How South Korea's Dog Meat Ban Leaves Farmers And 500,000 Dogs In Limbo

NDTV

25-06-2025

Reverend Joo Yeong-bong raises dogs, for a business that's now become illegal.
"Since last summer we've been trying to sell our dogs, but the traders just keep hesitating," says Joo, 60, to BBC. "Not a single one has shown up."
South Korea's 2024 dog meat ban gives farmers until February 2027 to shut down. But halfway through the grace period, farmers like Joo are trapped, unable to sell, struggling to survive.
"People are suffering," he says. "We're drowning in debt, can't pay it off, and some can't even... find new work. It's a hopeless situation."
Chan-woo, 33, faces the same reality. He has 18 months to get rid of 600 dogs, or face 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 point I've invested all of my assets [into the farm], and yet they are not even taking the dogs."
By "they," he means not only traders but also the government and animal rights activists who pushed for the ban. "They [the authorities] passed the law without any real plan, and now they're saying they can't even take the dogs."
Lee Sangkyung from Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak) agrees there's a problem. "Although the dog meat ban has passed, both the government and civic groups are still grappling with how to rescue the remaining dogs," he says. "One area that still feels lacking is the discussion around the dogs that have been left behind."
The government claims local authorities will take surrendered dogs into shelters. But rehoming is proving difficult. Farms raised large breeds like Tosa-Inu for meat, dogs often labeled "dangerous" under South Korean law. Most city dwellers want smaller pets.
"There's a social stigma associated with dogs that come from meat farms," says Lee, citing fears over disease and trauma.
The result: overcrowded shelters and a grim alternative. "If remaining dogs become 'lost and abandoned animals' then it's heartbreaking but they will be euthanised," said Cho Hee-kyung, head of the Korean Animal Welfare Association, in 2024.
The government insists euthanasia "certainly" isn't part of the plan. They've offered up to 600,000 won ($450) per dog for early closures and are expanding shelters. But Hwak argues the rescue plans are vague and underfunded.
Some dogs are flown abroad for adoption, but it barely scratches the surface.
Former farmer Yang Jong-tae, 74, who shut down in 2023, says, "When I saw how they handled the animals, like they were handling people, so gently and lovingly, it really moved me. We don't treat them like that. For us, raising dogs was just a way to make a living."
But Yang still questions the ban. "If dog meat is banned because dogs are animals, then why is it okay to eat other animals like cows, pigs or chicken?"
For younger farmers like Chan-woo, the future feels bleak. "All we're hoping for now is that the grace period can be extended so that the process can happen more gradually."
Joo agrees. "Right now, people are still holding on, hoping something might change... But by 2027, I truly believe something terrible will happen."