Positive Animal Caregivers: Only

Two years ago, when I traded a corporate career for a life in animal welfare, everyone asked me the same question: Why pack up your life in South Korea and move to a remote village in Sri Lanka?

Once the novelty of curries on beaches had worn off, the answer was simple.

I was there for the animals.

Of course. Isn't that why most of us enter this work?

I spent my days in the sun, caring for dogs recovering from sterilization surgery. Veterinarians accepted lower salaries than they could earn elsewhere. Volunteers gave up weekends, holidays, and sleep to bottle-feed orphaned kittens or rehabilitate frightened dogs. 

Behind those sacrifices was something deeper than compassion.

It was hope.

Hope that there would be fewer unwanted litters. More responsible owners. Kinder communities. Maybe, one day, fewer animals will need us in the first place. 

Over the years, though, I began hearing another version of the same sentence.

"I'm only here for the animals."

At first glance, it sounds almost identical.

It isn't.

I've never heard anyone say it with excitement. It's almost always followed by a sigh. A long pause. Exhaustion. Disappointment. 

The reasons vary.

Sometimes they're external: a government choosing to cull despite better alternatives, irresponsible breeding, communities unwilling to accept free-roaming dogs.

Sometimes they're much closer to home: leaders who dismiss ideas, organizations that reward politics over collaboration, or workplaces where good people quietly stop feeling valued. 

The people saying it rarely started there.

They started where I did.

Helping one animal became helping dozens. Then came bigger ambitions.

Maybe we could improve this shelter.

Maybe we could build better systems.

Maybe we could partner with another organization.

Maybe we could change the community itself.

But somewhere along the way, those possibilities began to shrink.

A proposal is rejected before it's discussed.

Another promising initiative disappears after a leadership change.

Another meeting ends exactly where it began.

So our ambitions shrink too.

Maybe I can help this dog.

Maybe I can get through this week.

Maybe I just need to survive today.

When that happens, something subtle changes.

We don't stop caring about people.

We stop believing people are part of the solution.

We speak up less.

We collaborate less.

The problems feel too large, so we retreat to the one place where we still feel we can make a difference: the animal in front of us.

I remember having lunch with a colleague after another long, fruitless internal meeting.

Before she had even sat down, she sighed.

"When I leave here," she said, "I'm not staying in animal welfare."

Back in Sri Lanka, my colleagues and I used to joke that we'd rather spend eight hours with a dog than with each other.

We laughed because we all understood the feeling.

But if I'm honest, it wasn't true.

We spent far more than eight hours together.

After difficult days, we shared meals. We listened to each other. We laughed at things that probably weren't very funny. We covered for each other when someone needed a break.

We were there for the animals.

But we were also there for one another.

Looking back, every meaningful success I witnessed for animals depended on people working together.

Sterilization campaigns required veterinarians, drivers, administrators, community leaders, and families willing to participate.

Adoptions depended on behavior teams, foster volunteers, photographers, and marketing staff.

Policy changes required advocates willing to sit across the table from lawmakers they often disagreed with.

Every lasting victory for animals began as a victory for human collaboration.

That's why I've started hearing one sentence differently.

"I'm only here for the animals" no longer sounds like devotion to me.

It sounds like someone who has stopped believing that bigger change is possible.

And when enough people begin saying it, leaders shouldn't celebrate their commitment.

They should wonder what has made hope shrink.

Because the animals were never the reason we stopped believing in people.

People were.

And if caring for animals has always depended on people working together, then rebuilding hope in one another may be one of the most important things we can do for the animals, too.

One of my favorite parts of writing this newsletter is hearing the stories these essays bring to mind.

Have you ever heard someone say, "I'm only here for the animals"? Or is there another phrase you've come to hear differently over the years? I'd love to hear what it means to you. Just hit reply.

If this newsletter has been useful to you, the best way to help it grow is to pass it to one person who'd connect with it — a colleague, a fellow volunteer, anyone doing this work who might want to feel less alone in it.

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Small acts of care often look ordinary until someone pauses long enough to notice them. This week, a few things worth noticing:

If you have a win worth sharing — your own or someone else’s — reply to this email. I’d love to hear about it.

Mark your calendars for these upcoming opportunities to connect with others:

I'd love to know what's landing for you. Hit reply and let me know.

Thanks for spending part of your day with me and the rest of the Positive Animal Caregivers Club. Take care of yourself this week.

– Philip