Every time it thunders, I think about Buddy.
He’s a small white dog with a toothy smile I met during a ride-along with PETA’s Community Animal Project fieldworkers. For eight hours, we visited and cared for dogs forced to live outside in rural North Carolina backyards—chained, penned, and often forgotten. It was a day marked by oppressive heat, wagging tails, algae-coated water buckets, and the sadness of leaving lonely dogs behind.
We traveled in a van wrapped in photos of fieldworkers feeding and comforting dogs, bearing the message “Make your home your dog’s home, too!” The van rattled down dusty roads to a soundtrack of upbeat music, punctuated by the thuds of PETA’s sturdy wooden doghouses jostling in the back.
At all six of our stops, we were greeted by barking and yelping as dogs strained at the ends of chains or pressed against the walls of metal pens—seeking relief and attention from anyone who would give it.
The fieldworkers did what they could to make the dogs’ lives a little easier: installing doghouses to provide some shelter, cleaning pens layered with filth, hanging tarps for shade, filling food bowls, scrubbing slimy water buckets—a task I gamely joined them in—and offering affection that was returned with licks and tail wags. They worked diligently under an unrelenting sun, knowing that for many of the dogs, these might be the only acts of kindness they’d receive.
At one stop, we delivered a small doghouse. The van pulled into a driveway bordered by a well-tended flower garden, where rose bushes, daffodils, and other colorful blossoms were neatly arranged.
In stark contrast, at the end of the drive sat a chain-link pen with a tarp stretched across the top, so low that a person entering would have to crouch. Inside was a dirt floor scattered with some straw, the overturned top half of a plastic doghouse, dirty bowls, a takeout container with the hardened remains of someone’s meal—and Buddy, a small dog with matted, overgrown white hair.
Buddy wiggled as we approached. When a fieldworker opened the pen, he darted out, tail wagging, sniffing foliage, and jumping at our legs. As I knelt to pet him, I was struck by his familiar smile: he looked just like my sister’s dog, Benny. But their lives couldn’t be more different.
Every night, Benny burrows under soft blankets, safe and warm in bed beside his loving guardians.
Buddy sleeps outside alone, with no bed, no blanket, and no warm body to curl up with.
During the day, Benny relaxes in his home and explores the sights and scents of a fenced-in yard. He goes on frequent walks and car rides—and his water bowl is always full.
Buddy spends his days chained to a post, watching the world pass him by. When I visited, his water bucket was nearly empty, and what little it held was too low for his small body to reach.
The fieldworkers asked Buddy’s owners to bring him inside or surrender him, but they declined. And in the areas where PETA’s Community Animal Project works, keeping dogs outdoors in such conditions is legal.
I stayed with Buddy as long as I could while fieldworkers cleaned the area and set up a doghouse that would offer some safety and a cool spot to rest in summer. Before we left, Buddy kissed my nose. We had more stops ahead—and more dogs to help.
That night, a storm rolled in, and I thought of all the dogs left outside, with nowhere to hide from the rain and thunder. I remembered that Benny is terrified of storms, shaking uncontrollably and seeking comfort from his family. I wondered if Buddy is afraid, too. I hope he’s braver, even though he shouldn’t have to be.
Until we can change the laws that allow this suffering, PETA fieldworkers will keep visiting dog after dog, providing what shelter and care they can. But dogs like Buddy deserve more than just a doghouse and an occasionally cleaned water bucket. They deserve what Benny has: love, warmth, and a family.
