The Rescue House

The Rescue House

In 1999 our 6-year-old daughter declared that she wanted a dog—a real dog, a dog-dog, not some wild, jumpy puppy with razor teeth. At a humane group’s kennel, we fell in love with Haskell, a middle-aged yellow Lab who’d been found wandering in a park. Haskie never jumped. He was a canine gentleman, regal and loving, though slightly reserved, as if having been abandoned once had taught him not to risk giving his whole heart again. He bore other scars from his mysterious earlier life; he stole food, scarfed garbage, and, most problematically, tried to kill any small dog that got too close. We learned to make shrieking retreats from clueless neighbors, drawn by his sweet face to urge their tiny off-leash terriers to “go say hi.” Once the crisis passed, we’d apologize, adding, “He’s a rescue dog. He has issues.”

Everyone understood. Later, that’s how I explained the house.

Who buys a home with cracking walls, low ceilings, a dead front yard, and rooms painted mustard and psychedelic green? With a battered, crooked kitchen that looks like an old ship’s galley, and a dining area so dark that a light sensor bulb always shines? According to the child, who by then was eight, parents who were heartless and possibly insane. When we closed escrow in late 2001, she was inconsolable.

Of course, the rational explanation was money. My husband and I craved something bigger than the post-war cracker box we’d owned for a decade, something with character, on a street with less traffic and more trees. Since we hoped to find all these things on the combined income of a state school professor and a freelance writer—in West L.A—our quest was essentially hopeless. Then, maybe a year into the hunt, a 1920’s “fixer” we’d considered buying until we read its terrifying inspection report reappeared on the market, all shiny from a remodel by a developer who’d also doubled the price. Instant epiphany: We could afford our dream house by sort of buying it on time—taking something no one else wanted and gradually making it nice.

Fixer Upper from Hell: No one else wanted the place we bought. A well-dressed crowd arrived at the first open house (“charming storybook country!”), took one look, and split. It wasn’t just the lurid paint. The house was actually two dwellings, one a 1930’s cottage, the other a 1920’s English that had been located elsewhere, condemned in the ‘60s to make way for the Santa Monica Freeway, and moved; a large den joined them.
Aesthetic oddness abounded. The rooms sprawled backwards, following a sloping lot down, down, down, and nothing matched. Some exterior walls were stucco, some shingle, some wood. Floors were mahogany in front, oak in the rear; there were two heating systems and three styles of window.

“Improvements” made by the sellers, professors who’d won appointments elsewhere then rented to a succession of hard-partying students, made no sense, either: a sad single line of track lighting in the darkest room; a bidet wedged into a bathroom barely big enough for its toilet. What the realtor called “settlement” cracks in a bedroom wall turned out to be evidence that the house was slipping off its foundation.

But it was twice our current 1,000 square feet and set back far from the street. In a central courtyard, shaded by a towering (neglected) pine, the city seemed to retreat. And it was old. My childhood, passed in the bland pastel rectangles of a post-war SoCal tract, left me longing for the solidity of age, and, along with the murk, this house was rich in “vintage” detail—fireplaces, built-in bookshelves, curving plaster walls, and leaded-glass windows. Yes, the place was falling apart, but I’d been hooked, the way one can be at an animal shelter, when out of the desperate, barking hordes one pair of eyes locks in. Before me stood an unloved mongrel of a home, facing bulldozer death and pleading for a chance to become the house of my dreams. I wanted it to save it.

The Rescue House 02

Before: Carol’s dark kitchen.

Living in Funk

Most people who take on a rescue house have deep bank accounts or DIY skills; we had neither. “Gradually” fixing our place turned out to mean years of living in funk, with brief, furious bouts of renovation whenever we got some extra cash or credit. In 2002 we raised multiple ceilings, painted the mustard and green rooms, and added moldings, skylights, French doors, and an immense dormer window overlooking the courtyard.

We couldn’t afford to move out during construction, so for months all three of us huddled in one bedroom, hacking from drywall dust. The project was designed and managed by a contractor friend, brilliant but bad with the bottom line, and to whose every suggestion we said “wow, yes.” The result was spectacular, but left us 30 percent done without a dime to go farther. Six years passed before we took on the dead garden. Because the lot had never been properly graded the task required massive excavation and construction of retaining walls, and our money melted into the earth.

