© Stuart Armstrong

If you work or volunteer for a municipal agency—or if you are part of a private organization that contracts to run animal control—you may feel left out of the equation when leaders of the animal protection field speak of ending euthanasia in our lifetime. That’s all well and good, you might say, if only we were a private agency that wasn’t responsible for the safe harbor of all the community’s unwanted animals and the protection of all its people. Government is only going to pay for so much, and ending the euthanasia of healthy, adoptable animals falls low on the priority list of decision makers who are still trying to end violent crime, drug abuse, poverty, and other human-related problems that plague their communities.

But a growing number of municipal agencies and their allies are finding that, with a little ingenuity and a lot of help from friends, they can begin to add programs and services that their bosses applaud but would never consider paying for. They are bucking the common misconception that public animal shelters cannot or should not seek private funding sources, realizing that real progress can hardly be made without that kind of support.

“If government agencies are going to be a part of this philosophy that we’re trying to save all the animals, the resources are not going to come from the government,” says Don Jordan, director of Seattle Animal Control in Washington. “That’s just the reality. So we just have to be leaner and meaner and try to find out where the money is.”

In Seattle, private dollars have funded treatment of sick and injured animals and paid for spay/neuter surgeries for pet owners in need. In Fort Wayne, Indiana, donations have helped fund a surgical suite and have made possible the hiring of a coordinator to oversee a growing corps of volunteers who have helped changed the face of the adoption program. In North Richland Hills, Texas, a massive savings account of private individual donations will pay for a substantial portion of much needed building renovations. And in Iowa City, Iowa, a fundraising auxiliary has raised money to treat animals, improve the physical appearance of the building, underwrite the costs of behavior training for shelter animals, and create a space for shy cats who aren’t fit for the cat colony room.

It’s no surprise that uninformed residents of communities hosting animal care and control facilities like these often walk in and say, “I thought you were the pound—you seem more like a humane society!” Though the directors of these agencies recognize their communities have charged them with the primary mission of public safety, they also think they have another job that’s just as important to public health and welfare: providing preventative and curative programs to address the societal ills that have landed so many animals in need of a place to go.

“A government’s mission is going to be public health and safety. A humane society’s mission is going to be animal welfare,” says Belinda Lewis, director of Fort Wayne Animal Care and Control. “But there isn’t any reason that a government’s mission of public health and safety can’t be done under the humane ethic.”

“Saving lives wasn’t really thought about maybe 20 years ago ... ” adds Carl Friedman, director of San Francisco Animal Care and Control. “That’s really going to be the future. The municipal animal control agencies that I see now are expected to be ‘humane societies’ ... and they’re expected not only to protect the public, but they’re expected to be very animal welfare-conscious, and they’re going to have to get support from the community in terms of money.”

In Part 3 of “What Would It Take,” Animal Sheltering offers seven suggestions for getting the money you need from your local government—and the money you want from the community at large.

© Stuart Armstrong

In the face of the understandable popularity of everything from earthquake prevention initiatives and bicycle advisory committees to assessment appeals boards and local fire departments, how can animal care and control agencies present their worthy cause to policymakers and those who hold the purse strings? While animal services divisions elicit a range of emotions among the public and attract all the attendant media madness, they are usually not very well understood by elected officials who see animal-related issues as just one of dozens of priorities on the municipal agenda.

“A lot of governments don’t really know where to put animal control,” says Tahira Thomas, animal control administrator in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. “I think for a lot of [them], animal control is a very tough, tough area to manage.”

That’s in large part because the issues are far less cut and dried than, say, crumbling roads, says Dennis Graves, supervisor of Wichita Animal Control in Kansas. “There’s really no tangible benefit for spending money on animal control as [compared to] spending money on a street repair, [where] you can see that the pothole’s not there,” says Graves, who is also the vice president of the Kansas Animal Control Association. “You spend money on animal control—it may take two years before you see results.”

That’s why it’s up to animal control directors and others with an interest in animal protection to demonstrate the significance of the animal division’s role in the community—to “get up and beg and plead and scream for money,” says Friedman.

The path to getting those resources starts at the front door of your agency, which needs to carry the proverbial welcome sign for any public official, business leader, or citizen who wants to see who you are and what you do close-up. And it extends from that door all the way to the local municipal offices, the Lion’s Club, the schools, and any other place that will provide a forum for getting your messages across. The art of “schmoozing” rarely comes naturally to most people, but it’s a necessary skill that can pay off many times over. As one veteran animal control director says, “Too many people in this business stay in their shelters and cry in their beers”—an understandable response to the often energy-draining, emotionally taxing job of rescuing and caring for society’s forgotten creatures.

But the squeakiest wheel gets the most grease, and if you aren’t “pleasantly vocal” about your needs, you drastically diminish your potential to be fairly and adequately funded, says John Snyder, who spent 24 years building a progressive animal care and control operation from the ground up in Alachua County, Florida. “I’m really a relatively shy person. I’m not in your face. But I realized, if I was ever going to get what I needed, I had to come out of my shell,” says Snyder. “When I came in I was young—25 years old—and I thought, ‘We’re doing the right thing. Surely goodness and light will follow.’ Well, it doesn’t.”

