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Denver County is Killing Dogs. Mine Was One of Them.

by Magda Farrug, The Alfie Advocacy Project

January 19, 2026

Alfie came into my life already carrying more than any dog ever should. 

Before he was mine, he had survived abuse, neglect, and multiple homes despite his young age. By the time I adopted him on August 5, 2023, he had already learned what it meant to be moved, handled, and given up. Still, when he arrived, he did what dogs so often do: he trusted again. 

As a twenty-three-year-old at the time, Alfie was my first dog on my own. From the beginning, he was not just a pet but a presence. He loved stuffed animals and beef jerky. He liked to sit by the window and watch the world go by. He took his responsibilities at the dog park seriously—greeting, circling, making friends. He slept sprawled across my bed until there was barely room left for me, and I gladly adjusted. My apartment became his, and my days became lighter because he was in them. Loving him steadied me. Being his person felt like something I was meant to do. 

Less than three months later, a routine walk through the neighborhood turned into a nightmare. 

Alfie bit an older woman. She was injured. To this day, I think about her—about the shock of that moment and the pain she experienced. Police and animal control were called. As we waited, I sat with her, trying to keep a respectful distance while also offering comfort in what was a chaotic and frightening situation for everyone involved. She did not want to go to the hospital. I offered to, at least, take her to an urgent care center. Understandably, with the police came an ambulance, and, although the woman objected, EMTs took her to the hospital. 

After speaking with animal control, I was allowed to return to my apartment with Alfie. I was told they would follow up after obtaining a statement from the woman who had been injured. Back home, I paced, called Alfie’s trainer, and waited. Animal control returned to my apartment later that day. I was instructed to bring Alfie downstairs. I was told the outcome could go either way. If Alfie was not deemed a dangerous animal, he would be quarantined for ten days for rabies observation—a routine procedure, even for vaccinated dogs—and then released back to me. If he was deemed dangerous, he would be held indefinitely. Animal control signaled that they could have gone with either option but that they were choosing that Alfie would be classified as a dangerous animal. Additionally, I was issued two General Violations: one for animal attack or bite, and another for owning a dangerous animal. Those citations were issued despite no additional evaluation and no behavioral assessment of Alfie’s behavior. Underlying this framework is a strict-liability legal regime. In Denver, as in many jurisdictions, guardians can be held civilly—and in some cases criminally—liable for a bite regardless of intent, context, or prior history. Fault is not required. Mitigating circumstances do not erase liability. Once a bite occurs, responsibility is automatic, and consequences follow even when the situation is complex, disputed, or unforeseeable. 

A single determination, made in a matter of moments, reshaped the rest of his life and mine. I was forced to place Alfie into the back compartment of a shelter transport van. The space appeared no more than two feet wide—dark, poorly ventilated, and barely large enough for him to turn around. He was terrified and confused. So was I. I asked the officers if they were taking him straight to the shelter so he could get out as soon as possible. They told me it depended on how many other calls they had. 

I still cannot think about that moment without feeling sick. The image of that compartment—small, sealed, and unlit—lodged itself in my mind. It reminded me of a wall crypt in a cemetery. The thought that he might have been kept there for hours is something I will never forget.

Because of my General Violation charges, I had to go through my own process in court. While that case proceeded, Alfie was impounded, and I was required to pay for it. I paid fees for his initial seizure and then ongoing monthly costs for the shelter to continue holding him. These payments were not optional.  

If I stopped paying, Alfie would become the shelter’s property, and I would lose any remaining legal standing to advocate for him. At that point, he would face immediate risk of being euthanized, without further process or notice. 

This structure created a coercive reality: I was required to fund Alfie’s confinement under conditions I could not change, while decisions about his life were made without independent oversight. My financial obligation did not grant me access, participation, or meaningful influence. It simply prolonged his detention. 

For animals, the consequences are even starker. For the next 149 days, Alfie was confined to a small kennel at Denver Animal Shelter under a “do not remove” order. During that time, he did not experience fresh air, exercise, or human touch. He defecated in the same spot that he ate. Despite the shelter’s stated mission of humane care and fostering the human-animal bond, I was never allowed to touch him. I was permitted to see him for fifteen minutes once a week, standing on the other side of metal bars. 

Those visits became more distressing than comforting leaving me to contemplate if visiting him was selfish and doing more harm than good for him. Alfie barked continuously, his confusion escalating each time he saw me and could not reach me. Over time, his voice became hoarse. He strained toward the front of the kennel, unable to understand why I would come and then leave without letting him outside or placing a hand on him. I did not understand it either. Throughout Alfie’s confinement, I did not have the right to access records about his health, mental condition, or daily treatment. I was not entitled to medical notes, behavioral observations, or incident reports documenting how he was doing while impounded. Any information I received came indirectly, and only after my attorney formally sought it out. Even then, access was limited and delayed. Despite being required to pay for Alfie’s confinement in order to preserve my legal standing, I had no corresponding right to transparency about his welfare. I was financing his detention without the ability to meaningfully monitor his condition or advocate for his care in real time. 

