Lessons from a Game Show Host

Let’s talk about how using kindness, not condemnation, may be able to change the fate of millions of dogs

The Digital Guillotine

You’ve seen the posts on social media — the pregnant dog abandoned days before delivery, sometimes after closing hours in freezing temperatures, at the local shelter. Or the dog being offered up for rehoming because the owner is starting a new family and Fido suddenly doesn’t fit into the picture. Many times, the stories are accompanied by heartbreaking photos or videos of the terrified pups whose worlds have just been upended.

Then come the comments. The ones written by people hopped up on emotion but lacking any context or background information, yet more than willing to wield their words as weapons against the injustice that has been done to these animals and to tear down the person responsible.

I cannot imagine the toll it takes on the people on the front lines of this work. A little piece of me dies each time I see a post like this, and I’m far removed from the situation.

And, believe me, I am not excusing their behavior. I get the instinct to lash out at such careless people. However, I know firsthand that shame and anger are not the best tools to use when addressing the issue.

Because I have a secret. One that still makes me uncomfortable to admit.

My Secret

Let me back up a bit.

I grew up in a dog home. My grandfather had hunting dogs. My mom had dogs before she married my dad. We’ve had at least one dog in our home for as long as I can remember. I love dogs.

But when I moved out on my own, I wasn’t allowed to have one. If you’ve ever rented, you know that pet policies are notoriously strict — and often for good reason. Left unattended, a dog (even a small one) can cause serious damage, damage the landlord is responsible for long after the renter is gone.

So, I got a cat.

It wasn’t the same though. Cats are fickle and independent. They rarely lick your face, and good luck trying to take one for a walk.

I longed for a dog.

And one day, in a moment of insane impulsiveness, I applied to adopt one. He was a Hairless Chinese Crested that I'd instantly fallen in love with. He was weird and nontraditional, with messy hair, just like me. He seemed like my soul mate.

Except he wasn’t. Because I was a renter. And I’d had to pull major strings just to keep my cat.

Still, I tossed reason out the window, signed an agreement, and loaded him into my car anyway. We went straight to the store to buy a crate, food, bowls, clothes — all the supplies he’d need to live his best life.

Then we came home … and reality hit.

He did not like my cat. He chased her from room to room, emitting the most insanely high-pitched bark I’d ever heard. He ate the “treats” she thoughtfully left for him in the litter box. He loudly demanded to go outside every hour.

I lived in a duplex. There was no way I could keep him a secret from my neighbors — the kind of people who absolutely would have turned me in. My landlord lived nearby and regularly stopped by. A dog like that was impossible to hide.

I was mortified to realize how reckless and irresponsible I’d been.

There were a lot of options I could have taken at that point. I could have opened the door and turned him loose, hoping he’d land somewhere safe. I could have taken him to a shelter where I wasn’t known and avoided the embarrassment of admitting what a mistake I’d made.

Instead, I drove back to the foster’s house — relieved to find she wasn’t home — and left him in his crate on the front porch.

It wasn’t the worst option. But it certainly wasn’t the best.

I drove home filled with shame — a feeling that haunted me for decades.

What I did wasn’t right, even if it was human. I know that.

And there could have been several possible outcomes. The foster could have called me and lambasted me for my irresponsible behavior. She could have sent me a letter telling me how angry she was, how I’d set back the good work she and her organization were trying to do. And I would have deserved every bit of wrath directed at me.

But maybe she instinctively knew that was the wrong approach.

When you were a child, did an adult ever use shame as a response to a mistake you made? If so, how did that feel? If I had to guess, you probably shut down. Went on the defense. Maybe even doubled down on your incorrect position.

But, because of the way she handled the situation, I eventually managed to forgive myself, even if I’ve never forgotten what I'd done.

I didn’t set out to hurt anyone. I made a deeply human mistake. Humans can be impulsive, shortsighted, and flawed — and that doesn’t make them irredeemable. It means they have lessons to learn.

 

The Barker Method

Years later, it occurred to me that we’d already seen a better model for change — long before social media existed … in a beloved game show host.

Bob Barker was a fierce advocate for animal welfare. He adopted shelter dogs. He promoted responsible pet ownership. But he did it kindly.

“I’m Bob Barker, reminding you to help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered. Goodbye, everybody!”

For decades, he delivered that simple message every day without shame or judgment — and it worked. Spay/neuter awareness increased. Euthanasia rates declined. People listened.

He could have used outrage as his weapon of choice. He could have shamed people, blamed them, and pointed fingers. Instead, he trusted that education, repetition, and compassion would do more good.

 

Connection > Humiliation

That’s why Bob Barker — and Mister Rogers, too — were so effective. They treated mistakes as opportunities to learn, not proof of moral failure.

And yes, I get it. Overflowing shelters and irresponsible pet owners aren’t a small problem. This is a serious issue. It demands action.

But people rarely learn the lessons we want them to learn when we tell them they’re bad.

I don’t have a perfect solution, and I don’t pretend that compassion alone will fix a broken system. But I do believe that how we talk about this problem matters. If we truly want fewer dogs abandoned, fewer puppies born without a plan, and fewer shelters pushed past their limits, we must meet people where they are — imperfect, emotional, and capable of learning.

Accountability and empathy are not opposites; they’re partners.

Because lasting change doesn’t come from humiliation. It comes from connection — and from giving people the chance to learn before it’s too late. If we can lead with education, patience, and humanity, maybe we can create change that sticks — for the dogs, and for the people who love them, even when they get it wrong.