Don’t assume people know what you do, says Snyder, and make an appointment with them before you need them. Ask commissioners or council members to spend a day volunteering, and send them written invitations to ride along with officers. When new politicos are voted into office, send letters congratulating them; include brochures or short summaries that outline the programs and services your agency or organization provides to the community.

If their schedules allow, follow up your written welcome by giving them a two-hour tour of your facility, as Snyder often did. Walk public officials through your shelter and give them the straight scoop on your operations, explaining everything from the euthanasia room to the spay/neuter policies. “We’d talk about problems, successes, achievements, missions, where we wanted to be and what we wanted to do,” says Snyder. “We’d tell them to ask whatever questions they had. We’d say, ‘If you get calls from constituents who have a problem with something we’re doing, please give us an opportunity to make it right.’ ”

© Stuart Armstrong

And why would the community be anything but surprised unless you’ve made it your mission to become as visible as possible? As the holder of the Carroll County, Maryland, animal control contract for the last two decades, Humane Society of Carroll County executive director Nicky Ratliff treats that question as the guiding principle behind her work. While her staff handles day-to-day operations, Ratliff is constantly looking at the bigger picture and never missing an opportunity to make friends—whether it’s with administrative assistants in the municipal office building or agricultural leaders in the largely rural community. And she always has a story to tell—something funny about a recent case her ACOs have handled, for instance, or some positive resolution that emerged from the handling of a cruelty investigation.

“I always ask, ‘How many animals do you think we handle a year?’ ” says Ratliff. “[They say,] ‘I don’t know—probably a couple of hundred.’ Then you tell them that you handle 4,300, and then they are like, ‘Whoa!’ Then you tell them how many people you have, or little things like, ‘... I’ve got 456 square miles, and I’ve got 965 miles of county road, and I’ve got 1,900 miles of state road, and I’ve only got 3 guys. I’ve got 40,000 dogs and about 35,000 cats and 56,000 households.’ ... We handle over 4,000 responses to the field and that doesn’t include what we handle over the phone.’ You have to have your statistics ... and you have to be upbeat about it, not all droopy about it. ... They have to want to hear the message.”

Steer clear of telling tales of woe and horror stories that will make people want to avoid you the next time they see you, says Ratliff. Local officials respond well if you demonstrate how the good work you’re doing makes them look good, too. When Theresa Bruner of the Taylor County Humane Society in West Virginia attends local council meetings, she distributes reports on the progress her recently formed group has made in improving conditions at the local public shelter. She shares positive articles that have appeared in local newspapers and relays success stories. “It’s not that I don’t tell them what we need,” Bruner says, “but I don’t go and just whine. ... I try to always start it on a positive note.”

© Stuart Armstrong

If dogs and cats could cast ballots in local elections, it’s likely they’d choose the candidates who dole out the tastiest treats, provide the most belly rubs, guarantee happy homes, and manage to give off a yummy scent while they’re at it.

People, while higher on the food chain, are the same kind of animal when it comes to getting what they need: They respond best to those who promise to ensure the safety, health, and well-being of their species.

Local elected officials are highly sensitive to the perceived needs and desires of their constituents, because they enjoy both helping the community and getting reelected. And since dogs and cats aren’t members of the voting populace, public and private animal services organizations trying to procure enough funds to help improve the plight of their furry charges must be able to speak eloquently for them—and in a way that appeals to politicians trying to walk a fine line between people and animal needs.

“In the municipal world where I work, you’ve got two types of people,” says Friedman. “I’ve got half the population of San Francisco who would like you to round up every dog and cat and put them in a hotel and get them room service. Maybe another half of those people would like me to round them up and cut their heads off. This is the dichotomy that we face ... that I have to service both those elements—the ones that see animals as nuisances and the ones that see them as the greatest creatures in the world.”

City councils and county commissioners face the same dilemma that ACOs do: They need to please both the public that thinks animals belong only on the dinner plate and the public that goes to sleep every night with a cat or dog on their pillow. But if you help those council members and commissioners make their case, you’re more likely to be successful with yours; pitching ideas to elected officials in a way that emphasizes benefits to humans helps those officials in turn justify expenditures and regulations to the taxpaying public.

It’s a classic method of salesmanship: Know your audience, understand what gets their juices flowing, and tailor your messages accordingly. In government, you can start by considering what your local governing body’s mission is and molding your pitch accordingly.

“If pet overpopulation is the concern of the humane agency, then a presentation to a government about why pet overpopulation is an issue can’t be weighted around only the euthanasia issues and [saying that] animals are out there suffering, etc.,” says Lewis in Fort Wayne. “It really needs to be weighted around the [idea that] ... ‘We have more animals running at large, we have more nuisances caused by animals in the neighborhoods because we have a volume of irresponsible ownership, we have indiscriminate breeding going on and as a result ... we have increased health issues in the neighborhoods.’ ”

Sometimes the best path toward demonstrating a need may not be the most direct one in the eyes of a shelter director or animal control officer, but it might be the one that appeals most to the town stewards. When director Misha Goodman wanted $70,000 to improve the heating and air-conditioning system at the Iowa City/Coralville Animal Care & Adoption Center in Iowa, she could have told the city council about the disease issues related to poor ventilation and the added stress that’s placed on animals when temperatures reach uncomfortable levels. She could have focused only on the fact that when the air-conditioning broke down altogether, temperatures rose to above 90 degrees in the kennels and even the cats began to pant.

