Rescuing dogs from abroad - well-intentioned or irresponsible? | Episode 14

The topic of animal welfare abroad is moving - and emotionally touching for many people who want to give a new home to a needy dog from southern Europe, Romania or Turkey. The idea of helping an animal in need fills us with compassion and the desire to actively make a difference. But beyond this emotional drive, it is worth taking a critical look: What health risks does a dog from abroad entail? What about its psychological stability if it was never allowed to experience appropriate early imprinting? And above all, does it really help to save individual fates in the long term - or do uncoordinated imports exacerbate the structural problems on the ground?

In this article, we take a deep dive into the complexities of animal welfare abroad. We look at veterinary aspects such as leishmaniasis, heartworm and parasitosis, shed light on the behavioural challenges that arise from a lack of socialisation and ask which ethical and sustainable solutions are really effective. The aim is not to condemn - but to educate. In this way, you can make an informed and responsible decision as to whether a rescue dog fits into your life - and what help for dogs can actually look like.

Rescuing dogs from abroad - these words alone evoke strong feelings in many people. Compassion, a sense of responsibility and often also the feeling of wanting to do "something good" play a central role when someone decides in favour of a dog from Romania, Spain or Italy. But what is really behind this? Why do we feel so moved when we see pictures of starving, matted or lonely dogs on social media?

Many people who adopt a dog from abroad are convinced that they are doing something heroic. It is often not just the desire to save an animal that plays a role, but also unconscious motives: to be perceived as particularly compassionate, morally superior or socially committed. It is not uncommon to hear sentences like: "I didn't want a dog from a breeder, I wanted to help an animal in need." But are we helping the animal - or are we sometimes helping our own self-image more?

The answer is deeply rooted in psychology. Helping gives us meaning. It is a deeply human need to alleviate suffering, not only for the person being helped, but also for ourselves. Studies show that altruistic behaviour activates the reward centre in the brain - we literally feel good when we help. This is not a bad thing in itself. But when emotions prevail, realistic judgements often take a back seat.

This does not mean that protecting animals abroad is bad or selfish per se. But it does mean that we need to be aware of our motives and their impact - on several levels. Because only if we are honest with ourselves can we honestly take responsibility. Responsibility does not end at the national border or when we sign an adoption contract. It starts right there - and involves much more than just "saving".

The phrase "Adopt, don't shop" has long since become a moral battle cry. It conveys the message that anyone who gets a dog from a breeder is heartless, selfish and consumer-orientated. Those who adopt are morally superior. But this is exactly where the problem begins: moral superiority is no substitute for a differentiated view. Not every person who consciously decides in favour of a dog from a breeder is an enemy of animals. And not every adoption from abroad is an act of world improvement.

The idea of "saving an animal from abroad and changing the world" may sound noble, but it is often naive. In reality, it usually doesn't change the system, but merely shifts the fate of an individual. The dog that is rehomed to Germany, Austria or Switzerland does nothing to change the local situation. On the contrary: local animal shelters, pounds or even backyard breeders often get the impression: "Oh, we don't have to change anything - the rich Central Europeans take the dogs off our hands."

This creates a cycle that solves nothing in the long term.
Because every animal that is sold abroad also means: less incentive to set up local castration programmes, less pressure to tighten local animal welfare laws, less awareness among the population. It's like a drop in the ocean - and sometimes this drop fuels the system even further.

This does not mean that all animal welfare abroad is pointless or wrong. But it does mean that we have to ask ourselves: "Is this really helping here - or am I primarily serving my own need to help?" Help that has a long-term effect starts at the roots. This means: support for castration campaigns, education in schools, pressure on politicians, building local structures.

It is also problematic to point a moral finger at other dog people. Not everyone who chooses a dog from a breeder is "bad", and not every dog adopter from abroad is a hero. Animal welfare must not be a stage for egos. It must not become a competition to see who rescues "better" or loves "better".

If you really want to help, you have to be prepared to face up to unpleasant truths:

• Not every dog from abroad can be rehomed.

• Not every rescue is a rescue.

• Not every adoption solves a problem - sometimes it even creates new ones.

Rescuing dogs from abroad requires patience, resources, expertise and the willingness to scrutinise the dog and the system rather than yourself. Only then can a well-intentioned deed become a truly good deed - for the animal, for the local people and for society as a whole.

Every dog is individual - and so are their experiences. A dog from abroad often comes with a heavy burden - and not just literally. Anyone who decides to adopt an animal welfare dog not only takes responsibility for a living being, but also for its past. This is precisely the great challenge that many people underestimate.

Some foreign dogs have had traumatic experiences: they were born as strays, chased away by humans, hunted, injured or ended up in overcrowded shelters where stress, fear and sometimes violence are part of everyday life. Unlike well-socialised puppies who grow up in a loving environment, they often lack the important imprinting phase: they don't know household noises, street traffic, cramped flats or strangers who suddenly want to "be nice".

This means that the romantic idea of a grateful street dog that finally finds its happy ending is often far removed from reality. Instead, many adopters bring a dog with massive fears, insecurities or even aggression into their home. This not only requires patience, knowledge and strong nerves, but sometimes also professional help.

In addition, there are health risks that are also often trivialised. Dogs from the Mediterranean region bring with them diseases such as leishmaniasis, ehrlichiosis or babesiosis, which require lifelong treatment and can result in high veterinary costs. These diseases are transmitted by parasites such as sand flies or ticks and often remain undetected for a long time - until the first symptoms appear, which then quickly become serious.

So if you decide to buy a dog from abroad, you are not bringing a blank slate into your home. You bring a past with you, a rucksack of experiences - and sometimes illnesses that you can't simply brush off. That doesn't mean that dogs living abroad can't be wonderful. But it does mean that they need responsibility, knowledge, realistic expectations - and not a helper's ego that blindly rescues without knowing the consequences.

Many people who adopt a dog from abroad feel that they are "saving a life" - and yes, this is true on an individual level. But what does this rescue really mean? And what difference does it make to the bigger picture? To be honest: almost nothing.

The foreign animal welfare system has long since adapted to the fact that Germany, Austria and Switzerland function as buyer markets. In many southern and eastern European countries (e.g. Romania, Spain, Italy, Bulgaria), animal welfare organisations and unfortunately also shady actors know: "Don't worry, the Germans will take the dogs off our hands." This shifts the problem: it is not solved locally, but exported.

It becomes particularly problematic when these individual fates are morally charged, for example through the popular slogan "Adopt, don't shop". This message may be well-intentioned, but is often undifferentiated: Not everyone who gets a dog from a breeder is an animal abuser. Not everyone who adopts is a saint. And not every dog from abroad is suitable for a life in a flat, in the city, in Central Europe.

One could even argue that reputable, good breeders actively protect animals.
Why?
Because they not only "produce dogs", but:

• endeavour to find the right placement,

• accompany and advise the owners,

• remain the point of contact in the event of problems,

• Dogs are often taken back if a pet fails,

• pay particular attention to health, strength of character and suitability for the breed.

While foreign animal welfare organisations often only focus on "rescuing", reputable breeders take care of a dog's entire lifespan. This also protects against animal suffering - especially in countries where animal welfare standards are high, such as Germany, Austria or Switzerland.

This does not mean that breeding is always good or justifies everything - but it does mean that generalised moral slogans ("Adopt, don't shop!") fall short. Anyone who takes a really differentiated look will recognise that there are many ways to take responsibility - adoption is just one of them.

If you really want to help, it means more than adopting a dog out of pity. It means understanding the responsibility behind the help.