The Power of a Leash

Inspired by the data, the dogs and cats and the people who love them.

When I first arrived at Paul's Place in March of 2024, an unhoused resource center in Davis, I was met with skepticism. I had felt this before, when I volunteered with the Street Dog Coalition in Sacramento the year before. I felt out of place then, and I certainly felt like a stranger now. They weren’t sure why I was there. I looked unofficial—I didn’t even have a t-shirt that connected me to my nonprofit. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” someone asked. I had my business card, but it didn’t feel like it would help. I tried my best to explain. It would have been nice to have harnesses and leashes on hand that day, but I didn’t know what to expect. My previous experience hadn’t helped much.

Slowly, something shifted. I kept showing up—and this time, I brought containers full of gear. I began to understand how transient many of their lives were. I might only see them once, so I had to make it count. I had to have the right harness, the right leash, ready to go. And over time, I stopped being a stranger. Now when I arrive, I hear my name—or rather, my nickname: “Hey lady, my dog needs a harness!” Sometimes it’s a hug. Always a smile. Often, a conversation like we’ve known each other for years.

This past year, I gathered more than data. I got stories, trust, laughter, and heartbreaking truths. I met 98 people and 96 dogs. For context, the 2024 Point-in-Time (PIT) count estimated that there were about 942 unhoused individuals in Yolo county. While estimates vary, it's believed that anywhere from 10% to 25% of unhoused individuals have pets. The next PIT count won’t be until 2026.

It’s important to note that the data I collected comes from people who visit a free veterinary clinic. That means it’s naturally biased toward those who actively care for their pets. But that’s also what makes it so powerful. These are guardians who show up, often against the odds, to do right by their companions.

I learned that while 28 individuals had shelter, 63 did not. Seven didn’t say, and that’s okay. What mattered more was that they showed up to take care of their animal companions.

They came from Davis, Woodland, West Sacramento, and towns in between. Their dogs wore all sizes—XS to XL—and the reasons varied. Some were small for easier travel, others big for companionship and, sometimes, protection. And I love some of the dogs' names—Beast, Killer, Monster, Princess, and Buttercup. One would think the first three names belong to the big ones, but you’d be surprised. I met a Chihuahua named Killer. Regardless of their names, I can tell they are well loved. Many told me their dogs kept them grounded, kept them clean, kept them out of jail. One woman, Mary, asked me to write my phone number on her arm. “I get into trouble a lot,” she said. “If they take me, can you make sure Shiner’s okay?”

That trust? It wasn’t given. It was earned.

One person shared that the old and worn leash he had broke, and he lost his dog. He found out later that the dog had ended up in the shelter, but he couldn’t get there—and even if he could, he wouldn’t have had the money to bail his dog out. He didn’t tell me what happened next, and I was too afraid to ask. A leash may not seem like much to most of us, but to this person, it could have been the difference between staying together or being separated. It reminded me all over again of the quiet, persistent power of a leash—and what it can represent.

There’s a myth that unhoused people have dogs for safety. Maybe that’s true for some. But my charts—and my conversations—tell a richer story. Small dogs are just as loved and common as large ones. Companionship is the constant. These animals are not tools; they’re family.

As I recorded stats, I noticed patterns—more females than males among the dogs, a surprising number of XS harnesses needed. I learned that cats, too, are part of this circle of care, though they’re quieter about it. And I learned that one of the most asked-for items isn’t a leash at all. It’s shoes—for the dogs. The pavement gets hot, and these folks don’t want their companions to suffer. That broke me a little.

So yes, I started with leashes and harnesses. But I’m going full service now. Shoes. Tiny jackets to go with even tinier harnesses for the kitties. Whatever I can carry, I’ll bring.

Leslie Irvine’s book My Dog Always Eats First captures so much of what I see here. Her research describes how pets help unhoused people preserve their moral identity. They keep them tethered to love, to responsibility, to being seen as someone who matters. That’s what I witness every day. People giving their last bite to their dog. Sleeping outside a shelter because their dog wasn’t allowed inside.

This isn’t just about animal welfare. It’s about community. Dignity. Compassion. And showing up, again and again, with what’s needed most—even if that’s just a conversation and a properly fitted harness.

I love those moments. Feeling helpful!