Animals of the Street Often Are Owners : 64 Officers Face Risks to Keep Tabs on 300,000 Pets

Animal control is often a thankless job, but the profession has come a long way since the days of the dogcatcher. Grumpy men, armed with nets and wooden clubs, who tossed dogs and cats into rickety wagons have disappeared. They have been replaced by skilled men and women who drive vans fitted with air-conditioned cages.

While a lot has changed, these officers still face danger daily--and not just from the animals. Sunday provided two examples:

Angered that he was about to lose his pit bull terrier, the owner bit the left hand of an animal control officer who was trying to impound the unlicensed, unleashed dog. Both man and dog were last seen scurrying off along Clemson Street in South Los Angeles.

A chow roaming through Warner Park caught the eye of an animal control officer on patrol, who attempted to issue a citation to the dog’s owner, Los Angeles Raiders defensive back Odis McKinney. When the encounter ended, McKinney had been arrested for allegedly shoving the officer against his city van.

“These peace officers risk their lives every day. We take these incidents very seriously. You really have to wonder why people do these sort of things,” said Robert Rush, general manager of Los Angeles’ Animal Regulation Department for the last 19 years.

Sixty-four animal control officers patrol the freeways, streets and alleys of Los Angeles, enforcing the city’s animal regulations to protect more than 300,000 legal and illegal pets. For their trouble these men and women get kicked, chased, stomped, bitten and clawed. And not only by the animals. They pull live snakes from toilet bowls, baby-sit captured roosters, transport runaway alligators, bait monkeys and remove hundreds of goldfish from swimming pools. Llamas, ferrets, coyotes, sea lions and pythons end up in the city’s shelters.

“Today’s officers are sort of policemen and veterinarians rolled into one,” Rush said. “Yet they earn less than meter maids.”

About one-third of the officers suffer injuries each year, he said. Few of the injuries are as serious as those sustained by the officer who was mauled by a pit bull last month, but the injuries and burnout produce a 15% annual turnover rate in a job that pays an average of $28,000 annually. Budget cuts have shrunk the size of the force from a high of almost 80 officers in the 1970s to the current 64, Rush said.

So why would anyone want to become an animal control officer?

“I love animals,” said Nancy Moriarty, 34, a seven-year veteran of the force. Moriarty, based at the downtown Ann Street shelter, patrols from 4 p.m. to midnight.

“Most people don’t understand that I’m here to help the animals, not to hurt them. That feeling of making a difference, reducing the amount of suffering, often is the only thing that keeps me going,” said Moriarty, who studied biology in college.

“Unlike many animal control officers, I never thought of becoming a police officer. The four-legged animals are a lot easier to figure out. They may bite, but they don’t carry .45-caliber guns.

“You always know the danger is there, but I never dwell on it. If I did, I’d go crazy. I just make sure I know what is going on around me,” she said.

Moriarty’s only instrument of defense in the field is the animal control device, a four-foot aluminum rod with a rope at the end. “Actually, given a choice between a gun or an ACD (animal control device), I’d choose the ACD. With animals, seconds count, and you can have more control over them with a pole,” she said.

Humans puzzle Moriarty more than the animals. She wonders why there isn’t a better redemption rate at the city’s six shelters.

“Those animals have to belong to someone. I just don’t understand how people can not bother looking for their lost pets,” said Moriarty, who owns two dogs from the shelter.

“Even when an owner comes in, if he or she finds out that some kind of medical treatment is needed, 9 times out of 10 they say take the animal and destroy it. They don’t want any problems. It’s sad.”

Two Years on Job

Officer Jorge Figueroa also gets frustrated. Figueroa, 27, an officer for little more than two years, said his job has made him less idealistic.

“When I started, I thought I could help the animal population, put a dent in the number of hazardous situations. It hasn’t exactly turned out that way. I thought we’d be able to find homes for most of the animals, but there are so many it’s ridiculous. Too many have to be destroyed,” said Figueroa, who works the day shift out of the East Valley animal shelter.

Misconceptions about his job, Figueroa said, make him an unpopular neighborhood visitor. For example, many people seem to think captured animals are immediately destroyed, he said. Actually, they are housed in the shelters for seven days to allow the owner to come forward. On the eighth day, the animal can be bought for about $45, which covers the cost of shots and sterilization.

“Most people still see me as the dogcatcher,” said Figueroa, who cares for two dogs, two birds, five rabbits and a goldfish. “When I drive down the street, many scream and shout names at me. That doesn’t make you feel too good. The abuse comes from little 5-year-old kids and 65-year-old adults. You learn to ignore it, but it hurts.”

Figueroa’s day begins at 8 a.m. when he loads his van with animal identification tags, gloves, an animal control device, some rope and a gun. He uses the gun only for humane purposes to put animals out of their misery.

One of the day’s first radio calls takes him to Van Nuys: A neighbor has complained of loud, barking dogs.

He explains the complaint to the college-age dog owners, who deny that their dogs are a nuisance. Figueroa tells them they can call for a hearing where they can confront their accuser.

Figueroa then walks next door to the neighbor who reported the dogs. An elderly woman complains that the men next door are noisy, messy and don’t control their pets. Figueroa gives her a notice to sign and returns to his van to fill out a written report.

Sees Generation Gap

“This is going to be an interesting one. She wants to go all the way. There’s a real generation gap here,” he said.

His next call from the dispatcher is FISMDAL--”female in season, many dogs at large.”

“This can be a pretty hairy situation,” said Figueroa. (But he says he gets most excited over rattlesnake calls.) “We’re not going to the best neighborhood. These dogs are street-wise. They’ll see the truck and say, ‘That’s the guy who chased us last time,’ and run.”

Ten minutes later, Figueroa arrives in Panorama City. He slows the van to a crawl. A female dog darts from the bushes. Five male dogs soon follow. Figueroa, armed with gloves, animal control device and rope, runs from the van toward an injured male.

The dog runs the other way, Figueroa races back to the van, and speeds up a hill in pursuit. He chases the dog around for about 10 minutes, but gets another call for a stray vicious dog.

“Sometimes we lose them,” he said.

He responds to two more calls, and then at about 4 p.m. he drives the van in to the shelter parking lot and calls it a day. He has driven about 80 miles that day.

As Figueroa completes some written reports, about 20 miles southeast, Officer Moriarty arrives at the Ann Street shelter for work. Once her van is loaded with gear, she adjusts her metal-rim glasses and hits the streets.

“I don’t think there’s any place in L.A. that I haven’t been,” she said. “I pride myself on being able to find the quickest way around.”

A radio call gets her attention: A vicious dog is loose in El Sereno.

Confronts Pit Bull

After arriving on the scene, she reaches for her animal control device. She spots the dog. It’s a pit bull. Moriarty slowly approaches the black animal with her pole. As she steps forward, the pit bull suddenly darts toward her leg, and barks. She flinches.

Then, the dog wags its tail, and rubs its head against her leg.

Moriarty smiles: “Some vicious dog, huh? Sometimes people overreact. This poor dog is scared to death.”

The friendly mutt is also sick. Mites have eaten away at the dog’s fur. After trying unsuccessfully to locate an owner, Moriarty loads the pit bull into the van and heads off for medical help.

At the 11th Avenue shelter, a health technician determines that the dog is beyond help, and prepares to destroy it.

Moriarty whispers to the animal. “Yes, I know. You’re so cute. So cute,” she said softly, stroking the dog. Moments later, it dies instantly from the standard injection of sodium pentobarbital.