South Korea banned dog meat. So what happens to the dogs?

When he does not preach the Word of God, the Reverend Joo Yeong-Bong pupils dogs for slaughter.

Business does not go well. In fact, it is on the verge of becoming illegal.

“Since last summer, we have been trying to sell our dogs, but traders have been hesitant,” Joo, 60, told BBC. “Not a single one arose.”

In 2024, the South Korean government implemented a national ban on the sale of dog meat for consumption. Historical legislation, which was adopted last January, gives farmers like Mr. Joo until February 2027 to close their operations and sell their remaining animals.

But many say that this is not enough to eliminate an industry that has supported the means of subsistence for generations – and that the authorities have still not found adequate guarantees for farmers or the half -million dogs estimated in captivity.

Even those who support the ban, including experts and animal rights defenders, have reported problems related to its application – including the difficulty of remaining dogs which, having been saved from the ground for killing, are now faced with the increasingly likely threat of euthanasia.

Halfway through the period of grace, dog producers end up with hundreds of practically insufficient animals, farms that cannot be closed and few ways to put food on the table.

“People suffer,” said Joo, who is also president of the Korean Association of Edible Dogs, a group representing industry. “We are drowning in debt, cannot reimburse it, and some cannot even … find new work.

“It’s a desperate situation.”

Chan-Woo has 18 months to get rid of 600 dogs.

After that, the 33 -year -old meat farmer – whom we agreed to anonymize for fear of a counterpoup – risks a sentence of up to two years in prison.

“Realistic, even just in my farm, I cannot treat the number of dogs I have at that time,” he said. “At this point, I invested all my assets [into the farm] – And yet they don’t even take dogs. “”

By “they”, Chan-Woo not only means that traders and butchers who, before the ban, would buy an average of half a dozen dogs per week.

He also refers to the militants and the animal rights authorities who, in his opinion, having fought so loudly to prohibit the trade in dog meat, have no clear plan for what to do with the remaining animals – of which nearly 500,000, according to government estimates.

“They [the authorities] adopted the law without any real plan, and now they say they can’t even take dogs. “”

Lee Sangkyung, campaign director at Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak), echoes these concerns.

“Although the ban on dog meat has passed, government and civic groups are still struggling with the way of saving the remaining dogs,” he said. “An area that still seems missing is the discussion around the dogs that have been left behind.”

A spokesman for the Ministry of Agriculture, the Food and Rural Affairs (MAFRA) told the BBC that if the farm owners abandoned their dogs, local governments would assume the property and managed them in shelters.

Relaxing them, however, turned out to be difficult.

Since weight is equal to the benefit of the dog meat industry, farms tend to promote larger breeds. But in the highly urbanized society of South Korea, where many people live in apartment complexes, budding animal owners often want the opposite.

There is also a social stigma associated with dogs from meat farms, explains Mr. Lee, due to concerns of illness and trauma. The problem is still complicated by the fact that many are either pure or mixed from Tosa-Inu, a breed which is classified as “dangerous” in South Korea and requires government approval to keep a pet.

Meanwhile, rescue shelters are already overcrowded.

This perfect storm of obstacles indicates perverse irony: that countless so-called rescue dogs, with nowhere to go, are now confronted with the prospect of being euthanized.

“It’s just incredible,” says Chan-Woo.

“Since the law was made according to the requirements of these groups, I assumed that they had also developed a solution for dogs – as if they would take responsibility for them. But now, I hear that even animal rights groups say that euthanasia is the only option.”

Cho Hee-Kyung, Head of Korean Animal Welfare Association, admitted in September 2024 that, although rights defense groups would try to save as many animals as possible, there would be “dogs that remained”.

“If the remaining dogs become” lost and abandoned animals “, it is heartbreaking, but they will be euthanized,” she said.

The government sought to temper these concerns of weeks later, saying that animal euthanasia was “certainly not part of their plan.

More recently, Mafra told the BBC that it investigated about 6 billion Koreans ($ 4.3 million; 3.2 million pounds sterling) per year to enlarge animal shelters and support private facilities, and would offer up to 600,000 Korean won per dog ($ 450; $ 324) to farmers who closed their companies early.

But Chun Myung-Sun, director of the Veterinary Medical Education Office at the National University of Seoul, is suitable that the wider government plan for remaining dogs is largely lacking.

“There must be a concrete discussion on how to” dispose “dogs,” she said.

“Adoption and euthanasia should be on the table. [But] If we have gone to the effort to save dogs from the cruel slaughter only to make them euthanasia, it is understandable that people feel broken and angry. “”

Some have looked for solutions further, sending animals abroad to more disposed adopters in countries like Canada, the United Kingdom and the United States.

In 2023, a team of Hwak saved some 200 dogs from a farm in the city of Asan – which have since been sent to Canada and the United States.

The former owner of this farm, Yang Jong-Tae, 74, told the BBC by looking at the rescuers loading his dogs in their trucks, he was amazed by the level of compassion they have shown.

“When I saw how they managed animals – as if they managed people, so slowly and with love – it really moved me,” he said.

“We do not treat them like that. For us, raising dogs was just a way to make a living. But these people from the animal group treated dogs as if they were individuals with dignity, and that really touched my heart.”

Mr. Yang hastened to add, however, that he disapproves of the ban on dog meat farming.

“If dog meat is prohibited because dogs are animals, then why is it acceptable to eat other animals such as cows, pigs or chicken?” He said. “It’s the same thing. These things exist in nature so that people live.”

Eating a dog is not the same as eating other meats, according to Ms. Chun. She emphasizes that dog meat has more risks from the point of view of food safety and hygiene – in particular in South Korea, where it has not been integrated into the production system of formal and regulated meat.

And although consumption rates have fluctuated throughout the history of Korea, it has become more and more taboo in recent years.

A 2024 government survey only revealed 8% of respondents said they had tried dog meat in the previous 12 months – compared to 27% in 2015. About 7% said they would continue to eat it until February 2027, and around 3.3% said they would continue after the ban.

Meanwhile, in June 2025, 623 of the 1,537 farms for dogs in South Korea had closed.

“While society and culture have evolved, the South Korean company has now made the decision to stop producing dog meat,” said Ms. Chun.

And yet, for many, there remains the cornerstone of an industry on which they have built their lives.

Each member of the trade of dog meat that the BBC spoke expressed its uncertainty of the way they would now support that their long -standing means of subsistence have been deemed illegal.

Some say they resigned themselves to the life of poverty, noting that they were born during the Korean War and knew how to live hungry. Others have suggested that trade could go underground.

Much are suitable, however, that for young farmers, repression is particularly worrying.

“The young people of this industry are really faced with a dark reality,” said Mr. Joo. “As they cannot sell dogs, they cannot stop quickly. They are stuck, without any way to follow or return.”

Chan-Woo remembers that when he started working in the industry a decade ago, at 23, “the perception of dog meat was not so negative”.

“Always”, he adds, “there were comments from people around me, so even at the time, I knew that it was not something I could do for the rest of my life.”

The prohibition came faster than what he expected – and since his announcement, he says, “earning a living has become incredibly uncertain”.

“All we hope for is that the period of grace can be extended so that the process [of dealing with the remaining dogs] can occur more gradually. “”

Many others hope the same. But as the dog meat industry is withdrawn under the feet of those who have come to depend on it, Mr. Joo cannot help speculating on a sinister thought: that some farmers could not bear uncertainty for longer.

“Right now, people are still holding on, hoping that something could change-maybe the grace period will be extended,” he said. “But by 2027, I really believe that something terrible will happen.

“There are so many people whose life has completely collapsed.”