The dusty white plane stood out among the gleaming corporate jets, as did its passengers: 26 barking dogs, newly arrived at the private air terminal at Bakersfield, CA.

They had left the shelter that morning with their health certificates taped to their kennels. All week, the staff at Bakersfield Animal Shelter, had been getting them ready, giving them their shots, testing their temperaments, and spaying and neutering as many pups as possible.

On the tarmac, representatives jostled around the animals like vacationers at baggage claim. Penny, a 1-year-old lab mix, is being reassured, “Hi, Pretty, you’re going to go quick!” If past experience is any guide—and transports like this arrive nearly every week all over the country, by plane, truck, and van—they will be gone in a few days, becoming the newest canines living in Canada.

There is not a dog shortage in America—not yet, at least. But there are stark geographic differences in supply and demand. Canada needs more dogs, and California has too many. To compensate, sophisticated dog–relocation networks have sprung up over the past decade, transporting dogs and cats from places with too many to places with too few. Mostly, it’s a tactical problem: “How do we connect those shelters that have too many animals and are at risk of euthanasia simply because they were born there, to those shelters and rescues where these animals are going to fly off the shelves.

These pipelines of adoptable animals—primarily, but not exclusively, moving from south to north—have become a cultural phenomenon in their own right, and a key part of a broader transformation of companion-animal welfare. There are ad hoc bands of volunteers, organizing on Facebook and Petfinder, who cover their back seats with towels and rendezvous at rest stops, passing animals along every couple hundred miles. In big cities and their suburbs, nonprofits have sprung up to partner with overcrowded Southern shelters, hire a driver and load up a van with a few dozen animals every month or more. During the COVID-19 pandemic, many of these groups became overwhelmed with demand in some states, leading to months-long waiting lists and stiff competition among adopters. That spurred a surprising fourth category: veritable smugglers, who saw an opportunity in loading up a horse trailer with the cutest strays and driving north (leaving the nonprofits with the sick and less desirable animals).

It is a good time to be an American dog. In the 1970s, as many as 20 million dogs and cats were euthanized each year. That number has declined precipitously. The ASPCA now estimates 390,000 dogs and 530,000 cats are euthanized each year, down from 2.6 million as recently as 2011. That’s still too many—especially when a way to further reduce the number is at hand. Euthanasia was once seen as an inevitability: there were just too many animals. But a combination of factors—cultural, medical, and political—has changed that. More people want mutts, rebranded “rescues.” Fewer animals are born each year, thanks to broader spay and neuter programs, often dictated by law, and improved surgical techniques. And more are being moved, which helps save those animals, but also opens up space and time to care for others left behind. For shelter staff, who suffer from a disproportionately high rate of mental-health problems, nothing matters more than keeping up with their animals’ needs. Rather than being beaten down by the incessant necessity of euthanizing the unwanted, they are buoyed by a steady flow of adoptions.

Money helps, of course. The geographic disparities that lead one place to have too many dogs and another too few are primarily fueled by a difference in resources. Shelters in heavily populated cities and suburbs benefit from well-funded population-control programs and large pools of potential adopters. Shelters in rural areas struggle with excess animals, and communities with broader economic burdens. The easy problems are nearly solved; the hard ones require a new approach. “Animal relocation” is not only about meeting demand for dogs, but also building the capacity to help all animals.

The ASPCA-sponsored flight exemplifies an organized effort to connect disparate communities in pursuit of a common goal. It is a living, breathing—barking, panting—geographic arbitrage. But by treating these flying puppies as points of connection between communities, like the knots in a net, the issue of excess animals can be addressed. It’s a recognition that some problems, even ones that bridge red states and blue states, can be solved together.

When BARC’s Rescue began working with Bakersfield Animal Shelter, its challenges could be measured with a simple formula. Like many shelters, it calculated its “live-release rate”: the number of animals that left alive, divided by the total number that came in through the door. I remember if we had a cat that sneezed, we didn’t keep the cat. New animals filled the door of the shelter every day, and there was neither the space to house them nor the money to pay the staff to take care of them.