But she chose to emphasize the issue that instills the most fear in those responsible for municipal solvency: liability. “What happens is here, particularly in the summer months, the system doesn’t work appropriately and brings in outside air,” says Goodman. “[There is] a lot of humidity, which sits on the floors and windows and such and makes a dangerous environment for the public. Well, that’s how I presented it. ... The last thing the city wants is a suit.”

If that approach sounds like subtle manipulation, it is. But the fact is, the floors truly are so slippery that people could fall and hurt themselves. And it’s an animal control director’s job—or the job of anyone trying to seek funding for their work or their cause—to “work the system,” as Friedman puts it. In the end, that’s not a negative role; it’s just a different way of approaching a problem, a way of looking at an issue from the point of view of someone who has different priorities.

“My job is to show my politicians, my board of supervisors, executive branch, legislative branch—the ones that hold the power—to show them how important my department is ...” says Friedman. “My job is to get the resources so that my people can run a good, clean, humane organization.”

© Stuart Armstrong

Far from an exhortation to shake your backside (although you may do so with delight when your budget proposals are approved), “back it up” should be the phrase running through your head whenever you prepare a proposal for better equipment, more staff, or more money. No matter how sincere you are or how desperately you need something, your request will go nowhere if you don’t support it with data, facts, and hard evidence. If you help the bean counters count their beans, they may find they have enough to help you grow your beanstalk.

It’s up to you to persuade the community to invest in you, says Graves, who’s been in the field long enough to move from being a field officer groaning about lack of adequate staffing and equipment to being a supervisor who knows how difficult it is to get them. The people Graves once thought were responsible for the gaps are responsible to other people, and those people are responsible to others; that’s the reality of working within a bureaucracy. Having good data and evidence of need can be the best tool for cutting through all the red tape that comes with working within a municipal structure.

“A lot of times, people know what they need, but they don’t have it on paper,” says Graves. “Anyone can tell you they need more staff, but if you don’t have it on paper that you have X number of calls ... then it might as well not even be requested, because people that make these types of decisions deal with numbers. ... They deal with data and supporting facts. You have to construct your data in a way that supports your position. You have to be able to justify what you’re asking for.”

Careful number-crunching and historical analysis certainly paid off for Graves last year, when he finally won approval for a new staff position after three years of trying.

“I had to go back 20 years and look at staffing levels and population and geographic areas and call loads and compile all that information into something that supported my position,” he says. “I knew it was there, and most people do—you know there’s a problem. You have the red flags popping up all over the place—if you’ve got 30,000 calls a year and you can’t answer 1,500 of them, there’s a problem.”

Even government officials sympathetic to your cause still have a job to do, and an appeal based solely on emotion can backfire, says Snyder. When dozens of different worthy agencies and groups were each clamoring for their own piece of the pie in Alachua County, the ones that were easiest for commissioners to dismiss were those with the weakest documentation. “People would come up and say only, ‘The puppies are suffering’ or something very emotional with no facts and no figures behind it,” he recalls. “And the commissioners would say, ‘So are the 186 children in foster care facilities and the 97 women in battered-spouse shelters.’ ”

It’s a lesson that was decades in the making for the Belmont County Animal Rescue League in Ohio. When Cheryl Demetrakis and her colleagues first became involved with the Belmont County Animal Shelter 33 years ago, they were so busy trying to figure out how to get running water to the dogs—and how to put a stop to the night drop-offs that sometimes led to mutilation of animals by cruel members of the public—that they weren’t focused on proper presentation and effective appeals to county commissioners.

In those days, Demetrakis recalls, the women would discuss the inroads they had made and the all-volunteer work they were doing to feed, treat, and care for the animals; in response they would usually hear little more than, “Great job.” “It was kind of debatable what we were there for—just to get patted on the head?” says Demetrakis. “We learned a long time ago not to go up and cry on their shoulder because they just look at us as a bunch of simple old women.”

Now the group’s presentations are much more sophisticated. A request for an increase in the dog license fees was supported by research on the cost of everything from gas and boarding fees to medication and employee salaries. “I think if we wanted an answer out of them,” Demetrakis says, “we had to present a problem or a question. ... Or say, ‘We want to discuss the cost of a dog license. ... We’ve gone for 11 years and not had any [increase]. And we can see a 12-percent increase in salaries, we can see the electric bill has gone up X number of dollars. ... And so we’re looking at a 28-percent increase in costs, and we’re asking for a 20-percent increase in license fees.’ And I think then you’ve got a justifiable discussion.”