In 2010 we tackled the little kitchen, whose electrical quirks and cabinet-doorsfalling- off had become a daily source of grief. The same contractor friend produced a wood-trimmed, sun-struck marvel, roomy enough for cocktail gatherings, with beautiful views of the cleaned-up courtyard through new French doors leading to a new deck. It was a kitchen that matched my dreams, and (again) emptied our bank accounts.

After: Light and airy now–it’s hard to believe it’s the same house.

More years went by. We all got older; our daughter’s high school, then college, graduations came and went. Gradually, the tiny “master” bathroom crumbled, until one day the tub rusted clear through, draining water under the house. We had no choice but to take on the final improvements. Before we gave in and hired our contractor friend again, we got a few other bids. The first man walked through the house, traveling down, down, down to the rear, where he looked in horrified wonder at the claustrophobic room, fitted with its ancient tub and sewer vent pipe.
“It’s a rescue house,” I told him. “It has issues.”

It’s been 16 years since we bought our dream house on time. Haskell the attack- Lab is long gone. His death, in 2004, was brutally sudden, and after two painful, dogless months, we returned to the humane organization where we’d found him and adopted Casey, an eight-week-old chow mix. He also turned out to be a dog with issues, chief among them primal fear of the Goodyear Blimp, which sometimes flies overhead on clear evenings. Pinta, a small Rottweiler found on the streets of South LA, came later. She cowers when we fasten anything around her neck.

My husband and I have lost our parents and grown gray. Our daughter became an adult, got a job, and moved. She’s a traditionalist whose taste runs to neat, two story Colonials, but, over time, she came to at least tolerate the rescue house.

The house today.

It’s become a lovely place—airy and striking, with that huge dormer window framing the nicely trimmed courtyard pine and a front yard that’s a fragrant native plant paradise of hummingbirds and bees. The kitchen is great for parties, the new, sky-light topped master bath is twice its previous size. Around us, our once-modest neighborhood appreciates by the second.

I’m grateful for it all. Given the state of the world and our professions, and how little attention my husband and I paid to making money when we were young, we got far more than we had any right to expect.

The irony is that my fantasies about the house are gone. I’m not leaving anytime soon—we took so much time to re-do the place that I’m damn well going to enjoy it. But during the last remodel, for the first time ever, I thought how nice it would be to chuck it all and move somewhere brand new, with big closets and windows that close snugly, their hinges free of paint. Maybe all the banging and demolition piles wore me out. Maybe there’s no dream home to be had once a child has gone, leaving her parents with empty rooms and creaky knees.

Or maybe, like a lot of people drawn to “rescue,” I got things wrong. The desire to save something seems saintly, but it’s also selfish, a lust for control and power.

Good animal rescuers know that the impulse to be a hero just starts the journey, which is almost always harder than you expect: the “misunderstood” shelter bully turns out to be a genuinely jerky dog; treating the sagging overbred mama runs up four-figure vet bills. The transcendent moment when that cage door opens to freedom inevitably blurs into the everyday. The sad-eyed puppy snatched from the euthanasia red list becomes a dog whose poop has to be picked up like any other.

My rescue house has become the place whose counters I wipe, whose floors I sweep—just where I live. I gripe at its quirks the way I do when Casey yanks me hard in his blind, blimp-induced panic, when the millionth attachment of her leash sends Pinta quivering into a corner; I also marvel at how far it’s come. It’s the foundling I chose and raised, and now it’s mine.

The Veterinarian Brings His Healing Presence to Pets of the Unhoused



The man standing outside the tent on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles clearly doesn’t live in the neighborhood. Tall and fit, he’s dressed in jeans and a doctor’s blue scrub shirt and carries a medical bag. The tent, one of many rough structures on the stained sidewalk, sits amid heaped wooden pallets, old furniture and trash. But the man’s eyes are fixed on the dog lounging nearby.

“Hi, how are you?” he says when the tent flap opens. “I’m a veterinarian, Dr. Kwane Stewart, and I offer free pet care to people experiencing homelessness.” He gestures at the dog. “Can I examine your pet?” 

First comes confused silence—you’re who?—then suspicion: Is this animal control, here to take my dog? Finally, a slow nod. Stewart, who calls himself the Street Vet, kneels, pulls out his stethoscope and goes to work.

