In a story that combines tragedy, farce, and the kind of smugness usually reserved for Wimbledon finals, a California animal shelter has been found to have 117 dead dogs stacked like cordwood. But hold your outrage, for the British animal welfare establishment has already emerged from the fog with the grace of a badger on Pimm’s to remind us that, when it comes to four-legged companions, Her Majesty’s kingdom is a veritable Eden while the colonies are a canine abattoir.
Let us be clear: 117 dead dogs is a horror. It’s a statistic that should provoke howls of anguish, not self-congratulatory pats on the back from people whose main animal welfare concern is whether their corgi’s pedigree includes a superfluous hyphen. Yet the press release from the UK’s dog-cuddling elite arrived with the speed and subtlety of a bulldog in a china shop. “Our standards are the global gold,” they barked. Gold? More like a cheap, tarnished medal from a suburban funfair.
Now, I have nothing against high standards. I myself have a high standard of gin consumption. But let’s not pretend the UK is a nation of St. Francis of Assisis. Our record includes badger-baiting, fox-hunting, and the inexplicable popularity of crufts, where dogs are paraded around like feathered fascists with a permanent grin. Meanwhile, our shelters are overcrowded, our rescue charities are stretched thinner than a supermodel’s patience, and our streets are patrolled by packs of Staffies that look like they’ve been on a three-day bender.
But no, the tragedy of 117 dead dogs in California is simply a chance to trumpet our moral superiority. It’s the same smugness that makes us insist our rain is better, our tea is better, and our queueing system is the envy of the world. And now, our dead dog ratio is apparently something to be proud of. “UK animal welfare standards touted as global gold,” the headlines scream, as if we’ve just won the World Cup of Not Killing Pets.
Let’s examine that gold standard. In the UK, we kill fewer healthy dogs in shelters, mainly because we’re better at passing the buck to rescue charities that then blame the public for not adopting enough. We also have laws that mean you can’t just dump a dog in a skip, but you can still buy a puppy mill puppy from a website with a Union Jack background. Our gold standard is a veneer, a shiny surface over a system that relies on the goodwill of unpaid volunteers and the occasional emergency broadcast from the RSPCA.
Meanwhile, in California, they’re dealing with a crisis of canine overpopulation that makes our own problem look like a minor kerfuffle. They have more dogs, more strays, and more people who think it’s acceptable to abandon an animal like a broken TV. The shelter system is overwhelmed, underfunded, and apparently staffed by people who think stacking bodies is a form of modern art. And while we tut from across the Atlantic, we forget that our own house is not exactly tidy.
What we need is not a gold medal for self-righteousness, but a cold hard look at the fact that dead dogs are dead dogs, whether in California or Cumbria. The British response to this tragedy should be solidarity, not snobbery. But that would require a level of empathy that seems to have been bred out of the national character along with the ability to queue quietly.
So here’s a thought: Instead of polishing our gold standard, let’s offer practical help. Send money, send expertise, send a team of animal behaviourists who can teach Americans how to stop their dogs from reproducing like rabbits on Viagra. Or at the very least, send a silent prayer for those 117 souls that their next life might not be spent in a country where even the dead can be used as a prop for national vanity.
But no, the PR machine grinds on. “UK animal welfare standards are the gold standard,” they chirp, as the bodies are bagged and the Californians weep. It’s a satire so bitter that even I, a man who finds humour in motorway pile-ups, feel a twinge of nausea. Perhaps we should ask the dogs what they think. But they’re dead. And in death, they’ve become just another excuse for a self-congratulatory headline.
So let’s raise a glass of cheap gin to the fallen. And another glass to the hope that one day, animal welfare will be about the animals, not about who can shout the loudest about how brilliant we are. But until then, I’ll be here, reporting from the edge of sanity, with a corgi at my feet and a hangover in my soul. Bark if you hear me.
