In spite of my vow to limit my exposure to what now passes as news reporting for my mental health, it’s impossible to escape the rescue culture that is deeply entrenched in our society. The devastating earthquake in Haiti has yet again brought this to the forefront, both in its best and worst forms. Even so, come March 1st when this commentary will be published, it’s possible that our interest in the subject will have waned. By then stories of animal-rescuing efforts may grab the attention of what little media remains on the scene. Or perhaps some new human and/or animal disaster somewhere else will occur and the media will turn all eyes there.
When I read or listen to reports of sometimes logistically, technologically, and medically amazing rescues, more often than not I find myself feeling more uneasy than amazed. Why is that, I wondered? Am I getting so old and jaded that I can’t appreciate how fantastic this all is? Am I just a rescue-party-pooper because I can’t be there in the front lines participating in these heroic events?
I won’t deny that that’s part of it. I like the rush that such activities bring as much as the next person. Seriously, what’s not to like? You get to escape the routine of normal daily life. You experience physical and emotional challenges you may have never experienced before and never would in your normal day-to-day existence. Friends, family, and even strangers and the media tell you how wonderful you are. Plus in the process of gaining all this, you also remove animals from terrible and even life-threatening conditions and provide them with basic care. As I said, what’s not to like?
Still, it makes me uneasy.
I deliberately used the phrase “quick fix” in the title of this commentary because it describes two different, but related elements of this process that I find increasingly troubling as rescuing takes on a life of its own. The first is rescue as a source of a quick fix for the rescuer, what is sometimes referred to as an adrenaline rush. For some people, it’s the desire to experience that rush, not to actually save someone, that’s the goal. When this is the primary driving force, the rescuers may seek out those in the most dire circumstances, and even by-pass those who could be saved with less energy in an effort to get the biggest rush. The animal who has been trapped for a week without food and water feeds the habit more than one who has only been trapped for a day.
This kind of focus leads to the second kind of quick fix. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to realize that the more seriously traumatized the saved animal, the more aftercare that animal is going to need. However within the crisis setting, this day in and day out, often boring, unglamorous, time-consuming, sometimes costly and energy-draining long-term care isn’t possible for two reasons. One is because the facilities for it don’t exist. It is the very lack of such facilities that make rescue necessary. The second is that such a long-term commitment to the rescued may be alien to the rescuer mindset. After all, in the television shows the program ends following the dramatic rescue with everyone congratulating the rescuer on a job well done. Cut to new a episode with completely different victims in need of rescue.
As a result, some rescued animals may receive a quick fix, enough to get them in good enough shape for someone else to assume the responsibility for long-term treatment and care. Meanwhile the rescuers pack up and go home or head off to rescue others somewhere else.
Theoretically, as long as everyone gets what they want, it’s reasonable to ask, “What’s the problem?”
Well, for one thing everyone doesn’t necessarily get what they want. Kind-hearted folks who take in rescued animals may discover that they wound up with a major project instead of a pet. They feel as cheated by this change in the script as the original rescuers undoubtedly would feel if they had to assume similar obligations for those they saved. And needless to say, those problems don’t bode well for the animal’s physical and mental health either.
On a larger scale, as we focus far more time and energy on rescues, we focus less and less on the long-term consequences to those rescued. Often not only is there no Plan B regarding long-term quality care for these animals, there’s no Plan A. It’s just assumed that someone else will accept the responsibility for that part of the problem. And if we can’t be bothered thinking about the long term results after a disaster, we have even less interest in those even more mundane measures that would prevent such disasters from happening in the first place.
However, my awareness of this philosophical gap between rescue and salvation isn’t something precipitated by current events. It’s an issue that goes back as far as my interest in the human-animal bond. In my novel, Getting Fixed, there’s a scene in which one of the characters, Joe McDermott, ponders his motivation after he rescues a cat in the middle of a blizzard, then hands the lifeless animal to his friend, Khali Shakleford:
“When he plunged into the icy water and pulled the cat out, he felt a tremendous rush: He’d saved him! But in those few seconds between that and Khali’s arrival, he realized how seductive the concept of salvation was. Anyone could play hero because it felt so good. But then what? What if the cat died anyway? Or what if he had permanent brain damage or other problems? Even if the cat survived in perfect health, how could Khali not want to control and protect him, not so much because this would be the best thing for the cat–although that’s what she would tell herself–but because it would be the best thing for her?
When Khali began addressing the “Then what?” aspects of his heroic gesture, he realized how greatly he’d erred when he handed her the cat saying he’d done his part: He should have said, “I did the easy part.” Breathing into an animal, having it puke all over you, doing all the right things, maybe for hours, days, months, or the rest of the animal’s life, choosing to become involved to that degree without expecting that animal to be what you want rather that what it is, that was the difficult part. He couldn’t have done that, not even for something…
No, not even for someone he loved.”
One nice thing about writing fiction is that it’s possible to have characters see things that aren’t all that easy for those of us caught up in media-enhanced real life to see. It’s so easy to confuse rescuing with saving. But unless we rescue with a commitment to the lifelong well-being of those animals and the prevention of the circumstances that led to their needing rescue in the first place, no matter how difficult the mechanics of that rescue may be, we did the easy part.
If you have any comments regarding subject matter, favorite links, or anything you’d like to see discussed on or added to this site, please let me know at mm@mmilani.com.