These Skid Row streets hold the nation’s largest concentration of homeless people who are not staying in a shelter, and at first glance it’s an unrelieved landscape of despair: mental illness, poverty, addiction. But love exists, too, including the love of pets. Across the nation, 10 to 25 percent of the people who are homeless keep pets, and there’s no reason to think the number is lower in sunny Los Angeles. Cats sit on sleeping bags, pit bulls, scruffy terriers and mutts trot alongside filled shopping carts, and chihuahuas ride in bicycle baskets and the laps of people who themselves are in wheelchairs. Various local groups and volunteers help the owners of these animals care for them, with weekly and monthly clinics, mobile spay and neuter vans, handouts of flea meds and food. 

Stewart, 50, has usually worked solo, walking the streets and looking for animals and people in need. “Maybe it’s because when I began this work, it wasn’t uncommon to find a pet that had never received care,” he says. “Everyone I met looked at me as if I’d just dropped out of the sky.”

Stewart grew up with dogs, loved them and science, and by the time he was 10 knew he would become a veterinarian. It was an unusual ambition for a Black track star in Albuquerque. Once, a coach asked about his future plans and laughed with disbelief when Kwane told him. “I’ve never met a Black vet,” the coach said. Stewart goes on, “At the time I didn’t think much about it. But here’s the thing: He was Black himself.” Decades later the number of African American veterinarians is still so small the Bureau of Labor Statistics has reported that it might as well be zero. 

Stewart graduated from the University of New Mexico, got his DVM degree from Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine and Biomedical Sciences, and headed to San Diego. He spent a decade there treating a suburban clientele with “bottomless bank accounts.” Then, in 2008, he relocated to Modesto, in California’s Central Valley, for a job as the veterinarian for Stanislaus County. And everything changed. 

The Great Recession flattened Modesto, a city of around 200,000, with plummeting home prices and 17 percent unemployment. And when humans go broke, animals often pay the price. Pet surrenders surged until the area’s aging shelter, built for 200 animals, held twice as many, and its euthanasia rate became one of the nation’s highest.

“I was destroying 30 to 50 animals every morning,” Stewart says softly. “Healthy dogs and cats. It was killing my soul. I felt like God was keeping score and I was losing. I didn’t go to school all those years to destroy animals. I wanted to help and save them.”

At first that meant he helped a homeless man he encountered almost daily by treating the man’s dog, which suffered from a bad flea bite allergy. Then he held a free clinic at a local soup kitchen. And then, on his own time, he began to walk around Modesto and some Bay Area sites looking for pets to help. He moved to Los Angeles to serve as chief veterinary officer for the American Humane Association, which makes sure animals are treated well on film sets, and his ramblings shifted to San Diego and Los Angeles. He wore scrubs to identify himself, carried a bag filled with meds, vaccines and syringes, nail trimmers, and he did what he could, free of charge. 

He was stunned by what he found. Like many people, he questioned why homeless people had animals to begin with—if humans couldn’t take care of themselves, how could they be responsible for pets? And yet they were. In fact, numerous academic studies over the years have revealed the vital role pets play in the lives of unhoused men and women—providing structure, purpose, meaning and love. “Researchers have consistently found very high levels of attachments to pets among the homeless,” Leslie Irvine, a sociologist, writes in her 2012 book about the phenomenon, My Dog Always Eats First.

Stewart agrees. “Pets were a lifeline to the people I met,” he says. “Most of them were great pet owners. They did remarkably well with the resources they had, and made sacrifices for them well beyond what you or I would. The bond between them was on a completely different level. They needed each other.”


For five years, his efforts were a kind of secret hobby that he says even his family—he has three children—didn’t know about. Then, in 2017, he and his brother, Ian, produced “The Street Vet” as a reality TV series­—it has aired on broadcast TV in Scandinavia and Eastern Europe and in the States on a Utah cable channel­—and Stewart acknowledges he’s now a “media personality.” These days he’s founding a new veterinary practice in San Diego and writing a book about his experiences on the street.

Last September he started a nonprofit, Project StreetVet, raising money on GoFundMe to cover the cost of treating pet medical problems beyond the scope of a sidewalk exam. He has occasionally volunteered with larger organizations assisting people who are homeless. Though he says “there are probably more efficient ways I could spend my time,” he likes doing it his way. 