Bruner’s West Virginia group is in a similar position; the members volunteer their time to help improve conditions at the local facility while also trying to squeeze more money for animal services out of the municipal coffers. And they remember to keep the focus on the bottom line: “People always understand money,” Bruner says. “When I go into the county commission, I am very clear that I’m looking at dollars ... putting things up that they care about. Not just saving the dogs, but putting up what we save [the county] in money and time and everything else.”

Arguments for more funding can be even more convincing if you engage officials in a kind of municipal show-and-tell, complete with visual aids. If officials are unable to make it to your facility for an in-person tour, give them a virtual one as Goodman did when she was trying to persuade city fathers to fund renovations of a crumbling section of the Iowa City shelter. “We did a video of the whole area,” she says. “I stood next to a wall, and I could literally move the wall. That’s how bad it was, and that was all they had to see. ... They said, ‘Turn that off!’ because the city council meetings are taped for TV, and they didn’t want anybody to see that. They said, ‘Okay, we’ll give you the money!’ ”

When Thomas’s new facility had finally been approved after years of research, meetings, and proposals, she experienced a setback in the form of an election upset that ushered into office a county executive who put a moratorium on all capital improvements. Thomas invited the new head honcho to the shelter so she could vividly demonstrate the need—the way she had with the previous county executive, the council members, the planning advisory board, and everyone else who had already approved the project. “I knew if she was coming out to the facility, it would be a done deal,” Thomas recalls. “Nothing’s like being there. Nothing’s like looking at the walls. Nothing’s like smelling the place, seeing the animals and the rust and all that. ... Everyone who had walked through had said, ‘You need a new building.’ ”

But the county executive couldn’t make it at the last minute, so Thomas decided to take her case on the road—armed with visual evidence. “What was very, very helpful is that we had taken pictures of the ... facility, and I just took them to her,” she says. “I went through page by page. That’s what sold her.”

If Thomas hadn’t persisted but rather settled for the original edict of the new woman at the helm, the project likely would have remained in permanent limbo. “She was just going to say, ‘Well, it’s not that important. No one fought for it,’” says Thomas. “If we didn’t fight for it, if I didn’t have the pictures, it would be very hard to convince her. She agreed about an hour and a half later to proceed with it.”

Presented diplomatically and in a way that government officials can relate to, pictures really can tell a thousand more words than a dry proposal sometimes can. When Snyder was trying to obtain funding for a shelter to replace his cramped facility—a building with polluted water, no heat in the restrooms, and not enough space to accommodate his then eight-member staff, let alone the cats and dogs they were taking in—he tried for about eight years before making headway. What finally convinced his commissioners of the need was a feasibility study and a slide show presentation that detailed the problems and the proposed solutions.

Snyder used a similar tactic to obtain new modular units for his officers’ trucks, sharing photos of the ones they were using at the time: vehicles that consisted of little more than expanded metal gang pens with no protection from the elements and no way to separate animals. He hit the point home by telling his audience, “If we pick your dog up, your dog could be bitten, your dog could be exposed to disease—we have no way of segregating them.”

The commissioners heard the message and approved an initial purchase of one new modular unit and truck. Snyder did not forget to thank them by once again showing them, in person, what their money had paid for. Four of the five commissioners came out to the plaza to see the new $30,000 vehicle. “I said, ‘This is what your money bought. This is what we got. We wanted to show you and thank you,’ ” Snyder says. “They spend so much time in an ivory tower in a sterile meeting room talking about concepts that they so infrequently see the actual product.”

The commissioners were suitably impressed; Snyder never had a problem obtaining approval for vehicle purchases again.

© Stuart Armstrong

In the ever-changing world of municipal politics, the word “no” is about as fluid as a voter during an economic downturn. It can mean any number of things depending on the issue, the current decision makers, and the context: “No, we’re not going to fund that right now because we don’t understand where you’re coming from.” “No, we like your project, but we have five other major projects we consider to be more pressing this year.” “No, we aren’t approving any capital improvement expenditures until the economy is on steadier ground.” “No, you’re asking for more money than we’re able or willing to spend.”

In all of those answers, a seed of hope can be found: the idea that, maybe next year, with the right proposal or the right economic climate or the right people in office, you can get your project approved. In case after case, those who have experienced the most success in gaining funding and support for animal care and control are those who never give up.

“It’s called long-term endurance,” says Demetrakis of her group’s 33-year campaign to improve conditions for animals in Belmont County, Ohio. Even though it took the Belmont County Animal Rescue League more than 25 years to formalize its role in managing shelter operations, the group wasted no time in the interim. The League shepherded the shelter into the modern age, coming in during a time when animals were mass-euthanized by car exhaust and making incremental changes for the better bit by bit—first by conversion to the carbon monoxide chamber and later by introducing euthanasia by injection performed by a certified technician.

As the Rescue League members’ business savvy grew, so too did its effectiveness in the county. Six years ago, the group won a bid to take over the shelter’s operations. By then, it had such a foothold in the county—both in terms of moral and financial support—that the county commissioners could hardly refuse the offer. The previous year, the Rescue League had funneled nearly $100,000 into vaccinations, medical expenses, sterilizations, and other basic operational needs. “[We told them] they were either going to do this or we were going to pull out, which I don’t know if we would have ever done, but we just thought that we were just putting so much money into it.”

