In the Doghouse

As Tillery leads the puppy toward the eight-foot flea dip, the dog runs and hops by his side. Whenever he stops walking, the puppy cowers behind his leg for protection. "Quit acting like you're my dog," he says.

The real cruelty toward animals doesn't happen in his department, Nix says. "If we could get owners to take care of dogs and cats in the city of Houston, there'd be no need for this department. I could retire," Nix says. "We do euthanize animals, but the majority of those animals are better off dead than in the conditions they've been living in."

Every evening starved strays come to the pound ravaged by mange or maggots, he says. Some dogs had chains put around their necks when they were puppies and their flesh grew around the metal. "That's the tragedy," Nix says. "Those dogs cannot be turned around."

Seriously sick or injured dogs are immediately put to death. Many dogs with diseases that would be treated in a normal vet clinic are put to sleep. For instance, nearly every dog with mange is euthanized because the treatment is given in two doses at two-week intervals and it takes an additional eight weeks for hair to grow back. "We just don't have the space to hold them that long," Rundell says. "We're not like a Ben Taub for animals. We don't have an X-ray machine or provide free vet services."

Many of the dogs haven't been on a leash before, so they shake and fight and bite the rope until their mouths bleed. "They're terrified," Rundell says. Several refuse to walk, brace their feet against the floor and have to be dragged or carried on a rolling cart.

"They don't never want to walk," a kennel worker says, whistling at a tan mutt. "C'mere, sonny boy," he says. The dog lies down and refuses to stand up. The kennel worker holds the rope over his shoulder and keeps walking. Whistling, he drags the dog across the floor one yard at a time.

"C'mon, honey," he says. "C'mon."

Dogs were held up by their front legs over the dead pile [of dogs] and the veterinarian stabbed them in the chest with a syringe containing the euthanasia solution. No attempts were made to find the heart, the proper site for intracardiac injections. -- Sean Hawkins, executive director of the Houston Animal Rights Team, November 28, 1991

Wearing steel-toed, knee-high black rubber fishing boots, Graggs straps on a black back brace and claps his hands together. "Let's roll," he says.

At 10:30 a.m., before the kennel opens to the public, all the animals on one ward die. Rolling tables are set up at each end of the room, and vet techs lethally inject dogs and cats. Snakes that aren't rereleased are put in burlap sacks and placed in the freezer.

In the new pound, Nix says, there will be separate euthanasia rooms conveniently located at the end of each ward. The current kennel has a euthanasia room, but it's designed for dogs getting off the trucks en route to the freezer. Staff members say it's too far from the cages, and they don't have time to take dogs on a morning death march.

"Years ago they opened the door, stretched the dog out and gave them a heart stick. What we're doing now -- it's better than it was, and it's not what it should be," Nix says. "It's very cramped and not the most satisfactory. Now an animal will be euthanized in the sight of another animal. We try not to, but it happens."

Graggs points to a golden chow in one of two double-sized kennels that flank the end of the row. "We're starting with big boy, right?" Graggs asks vet tech Martinez. It makes sense to start with him, because he's on the end and would have to watch all the other dogs die. He could easily be killed in his cage or in front of it and be entirely out of sight. Graggs pulls on a pair of blue surgical gloves, opens the cage door and whistles. "C'mere, baby," he says. "C'mon."

Damp from the morning cage cleaning, the dog starts shaking. Graggs pulls him out of the cage. The dog squints, and his eyes slant as a rope is wrapped around his snout three times. Graggs takes the dog around the corner, directly in front of the other kennels. Standing behind the dog, Graggs lifts him onto his hind legs; Martinez swabs the animal's leg with alcohol and injects an inch-and-a-half-long needle. He draws a little blood to make sure it's in the vein, and the blue Windex-like Fatal-Plus poison solution turns purple.

The dog sags and his heavy body is dumped onto the cart. Martinez checks to make sure his heart has stopped beating, then the dog's body is placed in a trash bag.