On a crisp California morning with a deep blue sky, Bakersville staff sit in front of two computer monitors inside their office. Think Pawsitive, says the plaque above the desk. Each week, sometimes several times a week, Bakersfield organizes the transports in cooperation with rescues. They start with a blank spreadsheet and begins assembling the manifest, drawing on the animals waiting for their ticket out, or checking in with any of three dozen partner organizations to see who might be “transport eligible.” When they text partners, they reply immediately. If they takes the dogs, it frees up crowded kennels, with the assurance that the animals will go on to a good life. “They’re all pets, they’re just homeless. They just need somewhere to go.

Some come with scars, others with stories. Elmer Fudge, a 1-year-old hound mix, was the largest on the list that day, at 89 lb. He’d arrived a couple weeks earlier as a stray, and the staff now knew him well. “Elmer Fudge is ready to lick your face and smell your yard,” noted the last column of the spreadsheet. The mix is crucial, like a box of bonbons, but sometimes it’s not that easy. Bless their hearts they might all be black and brown.” Joyce, a 3-year-old pit bull mix, is white, and traveling with four of her 10-month-old siblings. “Joyce is a sweet soul,” notes the manifest. “She has been through so much.” Joyce and her siblings were among 19 animals seized from a home where a murder took place. You must try to stay dispassionate. You can’t have favoritism on transport, because you can lose sight of what’s best for the dog, and what’s best for the source shelter, and what’s best all around.”

Sending and receiving organizations develop together the shared procedures to help build connections between the source and destination communities. Rather than well-resourced Northern shelter and rescue workers shaking their heads at the poor treatment of animals by their Southern colleagues, the program gives everyone a better understanding of their shared challenges. When possible, they visit one another. “Have them walk a mile in their shoes, because there’s nothing like that,” says Debra Henkelman Therrien of BARC’s Rescue. “They’re already getting their teeth kicked in, just on what they have to deal with every day.”

They talk about someday putting themselves out of business. The end point would be when a combination of transport and population control balances supply and demand, and animals are no longer euthanized for space in America. The adjacent risk, however, is a shortage of dogs that spurs unsafe puppy breeding. That prospect has some discussing the possibility of shelters in high-demand areas starting their own breeding programs. For those who vividly recall the era of high euthanasia rates—much less those who are still living it—it’s a shocking idea, like a cocktail hour at rehab. But, its proponents argue, encouraging more healthy “American mutts” could be an alternative to allowing commercial puppy breeders to meet the public demand for animals.

The next morning, a crescent moon hangs over the California predawn. The staff gathers around, and checks the paperwork on an iPad and shuffles the printed rabies certificates in plastic sheaths. “All the health certs were good?” they confirm.

Then the dogs start coming. A 20-year-old volunteer cradles Button, a tiny dachshund she’s been fostering at home for 10 days. They had already labeled the crates strapped into the back of the van, determining in advance where each animal would go. Their moves are all choreographed and codified by the Bakersfield Animal Shelter and BARC’ Rescue, from closing the van door while each animal is loaded in, to changing out their surgical gowns and gloves to prevent the spread of any illness. A professor of English at the university who runs her own small rescue, brings over Mo, a 9-month-old Rottweiler mix, who jumps in circles. He transport driver’s fills a red watering can with bottled water, then slips its thin spout through the mesh crate doors, filling each animal’s bowl for the all-day journey.

It’s 26 dogs in total, and also a webbing of ties between communities—in Bakersfield California to Calgary Canada, and wherever the dogs end up. When the truck leaves, Bakersfield has space for 26 new animals. Not for long. “No sooner than we get a couple of kennels open, here comes a newbie!” “There is a door they open somewhere and it’s just like … Who let the dogs out?”