inside corner of her eye, looking for any reflexes. She is still.

He finds a new needle and pushes it deep into the dog's body cavity. The needle bounces back and forth with the heartbeat. The two men stand silently by her side and wait for the heart to finally stop beating.

The needle freezes.

It's withdrawn, reinserted in a new spot. No movement.

The short man is still petting her fur as the other officer gets out a large, black garbage bag.

The short man places No. 48 inside the bag, feet up. While the tall man carries her to a freezer behind the building, the other man cleans up.

A bit of short dog hair remains on the table. The man locks up the needles and wipes off the table.

Both wash their hands.

The tall man shakes his head. Just 12 minutes after he retrieved No. 48 from her cage, 12 minutes after he braced the door with his foot to keep her from escaping, the shepherd's body sits in a freezer, waiting to be incinerated.

"Best part of the day," he says, and you know he means just the opposite.

• • • • •
Almost without exception, animals like No. 48 are euthanized at the shelter five days a week. There's no set time, but most employees want to clear that out of the way early. Time-permitting, Johnson also prefers the morning.

But he'd rather not do it at all.

"That's probably one reason I'm not a hunter, because I have to kill so many animals needlessly every day," he says. "You get tired of seeing animals die."

Torrance has not been there as long as Johnson, but he's had to put down about one animal every week for four years. He's had to kill more than 200 animals that, at least for a little while, were someone's pet.

"You'd think it would get easier doing it every week," he says, "but it never does."