“[We just explained that] together we can make a better place than either one of us can do singly,” says Demetrakis. “...I think that was the presentation.” Now, instead of just one dog warden picking up and euthanizing dogs, the shelter has a director and five employees, not to mention all the volunteers from the Rescue League. And unlike many places in Ohio, where cats are considered wild animals and are not protected by animal care and control laws, the Belmont County shelter is a haven for cats because of the private organization’s efforts. The shelter is open seven days a week, and all animals leaving the facility are spayed and neutered. Cats are tested for feline leukemia, and dogs are heartworm-tested.

Perhaps most gratifying of all, the group now has control over where animals go when they leave the facility. “We just wanted to make sure that we were not putting more animals out in the world to reproduce, that we weren’t ... handing out six beagles to one hunter who would never neuter and spay,” says Demetrakis. “It took 30 years. Hey, but it paid off!”

© Stuart Armstrong

“When I go to conferences and people say, ‘Oh, you just get what you want,’ I say, ‘No, I’m telling you, it’s not always that way!’ ... You just don’t get stuff overnight,” says Burney, director of the city’s Environmental Services, which oversees the agency. “There’s people who say, ‘Oh, we could never do this, we can never do that.’ ... And I think to myself, ‘You’re right, you could never do it.’ It’s a mind-set. ... I’ve found that if you have answers for the questions [officials are asking] ... you’re going to get what you want. You may not get it the first time, but keep going back!”

That’s what Ratliff did when she saw the need for a better cat room, a more inviting receiving area, and a bigger space for front-desk staff and their computers. Even though she has developed strong relationships with local business and government leaders, she still faced repeated rejection before finally making a breakthrough. “They didn’t see the need, and even if they saw the need, they were only going to fund a small portion of the need,” she says. “It took me five years to get this through, and I guess if I had to relate something to somebody, it’s just don’t ever give up! Times change, budgets change, people change. People have good days and bad days, and you can never assume just because one person voted it down every year for three years, they’re not going to vote it up the fourth if for no other reason than just to get you out of their face.”

The tide turned for Ratliff’s renovation proposal when she pitched a partnership of sorts. “I said, ‘We’ll go half and half with you. In fact, we’ll even do a little better—we’ll put $100,000 into the building, and then you put $100,000 into the building, and then we will put ... up to $20,000 into amenities. ... ’ Then they said, ‘Okay.’ ”

After ten years of pleading for a new building, Mark Wachner came up with a similar arrangement for the construction of the Saginaw County Animal Care Center in Michigan. Though his “knees are still sore” from the decade of begging, the efforts were worth it. The now two-year-old facility is a far cry from the old one: Built on shaking footings next to a sewage pond, the previous shelter did not have adequate air flow and was prone to rodent infestations.

While the government did foot the bill for the basics of the new center, Wachner was able to add creature comforts using $80,000 raised by Friends of the Saginaw County Animal Care Center. Things that the government might consider “fluff” were essential elements in Wachner’s mind: natural lighting in the kennels, for example, and medical and grooming supplies.

Government officials may not always be able to give you everything you want, but if they know you are trying your best and are willing to be flexible in your partnership with them, many will try to return the favor and at least give you what you absolutely need. “I always have several options ... several things we can choose from, because sometimes they want to give you something, especially if you’ve built relationships,” says Graves. “They may not be able to give you another field position, but they may be able to give you a van upgrade or something that doesn’t cost as much.”

Pick your battles, says Thomas, who wasn’t about to complain when an eight-year campaign to get a new facility yielded a shelter that was smaller than the ideal structure she’d had in mind. In her beautifully decorated, environmentally sound, easily disinfectable building near Annapolis, Maryland, she is grateful to be able to look at the days of improper drainage, short kennels, exposed ceilings, and inadequate isolation areas as a bad memory. “The first building we were in was a 10,000-square-foot facility,” she says. “This facility is a 20,500-square-foot facility. It is still smaller than what we requested, but you get to a point where you may want a 25,000-square-foot building, but you’ve got to take it through everybody and the Budget Office is going to start cutting, looking for where they can cut. So you need to know what to fight for.”

© Stuart Armstrong

If you’ve ever wondered why your front-counter donation box seems to collect little more than spiders and dust, it’s time to get rid of the bug specimen jar and broaden your options. Agencies around the country are getting over their fears of scary IRS agents turning up at their doors and coming up with all sorts of innovative and completely legal ways of raising money.

Seattle Animal Control has mastered the art of raising funds outside the taxpayers’ coffers, showing up in unexpected places to solicit donations. During the holiday season, volunteers go to IKEA and ring bells for the agency Salvation Army-style; they also sponsor photos of pets with Santa Paws. In the summertime, runners and walkers (accompanied by their animal exercise companions) raise money at the annual Fun Run—an event that’s expected to bring in about $80,000 this year from registration fees and company sponsorships, as well as the inestimable amount of exposure that comes with leading a parade of pampered pets through town. “Last year we had 600 dogs, 1 cat, and 1 ferret,” says Jordan, noting that the race was peaceful in spite of the species mix.

