Do we choose animal welfare, or does animal welfare choose us?
I have been wrestling with this question all week after catching up with two friends I hadn't spoken to in more than ten years. Unexpectedly, both conversations turned to the animals they had rescued. For both of them, it was their first rescue.
One friend, Chris, adopted a stray dog. When he later relocated to Singapore, he brought the dog with him.
It cost him thousands of dollars.
"Every penny was worth it," he told me.
Another friend, Jen, became a cat mom three years ago. One day, she spotted a stray cat resting by a busy road with her four young kittens. Many people walked past. Everyone ignored them.
But Jen didn't.
When she approached, the cat showed her belly.
Mama was pregnant again.
Jen called several local rescue groups, but none had the capacity to take in all the cats. Instead, they asked whether she would help.
"I never thought I would be a cat mom," Jen laughed, "but here I was taking care of a mama, her daughters, and a whole new litter."
The kittens eventually all found homes. Mama and one of her timid daughters stayed.
A decade ago, I would have looked at you in disbelief if you had told me that I would one day be working in animal welfare.
I grew up in a pet-less household, although I cuddled dog plush toys and admired the dog paintings on our walls.
The closest thing we ever had to a pet was a bird that accidentally flew into our house. We hurried out to buy a cage and bird feed. The bird apparently didn't appreciate our hospitality and left before we returned.
If not for the pandemic halting international travel, I probably never would have volunteered at my local shelter. Instead, I found myself with too much time and decided to try a single volunteer shift.
Looking back, all three of us followed the same path.
Very few people wake up one morning and decide, I'm going to dedicate my life to helping animals.
Not because we don't care. We simply have other priorities. Or we convince ourselves that we don't know enough, that we're not ready.
But all it took was one encounter.
One opportunity to help.
One small yes.
Every one of us has walked past hundreds of animals.
Yet somehow, there is always one we never forget.
Not because that animal was the one most in need.
But because that was the day we were ready to stop walking.
That one small yes eventually became a much bigger commitment.
Providing a home for those cats didn't just change their lives. It changed Jen's understanding of who she was.
Before that day, she wasn't someone who rescued cats.
Afterwards, she was.
One yes rarely stays as one yes.
Before long, helping animals stops feeling like an exception.
It becomes part of who we are.
Perhaps that's how the animal welfare movement has always grown.
Jen needed someone to give her confidence for that first step. The rescue organization did exactly that. She may not have realised it then, but she had become part of the movement.
If that's true, then perhaps organizations have a role that goes beyond rescuing animals.
Perhaps their greatest contribution is helping ordinary people discover that they can make a difference.
Some organizations have already embraced this. Rather than trying to solve every problem themselves, they train ordinary people to become animal welfare champions.
I didn't have the chance to ask Jen. But I'd like to think that if she comes across another cat in need a few years from now, she won't walk past.
She'll know what to do.
Part of me wants to say that we choose animal welfare. After all, nobody forced Chris to spend thousands of dollars bringing a dog to Singapore. Nobody forced Jen to take home a pregnant cat. Nobody forced me to turn one Saturday morning into a new career.
And yet, none of us went looking for those moments.
They found us first.
Maybe that's how animal welfare chooses us.
Not through fate, but through the ordinary moments when compassion asks something of us —
and we answer.
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Recognitions
Small acts of care often look ordinary until someone pauses long enough to notice them. This week, a few things worth noticing:
When disaster strikes, kindness makes room. After a 7.1-magnitude earthquake hit Kumamoto, Japan, Ryunosuke Animal Hospital transformed the classrooms of its veterinary nursing school into emergency accommodation for evacuees and their pets. Too often, people are forced to choose between their own safety and leaving their animals behind. By opening its doors, the hospital made sure they didn't have to.
Supporting the second chance after rescue. Italy has announced €2 million in funding to support dogs rescued from organised dogfighting. The funding will help animal welfare organizations care for seized animals, including those requiring behavioural rehabilitation. Rescue is only the beginning of recovery, and this investment recognises that healing takes time, expertise, and continued support.
A legacy built on kindness. Monty Roberts, the renowned horse trainer who championed trust over force, passed away this week at the age of 91. Long before positive reinforcement became widely accepted, Roberts demonstrated that compassion could achieve what punishment could not. His influence reached far beyond horses, inspiring approaches to relationship-building that were later adapted to support children and military veterans living with post-traumatic stress disorder. His life is a reminder that kindness can leave a legacy far greater than any individual achievement.
If you have a win worth sharing — your own or someone else’s — reply to this email. I’d love to hear about it.
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Happenings
Mark your calendars for these upcoming opportunities to connect with others:
Before You Go
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