“Trespasers will be SHOT” said the words spray-painted on the singlewide’s mildewed aluminum siding. I read them out loud as we drove past, and I laughed. My soon-to-be-husband didn’t crack a smile. “Better believe they mean it, too,” he said, like that sort of thing was as common as coal dust.
This was one of my first visits to his hometown, a small, rural community nestled in the hills of Central Appalachia. I am a born-and-raised Georgia girl, native of the Deep South, where people can be catty and sometimes criminal, but never so overtly threatening that they’d spray-paint warnings of deadly intent on the sides of their homes. This should have been my first clue that the rules are different here. But I was young and in love, spellbound by the magic of the mountains and the idea of starting over in an area so rich in culture and history.
SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT COMING
Years later, after learning of the outrageous kill rate at our local animal shelter and the overwhelming number of dogs dumped and abandoned in Tazewell County, I founded a 501c3 nonprofit rescue in hopes of offering some relief for this problem. Going hand in glove with that was an urgent need to make the community aware of the situation, and begin educating people about better ways to treat our animals. You’d think this sort of outreach would be welcome. You’d think county officials would be grateful for an offer of help, and that residents would be overjoyed that someone had stepped up to run a high-volume rescue in one of the highest-kill counties in Virginia.
Wrong.
For my first meeting with county officials, I prepared a video presentation complete with facts and statistics and lots of visuals. When it ended, I was treated to a lecture by the shelter director about everything I had just done wrong, right down to the tone of my voice. The shelter director then assured the county administrator that he had everything well in hand. It didn’t matter that our county of fewer than 45,000 residents had killed more dogs the previous year than five of Virginia’s major metropolitan areas combined—our shelter was just fine, because it had passed state inspection for the past seven years in a row.
When the proverbial poo really hit the fan, though, is when I suggested on social media that the residents of Tazewell County should take responsibility for their role in this problem. I stuck to the facts at first, simply presented evidence—evidence that was seldom flattering to our community, but nonetheless true.
I illustrated my points with photos of dogs locked in hot cars outside Walmart on 85-degree afternoons, of dogs riding unsecured in pickup beds on the four-lane, of dogs tethered by heavy chains unable to reach shelter or water.
Did this provoke outrage in the community? You bet it did. Against me.
I’ve been threatened with bodily harm. Called every name in the book. Told by my contracts attorney that the Commonwealth Attorney was processing felony charges against me, although the nature of them was never specified. (To my knowledge, I’ve never committed a felony of any type.)
I was asked by the local Sheriff’s Office to submit to a polygraph test after reporting the dog with the embedded collar, despite the fact that I had extensive veterinary documentation as well as video and photographic evidence of the wound itself. County officials have been witnessed telling people in our community not to donate to my organization, because we are “fraudulent.” We have never been officially accused of any crime or malfeasance, nor have we ever failed an inspection of our property or animals.
LET ME DUMP MY PROBLEMS ON YOU BECAUSE THE WORLD OWES ME
Several days ago, at 8:15 in the morning, I was awakened by the dogs. When I looked out to see what had them so upset, I saw a pickup sitting in the parking area. By the time I got from the bedroom to the front door, a man was coming down my steps on the side of the house.
“I left you a box full of kittens up there,” he said glibly, as pleased with himself as if he’d just donated a hundred dollars.
I blinked in surprise. “You left a box of kittens on my porch?”
“Yeah, I did.”
First of all, it is illegal in Virginia to dump any animal, even on the grounds of shelter property. A person-to-person exchange has to occur. But my private property is not a shelter. I run a home-based rescue. Huge difference. There is no sign or marking on the property to indicate we are a rescue, shelter, pound, or business of any kind. Secondly, this man had crossed a closed gate and climbed 22 steps to leave a box of live kittens on a side porch where they may have never been discovered, at 8:15 in the morning, well before reasonable business hours.
I had what is commonly known in the Southern United States as a hissy fit. No, I was not polite, nor was I professional. And I make no apology for that whatsoever.
The Sheriff’s Department declined to press charges against the man for dumping the kittens, or for trespass. Since he took the kittens with him, a good lawyer would probably get him out of a dumping charge. Fine. Still, he clearly trespassed on private property, and admitted on video to crossing a closed gate. But since it was my property he trespassed on, maybe the deputy who took the report knew the Commonwealth Attorney would not support the case if it went to court. It’s common knowledge that I supported his opponent in the last election.
IT GETS WORSE
The story doesn't end there. On Facebook, I took a beatdown for posting about the incident, and for refusing to take the kittens--even though I have twelve healthy cats here who don’t deserve exposure to diseases I can’t protect them from, and even though I can’t afford to take on the responsibility of more animals at this time. The very people condemning me for turning the kittens away are most likely the same crowd who made sure I got a call from the Sheriff’s Office over that box full of maggot-infested puppies. Which proves to me that no one is concerned at all about the animals, only with destroying all the work I’ve put into this very "real," state-reporting, 501c3 nonprofit rescue over the past five years.
If it were just words, I probably wouldn't feel so much concern. But it's our livelihood, too, and the efforts by this community to withhold support and sponsorship is gradually starving us out.
There have also been some overt threats, harrassment of the few volunteers we have managed to keep, and physical actions taken against my personal property. Last night, I went outside to find a tire on my vehicle flat, with a puncture in the sidewall. Can I prove someone knifed it? Probably not. Should I report it to law enforcement? Well, seeing as how nothing was done about a man trespassing on my property, that seems a bit futile. This whole region is dangerous and dark. A trip to town (courtesy of my husband and the four fully-inflated tires on his Cherokee) and I found myself immersed in a conversation with a store clerk who tells me someone is tossing poisoned tins of cat food into her yard. Every day, I have to tell someone that I cannot take the pet they’re attempting to “get rid of.” Every day. And now this punctured tire—I think I’ve reached my limit.
This is a community that desperately needs help, but will accept no responsibility. A community that resents any implication that the sea of unwanted animals, or the epidemic of opiod abuse, or the poverty, or the high school dropout rate of one in four is in any way a result of its own cultural dysfunction. I don’t know how to keep moving forward with positive contributions when the air is so saturated with hostility, and the corruption in local government goes all the way to the top.
In case anyone thinks I’m out in left field with all of this, please know that when the Sheriff’s Office asked me to take that polygraph, it was Michelle Welch herself, head of the Virginia State Attorney General’s Office Animal Law Unit, who advised me to refuse. Not because I was guilty of anything, but because the request itself was entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. I do have connections in Virginia, and friends. Just not here in Tazewell County.
God help us all.