“I think that a lot of government people that I’ve talked to think you can’t fundraise,” he says. “I just don’t think they’ve received approval from their director or department head—or maybe they just haven’t tried it. You just have to try it ... ”

While some animal care and control agencies worry that fundraising might anger area nonprofits, Jordan maintains an excellent working relationship with his counterparts at the local humane society in Seattle—and even looked to their example for fundraising ideas when he first became director.

“I’ve always heard people say, ‘Well, we don’t want animal control competing with the local humane society.’ You know what? There’s a lot of money out there,” says Jordan. “Now our philosophy has really been looking more at what private industry does to market their agencies, to market their product. ... So we’re really focusing on how we can better market ourselves within the community.”

Seattle Animal Control has already seen what a difference even a little outreach can make: When Jordan added a line to pet license and renewal applications that solicits donations, the agency brought in $30,000 in the first year alone. “You provide the opportunity,” he says, “and they will donate.”

Citizens in North Richland Hills don’t even have to seek a pet license or own any animals to have that opportunity dropped in their mail slots; Burney has made sure her shelter is a household name among residents by obtaining a space for donations on the city’s water bill. For years, residents had been able to donate a dollar to the city by checking a box on the bill, with half of the proceeds going to the library and half going to the parks and recreation department. But when the parks department received an unexpected and much larger boon in the form of a specially designated half-cent sales tax, the animal shelter jumped at the chance to fill the vacated slot on the bill.

The city was worried about potential legal hassles, but Burney’s question to the finance director proved to be her best selling point. How could a donation to the shelter present any more problems in the eyes of the law, she asked, than a donation to the library? “He said, ‘Well, you know, I never thought about that. I never really considered that,’ ” Burney recalls. “And so when we got the water bill donation going, then it was wide open. If people can donate, they can donate regardless. So that’s when we set up our funds.”

Though the fundraiser has inspired agencies in other areas of the country to pursue similar arrangements, Burney was the first to use the thirst of her community to her organization’s advantage. The rewards have flooded in: the donations have accumulated into a hefty $400,000 fund.

And for those residents who already feel too waterlogged by mail solicitations to check off the box on the utilities bill, Burney’s agency has found another way to their hearts: through their stomachs. At the Critter Connection, the agency’s off-site adoption and retail center, a popcorn machine sends a buttery solicitation out into the mall—and garners hundreds of dollars in return.

It’s what Burney calls “a little retail magic.” Originally, after spending a few hundred to purchase the machine for the store, the agency charged passersby and store visitors the bargain price of 50 cents a bag. Then one of the volunteers had the bright idea to make the snack a reward for an unspecified donation instead of a set price. “Now our popcorn machine generates $50 to $100 every time [the center] is open,” says Burney. “People donate $4, $5, $10 or whatever. ... Popcorn is one of those things that triggers a ‘feel good’ sensation in people. I know that sounds weird, but it does!”

© Stuart Armstrong

Just as helpful to the shelter are the in-kind items donated during the annual Holiday for the Hounds party. The event draws monetary gifts but, perhaps even better, brings in donations of goods that last all year—blankets, toys, chewies, beds, even medical supplies.

During other seasons, the shelter also uses the local newspaper to ask for donations of supplies. “We’ll put small ads saying, ‘We are running low on toys for the dogs. If you think you can help, bring some toys by the animal center,’ ” says Goodman. “And you’d be amazed—people just go shopping and they buy bags of stuff for you.”

People occasionally ask Goodman why things like toys and beds and climbing structures for the cats aren’t paid for by the city, and she uses her answers as an opportunity to explain the realities of being a municipal agency. “What we tell them is that what’s included in our budget is to house these animals and care for them. ... All those [other things] are extras and our budget doesn’t really cover those.”

Certainly some restrictions apply to any fundraising efforts or donation appeals; for instance, in Seattle and in many other municipalities, local ordinances prohibit government agencies from advertising for private companies. Jordan could not sell ad spots in his newsletter for that reason, but he can allow volunteers to raise sponsorship money for fun runs—as long as the volunteers are in charge and they give equal access to any company that’s interested.

Jordan’s agency makes sure that everyone who seeks information from or about Seattle Animal Control gets that opportunity: the organization provides information for donors in mailings, on the Web, and through its voice mail greeting. “Believe it or not, there are actually a lot of people who listen to the prompt rather than just hitting ‘0’ like I do,” Jordan says. “So it’s really, I think, a cooperative effort between utilizing all of your advertising means available.”

© Stuart Armstrong

It wasn’t advertising but rather a stroke of good luck that led to the latest windfall at Anne Arundel County Animal Control. It was as if someone had read Tahira Thomas’s mind: One week she was trying to figure out how to get $4,400 for new surgery equipment, and the next week she discovered that a recently deceased woman had left her agency $5,000 in her will. “It’s the first time ever that that’s happened for us, so it’s really a big deal,” says Thomas. “So now we’re trying to work out the legality of how to keep it out of the general fund and how to use it, but I think we can.”