“The wound is healing well,” he reassures a man named Ben, whose pet rat had been attacked by a cat. (“I’ve seen birds and snakes, but this was my first rat.”)

“The puppies look great,” he tells Julian, a tattooed man who has lived on the same stretch of pavement for two years and whose dog recently gave birth. (He also vaccinates the pups.) 

Stewart marvels at the generosity of a young man named Reggie, who lives in a school bus and uses his own cash to make lemonade that he gives away to his neighbors. Stewart vaccinates the man’s dog, Daisy. “You’re doing a good job,” Stewart says.

“Oh, this is such a blessing,” the young man replies. 

Most Americans Have Pets. Almost One Third Can’t Afford Their Vet Care

Since mid-2020, more than a thousand low-income families have brought their sick and suffering pets to the nonprofit Pet Support Space, housed in a tiny Los Angeles storefront. One 14-year-old dog had a tumor that a veterinarian had quoted $5,000 to remove. A four-year-old pit bull had been vomiting for days, a cat’s painful bladder stones required surgery, a pug limped from the foxtail embedded in its paw. Skin and ear infections abounded. Neither the animals’ problems nor their owners’ inability to afford help for them was a surprise.

recent nationwide study found almost 28 percent of households with pets experienced barriers to veterinary care, with finances being the most common reason. In low-income households, the researchers found, financial and housing insecurity can increase the risks that animals will not receive the care they need. Sociologist Arnold Arluke, author of Underdogs: Pets, People and Poverty estimates that 66 percent of pets in poverty have never seen a vet at all.

The “why” behind those numbers is complex. Of course, money is the primary problem. Veterinary care is expensive. A majority of practitioners work in for-profit clinics, consolidation in the industry has increased emphasis on profit margins, and vet prices have risen faster than the overall rate of inflation. That has checkups starting at $50, dental cleaning going for $70-$400, and blood work and x-rays at $80-$250. If a dog breaks a leg or eats a sock, surgery costs begin at four figures.

High prices aren’t necessarily about greed. Michael Blackwell, a former Deputy Director of the Center for Veterinary Medicine at the FDA, is the chair of the Access to Veterinary Care Coalition (AVCC) that was formed in 2016 to study this very problem. Veterinary training, he said, teaches vets to practice a “gold standard” of care, which means running every possible diagnostic test and pursuing every treatment option, even when a client’s budget is limited. (Many pet owners don’t know they can decline a recommended procedure, such as blood work, and even fewer are willing to decline care for fear of looking heartless.)

Some private vets offer struggling clients discounts, added Jeremy Prupas, DVM, Chief Veterinarian for the City of Los Angeles, but they themselves carry an average of $150,000 in student loan debt, so they simply “can’t carry the immense existing need on their own.” Telling clients you can’t help them because they have no money is one of the leading causes of burnout in the veterinary profession, according to Prupas. Pet insurance might help defray costs but requires monthly premiums and comes with such a complicated array of deductibles, co-pays, caps, and exclusions that one how-to guide recommends hiring an attorney to review the policy. Credit cards designed for medical care financing, if one can qualify, can carry punishing interest rates as high as 26.99 percent.

Equally critical is a long-term failure on the part of the animal welfare movement to consider, much less prioritize, the needs of low-income pet owners. Since the 1990s, the rescue/humane world has poured vast amounts of funding and energy into cutting shelter euthanasia through adoption, but far less into helping those without money take care of the pets they have. “If you can’t afford an animal,” the thinking went, “then you shouldn’t have one.”

“Until recently, we focused on shelter-centric challenges,” acknowledged Amanda Arrington, senior director of the Humane Society of the United States’s Pets for Life Program, which assists low-income pet owners. “There was a lot of judgment and making determinations on who was or wasn’t deserving of support and resources that was influenced by what I think a lot of society is influenced by, which is classism and racism. We conflated a lack of financial means and access with how much someone loves their pet or desires to care for it.”

In fact, owners can be punished because they can’t afford veterinary care — “most humane neglect cases stem from an inability to get care for a pet,” said Prupas. In Michigan, for example, failing to provide an animal with adequate care, including medical attention, is a misdemeanor that can carry 93 days in jail and/or a fine of up to $1,000. With a second violation, it becomes a felony.

The distorted belief that ‘those people’ don’t care about their pets has never been true.