The “do not remove” order that governed Alfie’s confinement was an internal designation, issued by the shelter itself. To my knowledge, it required no independent review, no external oversight, and no publicly articulated standards. Once applied, it functioned as a freeze: Alfie could not be taken outside, exercised, or shown any love or affection regardless of how long the legal process stretched on. The order effectively determined the conditions of his life for months without any formal mechanism for reassessment. 

This kind of confinement would raise serious concerns in almost any other context. If a private citizen confined a dog to a small enclosure for months, denied fresh air, exercise, and physical contact, that person could face investigation—or charges—for animal cruelty. When a government shelter imposes the same conditions, it is described as administrative necessity. The distinction rests not on the experience of the animal, but on who is exercising the power. 

The absence of oversight matters because “do not remove” orders are not neutral. They shape behavior, deteriorate mental health, and can later be used to justify outcomes by pointing to the very distress they help create. When isolation and deprivation are built into the process, they become framed as evidence of risk rather than recognized as indicators of harm. 

That is exactly what happened here. During the pendency of my General Violation case, the city attorney assigned to the matter visited Alfie at the shelter. My own attorney was not permitted to do the same. Afterward, the city attorney, whose background is in law rather than animal behavior, told my counsel that she believed Alfie displayed concerning and aggressive behavior. What those observations failed to acknowledge was the context in which they arose. Alfie had been confined in isolation for nearly half a year—without fresh air, exercise, or physical contact. He was a young, social animal whose world had been reduced to a small kennel and brief, distressing visits through bars. Behavior that is likely to be reasonably expected under those conditions was treated as confirmation of danger, rather than as the predictable consequence of prolonged deprivation. 

When a system creates distress and then cites that distress as justification, the conclusion is predetermined. Without independent oversight or meaningful reevaluation, a “do not remove” order does not preserve neutrality; it manufactures the outcome it later claims to observe. Decisions with consequences this severe should not be made internally, indefinitely, and without accountability. The power to confine an animal under such conditions—particularly when alternatives exist—demands scrutiny, standards, and review. Without them, discretion becomes destiny. 

In the months that followed, I spoke with trainers and a variety of animal experts and sanctuaries. I learned something that is widely accepted in their fields: dogs do not bite without reason. The reason is not always obvious to humans, especially in moments of stress, fear, or misinterpretation—but it exists. Multiple sanctuaries offered to take Alfie out of state. Trainers volunteered their time. Former foster families spoke up for the dog they knew. Over ten thousand dollars were spent on legal fees. Months were spent fighting in court. Every alternative—every option that would have spared his life—was rejected by the shelter and, in turn, by the city attorney. 

Throughout the process, the shelter made substantive decisions about Alfie’s fate. It appeared that the city attorney’s role was not to independently evaluate those decisions, but to defend them. Once the shelter determined that Alfie would not be released, that determination hardened. There was no meaningful adversarial process, no neutral decision-maker weighing alternatives, and no obligation to reconsider. The reason this structure matters is simple: under the law, dogs have no rights. They are classified as property. Legally speaking, Alfie had the same status as an object—not a living being with a heartbeat, a nervous system, or the capacity to suffer. Because he had no legal standing, there was no due process owed to him, only administrative discretion exercised over him. 

As a result, decisions about his life were made without the procedural safeguards that typically accompany irreversible state action. The question was never whether Alfie could safely live elsewhere, only whether the shelter would allow it.  

Alfie was killed at the shelter before he reached two years old. 

After everything else failed, I believed I would at least be allowed to be with him at the end. I was not. Denver Animal Shelter did not allow me to be present when he was killed. Humane treatment was not assumed; it had to be argued for. I had to advocate for him to be sedated first so he could fall asleep, rather than be forcibly restrained, pinned down, and left panicking in the hands of strangers with needles. 

He died alone. He likely died afraid. He died without anyone who loved him. 

Alfie will never get a second chance. But others still can. The Alfie Advocacy Project exists because what happened to him should not be routine, unexamined, or quietly repeated. Companion animals should not disappear into systems where life-ending decisions are made without transparency, accountability, or meaningful review—especially when viable alternatives exist. 

Grief does not always demand consolation. Sometimes it demands action. Alfie mattered. His short life mattered. And I will make sure that his death matters enough to change something. 

The Alfie Advocacy Project (AAP) is focused on accountability and structural reform in municipal animal shelters—specifically, the unchecked discretion that allows life-ending decisions to be made internally, without review or meaningful alternatives. AAP was created to advocate for transparency in shelter decision-making, time-limited and reviewable confinement orders, and clear pathways for rescue transfer, rehabilitation, and out-of-state placement when safe options exist. The project also provides support to those harmed by these systems—both the animals subjected to them and the people who love them—while working to raise public awareness about the laws that govern these outcomes, including strict-liability frameworks that can collapse complex situations into irreversible consequences.