Thomas is hoping to work with the police department to set up two funds—one for medical emergencies and the other for safehousing of pets of domestic violence victims. Not only would the separate accounts help attract more private donations; they would also protect donor dollars from falling into the municipal melting pot of revenue.

It’s the reason many agencies have started looking into creating separate accounts designated specifically for donations to animal care and control: Without them, monetary gifts may never make their way to the intended department, especially if they are not used by the end of the year, when municipalities often absorb unspent monies back into the general fund.

Those who work for municipal government may be used to hearing that they’re not allowed to maintain such accounts—or that the red tape required to enable private support is so sticky they may never disentangle themselves from it. But that never stopped Burney, whose Shelter Fund—made up of the water bill donations—is footing a substantial portion of the bill to renovate the North Richland Hills Animal Adoptions and Rescue Center. And the agency’s Injured Animal and Spay-Neuter Assistance Fund, which consists of general individual donations, pays for the treatment of sick and injured shelter animals and the sterilization of pets whose owners need financial assistance.

When Burney was making her case to North Richland Hills city administrators, they expressed a concern that no one would donate anyway. “They don’t think anybody will give to a government agency for anything,” Burney says. “And I argued and I said, ‘You have no concept! People will give for animals when they won’t give for children, they won’t give for parks, they won’t give for libraries.’ ”

Jordan can attest to that: Over the last six years, Seattle Animal Control’s Help the Animals Fund has brought in more than half a million dollars, the Off-Leash Areas Fund has brought in about $70,000, and the Pet Population Control Fund has garnered close to $100,000. “So those aren’t anything to turn your head at,” says Jordan. “These are substantial dollars that grow over time.”

The money has been used for the treatment of sick and injured animals, the construction of a cat isolation area, the purchase of toys and treats for shelter animals, the free sterilization of pets of people in need, and the support of groups helping to maintain off-leash areas. This year, funds from private donor accounts will even pay for a campaign to spread the spay/neuter message on the sides of 100 city buses.

© Stuart Armstrong

It wasn’t always this way, he adds. When Jordan took a job as a field officer at Seattle Animal Control 12 years ago, “we were kind of doom and gloom,” he says. During his last six years as director, he has tried to change that by turning the shelter into what he calls a “community-based organization” with strong emphasis on private donor and volunteer involvement.

And the community has heard the message. Each year now, the shelter receives money from one or two small estates—usually from people who have never donated in the past and who have had no known association with the agency, says Jordan. The phenomenon has prompted Jordan and his staff to prepare a mailing that will go out later this year to all the attorneys and accountants in town, alerting them to the fact that Seattle Animal Control has dedicated funds available for people who wish to include the shelter in their estates and wills.

In Billings, Montana, animal control supervisor Dave Klein often receives inquiries from donors who prefer to channel their money into specific programs or need areas, he says. So about five years ago, Klein responded by dividing one general account into four targeted funds; the Billings Animal Shelter now has a building account for any additions or major building purchases, a spay/neuter account that funds certificates to help pet owners with surgery costs, an education account that covers both training for officers and educational programs for the public, and a general fund.

“We [set this up] with the thought that if people were able to pick and choose where their money was going, they would be more willing to donate,” says Klein, who has been able to use private funds to add a surgical room where animals are now spayed and neutered before going to their new homes.

A Special Projects Fund in Fort Wayne allows donors to designate their dollars for specific areas of the operation, including foster care, the adoption program, medical supplies, food for special-needs animals, humane education, the volunteer program, animal care supplies, animal rescue items, and building enhancements.

Fliers in the shelter’s adoption and receiving/redemption areas list the designated categories and invite people to donate. “What often happens is somebody walks in and has a specific desire—or we sell them a desire,” says Lewis. “It works well for us.”

The success can be seen in the numbers; usually the fund contains between $50,000 and $100,000. A second account, the Animal Care Fund, contains $500,000 from general donations, gifts, and bequests. Overseen by a five-member Animal Care and Control Commission appointed by the mayor and city council, the larger fund is intended to help advance the agency’s programs by paying for things not considered to be part of governmental responsibility. Donations to that account have enabled Fort Wayne Animal Care and Control to add, among other things, a full-time volunteer coordinator position and a surgical suite.

Fort Wayne has exacting guidelines that dictate how the money can be spent and who needs to approve the expenditures; the restrictions serve as a kind of insurance policy against inappropriate or random use of funds. When Lewis first took over the helm of the agency 14 years ago, she discovered that city administrators had used donations to fund a building addition without the approval of the Animal Care and Control Commission. That level of approval is now mandated, after the commission successfully sought passage of an ordinance designed to prevent further dipping into the fund for projects that should be underwritten by government.

The city of Seattle also passed an ordinance that defined the parameters of expenditures from its donation-based animal control funds; the idea was to ensure the accounts would remain separate from the general operating expenditures, says Jordan. All three funds fall under the city’s trust fund for general donations and gifts.

