Gevin Butler and Hyungjung Kim
BBC News
When he's not preaching the word of God, Reverend Joo Yeong-Bong raises dogs for slaughter.
His business, however, is not going well.
Moreover, it is on the verge of becoming illegal.
"We have been trying to sell dogs since last summer, but traders are just stubbornly reluctant to buy them," Zhu, 60, tells the BBC.
"None of them showed up."
In 2024, the South Korean government introduced a nationwide ban on the sale of dog meat for consumption.
This groundbreaking law, passed in January last year, gives farmers like Zhu the opportunity to close their businesses and sell their animals by February 2027.
But many say this is not the time to phase out an industry that has provided people with a livelihood for generations – and that authorities have yet to come up with adequate safeguards for breeders or the estimated half a million dogs in captivity.
Even those who support the ban, including experts and animal rights activists, point to problems with its implementation – among them the difficulty of finding homes for dogs who now face the increasingly likely threat of euthanasia after being rescued from slaughterhouses.
Halfway through the deferred implementation period, dog meat farmers are left with hundreds of animals they literally cannot sell, with farms that cannot be closed, and with very few ways to put food on the table.
"People are suffering," says Joo, who is also president of the Korean Edible Dog Society, a group that represents the industry.
"We are drowning in debt, we can't pay it off, and some can't even find a new job."
"The situation is hopeless."
Storm of obstacles
Chan-Woo has 18 months to get rid of 600 dogs.
After that, the 33-year-old dog meat producer – who asked to remain anonymous for fear of a public backlash – faces up to two years in prison.
"Realistically, even just on my farm, I can't process the number of dogs I have in that time," he says.
"At this stage I've put everything I have into the farm - and yet they won't even take my dogs."
By "they," Chan Woo doesn't just mean the traders and butchers who, before the ban, would buy an average of five or six dogs a week.
He is also referring to animal rights activists and the authorities who, in his opinion, have worked hard to ban the dog meat trade, but now have no clear plan for what to do with the remaining animals - of which there are about 500.000, according to government estimates.
"They passed the law without a real plan, and now they're saying they can't even take those dogs."
cLi Sangkyung, campaigns manager at Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak), shares this concern.
"Although a ban on dog meat has been passed, both the government and civic groups are still struggling to save the remaining dogs," he says.
"One area that still seems to be missing is the discussion around abandoned dogs."
A spokesman for the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs (Mafra) told the BBC that if farm owners give up the dogs, local authorities will take ownership of them and care for them in shelters.
Finding a new home for them, however, proved a little more complicated.
Because in the dog meat industry, weight means profit, farms prefer larger breeds.
But in South Korea's highly urbanized society, where many people live in apartment complexes, people who want to keep pets often seek just the opposite.
There is also a stigma in society attached to dogs from meat farms, Li explains, out of concerns about disease and trauma.
The problem is further complicated by the fact that many of the dogs are purebred or mixed Tosa Inu, a breed that is classified as "dangerous" in South Korea and requires government permission to be kept as a pet.
Meanwhile, dog shelters are already overcrowded.
This perfect storm of obstacles points to a perverse irony: that countless so-called rescued dogs, with nowhere else to go, now face the possibility of being euthanized.
"It's just incredible," says Chan Woo.
"Since the law was drafted at the request of these groups, I assumed they had come up with a solution for the dogs - that they would take responsibility for them. But now I hear even animal rights groups say euthanasia is the only option."
Cho Hee-kyung, head of the Korea Animal Welfare Association, admitted in September 2024 that while animal protection groups will try to save as many animals as possible, "there will be dogs that will be threatening."
"If the remaining dogs become 'lost and abandoned animals', then it's heartbreaking, but they will be euthanized," she said.
The government attempted to allay these concerns a few weeks later, saying that euthanasia of animals was "certainly" not part of their plan.
More recently, Mafra told the BBC that it is investing around 6 billion Korean won ($4,3 million) a year to expand animal shelters and support private facilities, and that it will offer up to 600.000 Korean won per dog ($450) to farmers who close their farms early.
But Chun Myung-sun, director of the Office of Veterinary Medical Education at Seoul National University, agrees that the government's broader plan for the remaining dogs is largely flawed.
"There needs to be a concrete discussion about how to 'get rid' of dogs," she says.
"Both adoption and euthanasia should be options. But if we've already gone to great lengths to save dogs from cruel slaughter only to euthanize them, then it's understandable that people are unhappy and angry."
Without means of livelihood
Some have sought a solution abroad, sending animals abroad to more willing adopters in countries such as Canada, the United Kingdom, and the United States.
In 2023, a team from Hwak rescued around 200 dogs from a farm in an Asian city – all of which were sent to Canada and the US.
The farm's former owner, 74-year-old Jang Jong-tae, told the BBC that as he watched rescuers load the dogs into their trucks, he was struck by the level of compassion they showed.
Jang added, however, that he does not approve of a ban on dog meat farming.
"If dog meat is forbidden because dogs are animals, then why is it okay to eat other animals like cows, pigs or chickens?" he said.
"It's the same thing. They exist in nature for people to live off of."
Eating dog is not the same as eating any other type of meat, according to Chun.
She points out that dog meat carries a greater risk from a food safety and hygiene perspective – especially in South Korea, where it is not integrated into a formal, regulated meat production system.
The practice is also widespread in countries such as China, Indonesia, the Philippines, Thailand, and parts of India, according to Humane World for Animals.
But while consumption rates have fluctuated throughout Korean history, it has become increasingly taboo in the country in recent years.
A 2024 government survey found that only 8 percent of respondents said they had tried dog meat in the previous 12 months – a drop from 27 percent in 2015.
About 7 percent said they would continue to eat it until February 2027, and about 3,3 percent said they would continue to eat it after the ban fully takes effect.
Since the ban was announced, 623 of South Korea's 1.537 dog farms have been closed.
"As society and culture have developed, South Korean society has now made the decision to stop producing dog meat," Chun says.
"When I saw how they handled animals – like they would treat people, gently and with love – it really touched me," he says.
"We don't treat them like that. For us, raising dogs was just a way to make a living. But these people from animal protection groups treated the dogs as if they were individuals with dignity, and that really touched my heart."
And yet for many it remains the cornerstone of the industry on which they have built their lives.
Every member of the dog meat trade the BBC spoke to expressed concern about how they would make a living now that their long-standing livelihood has been declared illegal.
Some say they have given up on a life of poverty, pointing out that they were born during the Korean War and know how to live a life of hunger.
Others suggested that the trade could continue incognito.
Many agree, however, that for younger farmers, these strict measures are particularly worrying.
"Young people in this industry are really facing a grim reality," Zhu says.
"Since they can't sell the dogs, they can't close the business quickly. They're stuck, they can't go forward or backward."
Chan Woo recalls that when he started working in the industry a decade ago, at the age of 23, "the perception of dog meat wasn't negative."
"However," he adds, "there were some comments from people around me, so even then I was aware that it wasn't something I could do for the rest of my life."
The ban came sooner than expected – and since its announcement, he says, "making a living has become incredibly uncertain."
"All we can hope for now is that the period of deferred application may be extended so that the process of dealing with the remaining dogs can be more gradual."
Many others hope the same.
But as the dog meat industry is pulled out like a rug from under the feet of those who have become addicted to it, Zhu can't help but be preoccupied with dark thoughts: that some farmers may not be able to endure this uncertainty for much longer.
"At this point, people are still holding on, hoping that something will change – maybe that the deferral period will be extended," he says.
"But by 2027 I really think something terrible will happen."
"There are so many people whose lives have been completely turned upside down."
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