In spite of my vow to limit my exposure to what now passes as news reporting for my mental health, it’s impossible to escape the rescue culture that is deeply entrenched in our society. The devastating earthquake in Haiti has yet again brought this to the forefront, both in its best and worst forms. Even so, come March 1st when this commentary will be published, it’s possible that our interest in the subject will have waned. By then stories of animal-rescuing efforts may grab the attention of what little media remains on the scene. Or perhaps some new human and/or animal disaster somewhere else will occur and the media will turn all eyes there.
When I read or listen to reports of sometimes logistically, technologically, and medically amazing rescues, more often than not I find myself feeling more uneasy than amazed. Why is that, I wondered? Am I getting so old and jaded that I can’t appreciate how fantastic this all is? Am I just a rescue-party-pooper because I can’t be there in the front lines participating in these heroic events?
I won’t deny that that’s part of it. I like the rush that such activities bring as much as the next person. Seriously, what’s not to like? You get to escape the routine of normal daily life. You experience physical and emotional challenges you may have never experienced before and never would in your normal day-to-day existence. Friends, family, and even strangers and the media tell you how wonderful you are. Plus in the process of gaining all this, you also remove animals from terrible and even life-threatening conditions and provide them with basic care. As I said, what’s not to like?
Still, it makes me uneasy.
I deliberately used the phrase “quick fix” in the title of this commentary because it describes two different, but related elements of this process that I find increasingly troubling as rescuing takes on a life of its own. The first is rescue as a source of a quick fix for the rescuer, what is sometimes referred to as an adrenaline rush. For some people, it’s the desire to experience that rush, not to actually save someone, that’s the goal. When this is the primary driving force, the rescuers may seek out those in the most dire circumstances, and even by-pass those who could be saved with less energy in an effort to get the biggest rush. The animal who has been trapped for a week without food and water feeds the habit more than one who has only been trapped for a day.
This kind of focus leads to the second kind of quick fix. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to realize that the more seriously traumatized the saved animal, the more aftercare that animal is going to need. However within the crisis setting, this day in and day out, often boring, unglamorous, time-consuming, sometimes costly and energy-draining long-term care isn’t possible for two reasons. One is because the facilities for it don’t exist. It is the very lack of such facilities that make rescue necessary. The second is that such a long-term commitment to the rescued may be alien to the rescuer mindset. After all, in the television shows the program ends following the dramatic rescue with everyone congratulating the rescuer on a job well done. Cut to new a episode with completely different victims in need of rescue.
As a result, some rescued animals may receive a quick fix, enough to get them in good enough shape for someone else to assume the responsibility for long-term treatment and care. Meanwhile the rescuers pack up and go home or head off to rescue others somewhere else.
Theoretically, as long as everyone gets what they want, it’s reasonable to ask, “What’s the problem?”
Well, for one thing everyone doesn’t necessarily get what they want. Kind-hearted folks who take in rescued animals may discover that they wound up with a major project instead of a pet. They feel as cheated by this change in the script as the original rescuers undoubtedly would feel if they had to assume similar obligations for those they saved. And needless to say, those problems don’t bode well for the animal’s physical and mental health either.
On a larger scale, as we focus far more time and energy on rescues, we focus less and less on the long-term consequences to those rescued. Often not only is there no Plan B regarding long-term quality care for these animals, there’s no Plan A. It’s just assumed that someone else will accept the responsibility for that part of the problem. And if we can’t be bothered thinking about the long term results after a disaster, we have even less interest in those even more mundane measures that would prevent such disasters from happening in the first place.
However, my awareness of this philosophical gap between rescue and salvation isn’t something precipitated by current events. It’s an issue that goes back as far as my interest in the human-animal bond. In my novel, Getting Fixed, there’s a scene in which one of the characters, Joe McDermott, ponders his motivation after he rescues a cat in the middle of a blizzard, then hands the lifeless animal to his friend, Khali Shakleford:
“When he plunged into the icy water and pulled the cat out, he felt a tremendous rush: He’d saved him! But in those few seconds between that and Khali’s arrival, he realized how seductive the concept of salvation was. Anyone could play hero because it felt so good. But then what? What if the cat died anyway? Or what if he had permanent brain damage or other problems? Even if the cat survived in perfect health, how could Khali not want to control and protect him, not so much because this would be the best thing for the cat–although that’s what she would tell herself–but because it would be the best thing for her?
When Khali began addressing the “Then what?” aspects of his heroic gesture, he realized how greatly he’d erred when he handed her the cat saying he’d done his part: He should have said, “I did the easy part.” Breathing into an animal, having it puke all over you, doing all the right things, maybe for hours, days, months, or the rest of the animal’s life, choosing to become involved to that degree without expecting that animal to be what you want rather that what it is, that was the difficult part. He couldn’t have done that, not even for something…
No, not even for someone he loved.”
One nice thing about writing fiction is that it’s possible to have characters see things that aren’t all that easy for those of us caught up in media-enhanced real life to see. It’s so easy to confuse rescuing with saving. But unless we rescue with a commitment to the lifelong well-being of those animals and the prevention of the circumstances that led to their needing rescue in the first place, no matter how difficult the mechanics of that rescue may be, we did the easy part.
If you have any comments regarding subject matter, favorite links, or anything you’d like to see discussed on or added to this site, please let me know at mm@mmilani.com.