“If it is set up under that, it is not subjected to the city’s budget process,” says Jordan. “So the council can’t come forward one year and say, ‘You know, what I see is that you have half a million in your fund. We need to reduce your budget by half a million this year.’ It really makes it more difficult for policymakers to justify use of those dollars for operating things that the government really should be paying for. If people get wind of that, they are not going to contribute.” (In fact, some foundations also are willing to give grants to municipal agencies, but only as long as a municipal attorney or someone with similar authority can provide a guarantee that the money will not end up in the general fund.)

The Seattle funds’ separation from the city budget and the ordinance governing its use makes donors more comfortable in claiming deductions on their taxes, says Jordan. Internal Revenue Service code 170A stipulates that donations to government entities are allowable deductions if they are used in a way that benefits the public, and having guidelines in place for fund disbursement provides greater justification for the funds’ existence, he says. “By creating your funds in this manner, I think that it tightens up everything from a credibility and audit standpoint,” says Jordan, “and it gets your city council to clearly support what you’re doing.”

Enlisting the support of the public can also bolster the legitimacy of your donations accounts, says Klein. Even though the policemen’s association created an account for the shelter that the government can’t touch, Klein’s four other funds are set up through the city. “My concern always is that ... they’re going to want to get into my donation accounts to help build the new shelter,” Klein says. “In all my letters and all my things that I send out, it says, ‘Donations will be used for the benefit of the animals; they will not be used for general operating cost.’ So that hopefully keeps [the government’s] fingers out of it quite a bit.”

© Stuart Armstrong

Animal-loving donors in Iowa City know exactly where their money is going; they have only to browse the Web to see the results of their generosity: Turk the black Lab, for instance, has received heartworm treatment. Irene the gray kitty has had blood work done. Yosemite the long-nosed, sleepy-faced mixed breed has been neutered.

Meanwhile, some of their fellow guests at the Iowa City/Coralville Animal Care and Adoption Center have been reducing their stress and preparing for life in a new home by attending basic behavior sessions at a local dog-training school. And a few of their more skittish feline cohorts are busy back at the shelter acclimating to the Kitty Hotel, a large-sized cage provided as an alternative to those cats who need to stretch their legs but aren’t fit for the shelter’s cat colony room.

This slice of pet paradise was made possible with a little help from some friends—or rather, some Friends. About two and a half years ago, a law student approached Goodman to see how she could assist the shelter; the result was the formation of Friends of the Animal Center Foundation, a private nonprofit that raises funds and attracts volunteers for shelter programs. The organization has collected donations for everything from canine hip surgeries to hanging flower pots outside the shelter.

“This past year, they’ve probably put out $3,000 or so just in medical costs for animals with heartworm treatment, things like that,” says Goodman. “That isn’t going to be paid for out of the regular ... budget. My medical budget for my animals is one of my lowest line items, unfortunately; one of my highest is food. And again, that comes from the [government] perspective of, ‘Well, we maintain them.’ Well, our idea is, ‘No, we want to do more than that.’ ”

To make that possible, the foundation emphasizes the importance of keeping a clear separation between money it raises and money appropriated by the city. Like agencies that create special donation-based accounts, the Friends group was at first concerned that its fundraising might lead the city to make excuses and reduce the funds it was already providing for basic operations. “They didn’t want to raise money and then have us lose money from the city budget,” says Goodman. “They talked to the council about that, they presented their plan to the council. They told them that their plan was to raise money for things that were outside the realm of city projects, [and] in no way would they want our own budget reduced. ... And they did it in a public forum so that it would be brought up later on if that happened or started to happen.”

In San Francisco, reduction of tourism-related revenue since September 11 has forced the city to cut back on its spending. The cutbacks are not going to leave animal control untouched, says Friedman—but because of a new group working to support the work of animal care and control, some programs may continue to grow anyway.

Formed in 2000 by some energetic volunteers who wanted to do more for animals in the San Francisco system, Friends of San Francisco Animal Care and Control has already helped Friedman and his staff provide services they hadn’t previously been able to afford. “[They] basically said, ‘Boy, wouldn’t we like to do A, B, C, and D,’” says Friedman. “And I said, ‘Yes, so would I, but I’ll tell you the reality of it is I’m not going to get those resources from the city—and even if they do give me those resources, as much as I’d like to do it, I’ve got other priorities I’ve got to do.’ So they said, ‘Well, how can we help you?’ ”

Friedman and the volunteers talked it over and ended up looking at other local groups that had formed in order to raise funds for their favorite organizations. There was a “Friends of the Library” group and a “Friends of Recreation and Parks” group, so they thought—why not a “Friends of Animal Control” group?

In its first two years of operation, the group has raised money for microchipping clinics, helping to ensure that every animal leaving SFACC is microchipped, says Friedman. Friends of San Francisco Animal Control has even bigger plans, including saving up for a professional trainer to work with the dogs at the facility—especially the pit bulls—who may require more help than the agency can afford to give them.

“Other than [a box you could put donations in] there was no organized development effort,” says Bill Hamilton, president of the Friends group. “Even though it’s a city agency, I could see there were things they needed and a lot of people wanted to help them, but no one was really going after that support, so that’s why I started it.”

Part 4 of our six-part series will examine outreach and media relations strategies that promote awareness of homeless animal problems and empower the public to help shelters and other animal protection organizations.