What exists for pet owners in poverty is a patchwork of low-cost care options, ranging from local efforts — such as Emancipet in Texas and the Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society — to well-funded national enterprises such as Pets for Life, which operates in several dozen cities. The great majority, however, offer only basic services like sterilization, vaccination, and flea treatments. “We are not a full-service veterinary clinic and do not treat sick or injured pets,” warns one low-cost option on its website. Another suggests that needy people travel, since “vets in smaller towns may charge lower fees,” or start a GoFundMe. As a result, many types of care are largely unavailable: emergency care (by some estimates one in three pets will have an emergency need each year), management of chronic conditions such as diabetes or kidney disease, medication, dental care (dental disease affects perhaps 80 percent of older dogs), and the mercy of humane euthanasia (which can run $50-$300).

The final piece of the care gap is a practical and cultural disconnect. Because many economically challenged neighborhoods are “vet deserts,” with few if any practitioners, it’s not easy to find care, and reaching it can require wrangling an unhappy animal over distance and/or arranging private transportation. Keeping an appointment at an office with weekday-only business hours or a once a month clinic can mean losing a day’s pay. Paperwork raises the fear of immigration status inquiries. The veterinary profession also remains one of the country’s whitest: Just as people who feel alienated or unwelcome don’t utilize human health care options, pointed out Arluke, they don’t utilize care for their pets.

The result has been suffering: most directly for animals that remain untreated, die from what vets call “economic euthanasia” (putting an animal down because treatment costs too much), or end up in shelters. Fear of a looming vet bill, and the mistaken belief that all shelter animals receive medical care, is a prime cause of owner surrender.

But people pay, too.

Some sick animals can infect their humans. Roundworms, for example, can pass through contact with pet feces and cause lung, heart, and eye problems. Blackwell reports meeting an optometrist who practices in a low-income Florida community who has seen increasing numbers of children with roundworm larvae in their eyes.

The psychic toll is just as real. Families in poverty who love their pets and for whom “they offer an emotional core and possibly one of the only sources of joy” face “mental and emotional” devastation from the unimaginable choice of weighing that love against potential financial ruin, said Blackwell. Professor Katja M. Guenther, author of The Lives and Deaths of Shelter Animals, called the rupture of an animal-human bond “a kind of community violence” in a 2021 webinar.

Change seems increasingly possible. Covid-19 and the country’s recent racial and economic reckoning has prompted humane organizations to examine their assumptions and biases about who has the “right” to a pet’s love, and, said Arrington, there’s increasing recognition that “racial and economic injustice really impacts animal welfare.” Meanwhile, AlignCare, a new program out of Michael Blackwell’s Program for Pet Health Equity, is trying to create a national model of something like Medicaid for domestic animals. Under the program, families already found to be struggling (because they participate in SNAP or a similar program) and who ask for help at a shelter or veterinary clinic will be signed up and paired with a veterinary social worker or support coordinator. They’ll then be directed to a veterinarian who has agreed to offer preventative, dental, and even critical care, for a reduced fee; AlignCare will pay 80 percent of the cost. After three years of pilot programs in 10 disparate communities, it’s taking on its biggest challenge yet, Los Angeles, where one in five people live in poverty.

AlignCare won’t offer “gold standard” care, instead emphasizing preventative, incremental, and cost-saving measures (such as offering telehealth appointments and limiting diagnostics that won’t change treatment options) when possible. But it will expand the human safety net to include the animals most of us now consider part of our families. And while the effort is currently funded by grants from Maddie’s Fund, the Duffield Foundation, and Petsmart Charities, Blackwell’s goal is “community ownership:” The combined involvement of local vets, city animal services departments, social service agencies, rescue and community organizations, pet food and product manufacturers, and affluent pet owner-donors can make the model self-sustaining.

There is no perfect solution for low-income pet owners who need help accessing veterinary care. But growing awareness of the problem is a big step forward. “What we call ‘animal welfare’ is changing,” said Lori Weise, whose nonprofit, Downtown Dog Rescue, runs the Pet Support Space. “The distorted belief that ‘those people’ don’t care about their pets has never been true. People can’t afford care. Sometimes they don’t even know what’s out there; they themselves have never been in a hospital. As more people are brought into the system, we’ll see the first generation to get proper veterinary care.”