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Maude was a gangly little lab cross who showed up at the shelter where I worked in Puerto Rico. I was instantly charmed by the way she would lie in my arms in a happy daze while I picked off ticks that dotted her puppy body.

She hadn't been there long when a distemper scare swept through the shelter; dogs who were not vaccinated were a liability. I led Maude into the operating theatre, where I held her as she was euthanized and then slumped into death's careless posture.

It was the worst thing I ever had to do at the shelter. We told ourselves it was necessary, and it would save other dogs' lives. On the way home that night, my co-worker and I got very, very drunk.

I don't know how many dogs and cats I had a hand in euthanizing there, but it was plenty. I'd like to say it never got easier, but that's not true. Some times were easier than others.

Stella, a lanky brindled mutt, never quite shook the postpartum crazies and was finally put down after trying to throttle her own puppy. She wasn't a terrible dog, but there were just so many dogs who needed a place at the shelter and we had limited resources.

We consoled ourselves by thinking how bad things would be if we never killed any animals. No-kill shelters, we said, had too many animals in too small a space. They kept alive dogs and cats that couldn't bear their caged life and went crazy. People who championed the no-kill model, our thinking went, were all heart, no head.

This is a charge that could never be levelled at Nathan Winograd. The former criminal prosecutor, now an animal-rights advocate, has written a book, Redemption, in which he argues that pet overpopulation is a myth, and that all U.S. shelters could easily become no-kill if they made an adequate commitment to the cause.

He lays out an extremely detailed argument that covers everything from shelters needing to be more aggressive when competing with "commercial sources of animals" to putting in place "programs and services for all the animals at risk."

"I never argue in the book that this is easy," he says. Nonetheless, several communities in the United States have successfully adopted his model.

As it happens, this is old news in Calgary, which is moving toward adopting a no-kill policy in the next five years. (The current kill rate for dogs in Calgary is below 4 per cent, in contrast to Toronto's estimated 25 per cent, which itself is low in comparison to many U.S. shelters.)

"Most cities have an animal service and a humane society, and they are in conflict with each other," says Bill Bruce, director of Calgary's animal and bylaw services.

But in Calgary, the revenue from pet licensing is divvied up between the two groups, which also have separate duties. "Money," as Mr. Bruce says, "makes the world go round."

Just from licensing and adoption fees, he has enough to pay his entire staff, as well as run school-based programs on topics such as bite prevention, and behaviour-modification training for surly dogs. Next year, he will begin construction on an addition to his facility, which will provide low-cost or free spaying and neutering.

"It's the first step to moving to zero kill," he says. "The key is to prevent the production of those animals rather than having to kill them later on."

But what about the Stellas of the world - and worse, dogs who are inveterate biters? Mr. Winograd's model puts the emphasis on proper socialization at the shelter, while Mr. Bruce has high hopes for educating owners and reforming dogs, possibly through medication.

While this may raise eyebrows, the uncomfortable fact of domestication is that, "no matter what we're doing we're playing God on some level," says Lee Oliver, spokesman for the Toronto Humane Society, which maintains a low kill rate. "But," he continues, "I'd rather play benign God than decisive God."

Writer and editor Lisan Jutras has two cats, a Puerto Rican street dog and many garments covered in pet hair.