Change is hard. The dozens of shelters we’ve worked with are all underfunded and resource strapped. Many of them are mismanaged. Others are led by beleaguered shelter directors who become targets for public vitriol and receive no real support from their own leaders—many of them career politicians who have never set foot in a public shelter and are thus divorced from the day-to-day realities of a broken system.  Many shelter employees took their jobs with the best of intentions, but have become disaffected and cynical (or worse, numb) over time.

Historically, animal shelters have been internally, not externally, focused. If you’ve visited your local shelter lately, you might have seen it firsthand. Shelter workers spend far more time on paperwork than they do interacting with the animals in their care. They can be seen behind desks rifling through impound reports, liability waivers, temp test logs, volunteer rosters, timesheets, and myriad (and often contradictory) policy documents.

They are rewarded on a “no news is good news” system of keeping litigation and negative press at bay and ensuring that no one breaks any rules that could result in legal action. Emails from rescues or potential adopters are ignored—heaven forbid someone leaves a paper trail!—and telephone queries are left unanswered. This is how they keep their jobs (and in many cases, their pensions). And this is why perfectly healthy companion animals end up dead in plastic bags.

The system has to change.

Shelter 1: It’s a waiting game.

It’s after dinner and you’re casually scrolling through Facebook posts. You stumble on a picture of an adorable dog, a shepherd mix, who looks EXACTLY like your old dog, Lola.

You post a message of support in the Facebook comments and then someone else posts: “RED-LISTED! SCHEDULED TO BE PTS TOMORROW!” The dog is young and looks friendly enough. Will she really be put to sleep (PTS)?

You call the shelter; no one answers. At work the next morning, you call again. After waiting on hold for 37 minutes, you’re told by a representative that the dog is first-come, first-served and you need to go to the shelter in person if you want to adopt it.

Of course, I don’t want to adopt it!, you think. I can’t have another dog right now! Nevertheless, you find yourself on your lunch break the next day driving to the shelter, not really knowing what you’ll do when you get there. You want to see the dog. Your husband will stop talking to you if you bring her home, but you go anyway. You want to meet the dog, make sure she’s healthy, and maybe get her out of her kennel for a walk to find out if she’s friendly.

When you arrive at the shelter, there aren’t enough parking spaces, so you circle the lot a few times before finding a spot. You make your way to the front office, where you take a ticket and get in line. Your number is 64, but it’s unclear what number they’re serving. There are no seats left in the shelter lobby. The building is old, and it’s hotter inside than it is outside.

A well-dressed man stands up and begins to pace, intermittently looking at his watch. You take his seat next to a woman thumbing through a US Weekly, occasionally fanning herself with it. The echo of barking dogs outside is as oppressive as the heat. Across from you, a family sits together, not speaking. The pre-teen daughter holds an old chihuahua, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. The pacing man, exasperated, leaves. You figure it will be a few more minutes until it’s your turn.

Forty-eight minutes later, a woman at the desk wearing a uniform with “Bender” embroidered on the chest calls your number.

You explain to Bender that you have come to see a dog. She asks you for the animal’s id number, and you fish the Post-It note from your wallet and hand it to her.

Bender types something on her keyboard, then stares at her screen for what seems like an eternity, making small “Hmmm?” noises. A uniformed man passes behind her and she stops him, wordlessly pointing to her screen.

“You can’t take it out ‘cuz it hasn’t had a temp test,” the man says. You’re not sure who he’s talking to and ask what a temp test is. Without making eye contact, Bender explains that the dog is a “dominant breed” and must be evaluated by a member of the shelter staff before it can be adopted.

You ask when the temp test will take place. Wordlessly, Bender stands up and cries, “WHO HAS THE LOG!?!” —and for a minute, you think she’s misplaced a large piece of lumber. The log never materializes.

“You wanna eye-pee?” Bender asks, sitting down again. You don’t know what that means, but you say yes and provide your phone number.

“We’ll call you,” she says. You have more questions, but Bender is already yelling, “Number 65!” You have been at the shelter for one hour and twelve minutes and have not seen a single animal.

The entire process of adopting a shelter pet can be agonizing, bureaucratic, error-prone, and demeaning. The diagram below outlines a familiar experience of a shelter visitor interested in adopting a dog.

