Conscious Choice: The Politics of Compassion

January 1996

The Politics of Compassion

by Marla Sue Rose

Most seasoned activists understand that compassion is not something that can be measured or doled out like a meal at a soup kitchen. From my involvement in animal welfare, though, I recognize a prevalent attitude, even among the socially aware, that other social ills are far more worthy of national concern than the suffering of animals. Those of us who are active in animal welfare and animal rights are often quizzed about the validity of our work. Often, people ask questions aimed at exposing us as misanthropes, such as, "But what about the children/poor/homeless? Don’t you care about them?" By focusing on animals, they imply, we are unconcerned about anything else.

Of course, questions like these are facile. Empathy is not a finite substance that you can use toward one specific issue before you are bankrupt. And anyway, the big picture cannot be so easily fragmented. Someone who is active in environmental causes, for example, may also be concerned about the nation’s poor. From my work in animal welfare, I have come to feel that if we cannot find compassion for non-human animals, creatures that are particularly vulnerable to the affectionate whim and fancy of the human race, there is little hope for people or issues that require direct but thoughtful action on our part. In other words, the issue has nothing to do with politics or righteousness; it has everything to do with compassion and responsibility.

More disturbing, however, is the off-the cuff comment, "I could never work at a shelter; I love animals too much."

It’s true that the Hallmark image of the roly-poly puppy and the contented cat stands in sharp contrast from everything I’ve experienced while working at an animal shelter. And unlike the feisty hero(ine) of a Disney cartoon, the animals we receive are depressed, lonely, manic, confused, sick, listless, frightened, grieving, and angry as often as they are healthy.

Hardly a day goes by that someone doesn’t surrender a bright-eyed, unsuspecting dog, commenting, "We’re moving to a new apartment. You should be able to find him a home." Two days later, he is unable to eat and lethargic, barely stirring in his cage. Or a malnourished mother cat and her brood of three-day-old kittens are crammed inside a sagging cardboard box and left behind with the parting words, "She just keeps getting pregnant. I’m sick of it, and I’ll just dump them if you don’t take them."

Every day I see with horrible clarity the ways in which those that are deemed burdensome are betrayed by the people that they trust, cast off with the same casual dispassion with which one would treat an unwanted sweater. Ultimately, someone must be responsible for the welfare of these animals. If owners refuse that responsibility, those at a shelter must take it on. Often, a shelter is a place where euthanasia technicians administer the fatal dose of barbiturates that kills the sick, the feral, the unwanted. In other words, the people at a shelter respond compassionately and responsibly to the misery that others create.

Euthanasia is not the worst thing that can happen to a domesticated animal: homelessness is. Who causes homelessness? The breeder and the pet store owner, who exploit both animals and people without regard to their welfare or best interest. Also culpable is the irresponsible pet owner, who, for a myriad of selfish reasons, would rather betray an animal than act with compassion and maturity.

Shelter workers are not responsible for overpopulation, for irresponsibility, for cruelty, in short, for the current situation that unwanted dogs and cats face. We are merely the ones who handle the existent problem in the most humane way possible. Shelter workers are able to put away their personal feelings of grief or anger and act in the best interest of the animals that depend on them. If that’s not selfless and compassionate, I don’t know what is.

I don’t mean to imply that death is all that occurs at shelters, as collectively we provide health care, spay/neuter surgeries, and permanent homes for hundreds of thousands of formerly homeless dogs and cats each year. But still, there is death. And the shelter is an agent of death.

Who is responsible for this? Contrary to popular opinion, it is not the euthanasia technicians, who offer the only act of kindness and humanity that many of these animals have ever received: a gentle, merciful end to their pain, neglect, abandonment, or suffering. We don’t want to euthanize any more animals, but until the amount of animals born equals the amount of good homes that can care for them, it will continue.

True responsibility requires both thought and action. Sympathy, while it keeps the emotional pathways alive, does not equal kindness, can not ease suffering, and will not suffice when friendship or empathy is required. Any person who perpetuates the cycle of homelessness, neglect, and death by breeding or abandoning their pet, either willfully or through negligence, is not an animal lover. Spaying and neutering are not ancillary activities; they are necessary surgeries to prevent animal misery. Commitment is not a mere term of dating life. It is a necessary component of care.

In a similar vein, it is also irresponsible to imply that shelter workers, who take in abandoned pets, are bloodthirsty killers. And for those who say, "I could never work at an animal shelter; I love animals too much," think for a moment: what could possibly be the incentive to work at a low-paying job that is physically difficult as well as emotionally wrenching? Nothing other than a pure devotion to animals.

Some of us work with animals, others with plants, rocks, or people, but all of us who are active in the world are learning the same thing: It is only when we accept all aspects of responsibility — for our words as well as our actions — that we can truly begin to understand and combat suffering on a global scale.

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