Now let’s imagine a different scenario.

Shelter 2: Adopt Ozzie with your phone.

It’s after dinner, and you’re casually browsing the website of your local shelter. You notice a dog named Ozzie; he resembles a hound dog you had in middle school. Below a photo of Ozzie playing, there is a short list of information, including his breed type, size, and a short behavior summary, including a note stating that Ozzie is good with other dogs, but not with cats or kids. Included on Ozzie’s page are links to possible breed information, the animal licensing website, and training references.

The site asks you to click a link that reads: “Meet your furry friend in person!” Up pops a calendar with available dates and times. You choose a time for the next morning. The site confirms the appointment, then up pops Google Maps for driving directions. It also offers an online chat function where you can type a question. It displays your estimated “wait time in queue” and the option to leave a callback number.

The next day, you arrive for your appointment. At the entrance, you’re met by bank of large, interactive screens under a sign that says: “Start here!” You type in your email address and a welcome screen displays a picture of Ozzie. He’s in Building 1, Kennel 152. You touch the screen and are asked to read and sign an electronic liability waiver so that you can meet the dog in person. You swipe your signature, press Enter, and a small digital map illuminates the path from where you stand to where Ozzie is. The experience reminds you of the rental car lot from your last vacation, only instead of choosing a car, you might be choosing your next family member.

Kennel 152 is easy to find, and there’s Ozzie in his kennel, resting on a raised dog hammock while a staff member reads a book to him. The reader, Shelley, introduces herself as “Ozzie’s case manager.” She’s already confirmed that you’ve signed the digital liability waiver, and looping a slip lead around Ozzie’s neck—she  leads the way to one of the shelter’s play areas. You spend the next 30 minutes with Ozzie while Shelley explains his likes and dislikes, pointing out certain behaviors and sharing what she knows of his background.  

You like Ozzie and think you might want to adopt him. Shelley invites you to download the shelter’s mobile app to your phone. Once you talk to your husband about Ozzie, you can simply log into the app and complete an adoption application. Shelley punches up the app on her own phone and shows you her screen.

The shelter’s dashboard provides some history about Ozzie, the fact that he was turned in by an owner (known as an Owner Surrender), as well as a few behavior characteristics. You can also read the shelter staff and volunteer notes on Ozzie.

The dashboard even includes a video of Ozzie’s behavior assessment, letting you watch the dog respond to a variety of situations, from accepting a toy to eating food to meeting other dogs, both large and small.

Finally, the interactive screen provides a Call to Action. Are you interested in meeting the dog in the play yard? Have you already visited the dog and want to adopt it? Would you like to introduce the dog to an existing pet? Maybe you want to help a rescue organization by fostering the dog or donating money for its medical care.

At the bottom of the window are small photos of three other dogs under the heading: “Other dogs you might like.” Selecting one of these dogs triggers a message to the appropriate adoption specialist or rescue organization.

Shelly’s phone number is included at the bottom of the screen. She explains you can text her if you have any more questions. She says she really hopes you decide to adopt Ozzie, but points out the shelter’s foster application on an adjacent menu.

This is how it should be. No taking a ticket. No waiting in line for simple information that should be easily accessible online and in real time. No robotic, acronym-heavy policy lectures that result in interested adopters leaving empty-handed. Any adopter should be able to find an animal, obtain important information about its health and behavior, and make an informed decision on what to do next, with just a smartphone and a data plan.

In this scenario, both the adopter and the shelter save time. This means that shelter workers—and not to put too fine a point on it, municipal shelter staff are government employees—are able to spend less time on analog and paperwork-intensive tasks, and more time helping people adopt pets.

In the interest of protecting adopters and staff during Covid-19, some shelters have taken automation even further. The meet-and-greet in the play yard is conducted by a case manager using virtual meeting capabilities like Facetime or Zoom. You decide to adopt the animal, the shelter accepts (or rejects, with reason) the adoption application online, then automatically schedules a follow-up appointment for curbside pickup.

Digitizing the adoption process helps get more animals seen. It’s more efficient, and thus more cost-effective. It not only saves more lives, its usage in public institutions such as municipal shelters can save millions of tax dollars. The only thing standing in the way of automating these processes is the lack of political will.

In other words, a lack of leadership.