As dog meat ban nears in Korea, canines still require rescue

GANGJIN COUNTY, South Jeolla — Inside a cramped, rust-stained farm in rural Gangjin County in South Jeolla, the air was thick with the mid-August heat and filled with the odor of dog feces and urine. It is one of the few dog farms still operating in Korea as the country counts down to a February 2027 ban on breeding, slaughtering and selling dogs for meat.

Dozens of dogs were kept in cages lined up like prison cells at the farm. Each cage was barely large enough for one dog to move around. And what space they did have was devoid of comfort, composed of ruddy metal bars, soiled wooden flooring and the occasional plastic crate. Some dogs stayed quiet as people approached, while others barked constantly, wary of human presence.  

On Thursday, a Korea JoongAng Daily reporter joined a team from Humane World for Animals Korea — a nonprofit animal protection organization that works to end animal cruelty and improve animal welfare — as they moved through the farm, checking on the dogs’ condition a day before they were scheduled to receive vaccinations. The vaccinations are the mandatory first step before the animals can clear Korea’s 30-day quarantine and, by mid-September, be flown to the United States for adoption.

That makes them lucky.

Friday was malbok, the last of this year's boknal — the traditional calendar's three days that marked the beginning, apex and end of the summer's peak heat season. Many diners used to mark those days with a hot bowl of bosintang (dog meat soup), and this was likely the last malbok before the practice becomes fully illegal.

Interviews with animal welfare workers, farmers and officials, along with a review of government data, show that the law meant to end dog meat has not settled the question it was written to answer: What happens to the dogs?

The lucky 3 percent

The dogs’ cages at the farm in Gangjin County were in poor condition, with rust covering much of the metal. Even the dogs’ water bowls were covered in rust. Some dogs stayed together in one tiny cage, leaving them barely any space to move around. 

Having spent months in such unsanitary surroundings, many of the dogs also appeared to suffer from skin conditions. 

One white dog had visible red sores on his legs. 

“You can see how his skin has become like this, right? All of this is from skin disease,” Lee Hae-won, a leader from the media and communications department from Humane World for Animals said. 

The white dog was among dozens living in poor conditions, waiting for a chance at adoption following the government’s move to end the dog meat trade. 

Many dogs from these kinds of farms are underweight — not simply because of neglect, but because buyers often reject animals with visible fat. 

"[Dogs] have to be sent out as lean as possible for the slaughterhouses to accept them," said Lee Sang-kyung, the group's campaign team lead, as buyers view fat as detrimental to meat quality.

Many rescued dogs also show signs of chronic stress, skin disease and, in some cases, injuries from fighting in overcrowded cages.

Once in the U.S., dogs are placed with partner shelters for adoption.

Lee said 90 to 95 percent of dogs find permanent homes overseas, while the rest stay in foster care rather than being euthanized.

Domestic adoption remains rare — fewer than a dozen cases total, mostly puppies too young to fly — which Lee attributed largely to Korean law that classifies large mixed-breed dogs as "dangerous," restricting their adoption, along with lingering stigma toward farm-raised dogs.

The law, and its ticking clock

Korea's Special Act on the Prohibition of Dog Meat took effect Aug. 7, 2024, seven months after the National Assembly passed it unanimously.

It carries a three-year grace period, meaning the full ban — covering the breeding, slaughtering, distribution and sale of dogs for human consumption — does not take hold until Feb. 7, 2027. Under the law, 5,625 businesses — farms, slaughterhouses, distributors and restaurants — registered as affected operations eligible for state support.

Historically, dog meat was among the most common summer dishes in Korea.

Dogs and chickens were the primary edible livestock during the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910) as cattle were reserved for plowing and pigs were less commonly raised in southern regions. The Zhouli, or Rites of Zhou — a foundational Confucian text governing royal protocol — listed dogs alongside cattle, pigs and sheep as official livestock for royal rites, making dog meat soup a natural boknal tradition aligned with the era's zeitgeist.

Yet, food cultures evolve.

As Korea modernized — particularly following the 1988 Seoul Olympics — the societal status of dogs shifted from livestock to family members. Today, nearly 5.9 million households keep a companion animal, representing more than a quarter of all households nationwide. Samgyetang (ginseng chicken soup) has displaced bosintang as the default summer tonic food.

Globally, Korea's legislative move is viewed as a landmark precedent.

"[The dog meat ban passing in 2024] was a big education moment for the Western world to realize that actually most people in Korea don’t eat dogs and don’t want the dog meat industry," said Wendy Higgins, media director at Humane World for Animals.

Higgins added that the outcome offers renewed hope for animal welfare campaigns elsewhere in Asia.

"Across Asia, in countries where the dog and cat meat trade persists, Korea’s ban has been met with a sense of renewed hope that policymakers in countries like Vietnam, China and Indonesia will take note and follow their example," she said. "Korea demonstrated that assumptions about culture, commerce and consumers must not be allowed to hold back progress and that where there is political and societal will, change is possible."

What the closure numbers hide

By the numbers, the phaseout is ahead of schedule.

The government introduced a sliding six-tier scale keyed to closure date, worth up to 600,000 won ($424) per dog for farms that close earliest and as little as 225,000 won for those that wait until the final tier, months before the February 2027 deadline.

As of May, 1,265 of the country's 1,537 registered dog farms — about 82 percent — had closed, leaving 272 still active.

The dog population has fallen even faster, from roughly 466,000 when farms were required to register in May 2024 to between 20,000 and 30,000 as of July 2026, a decline of more than 90 percent.

Those numbers hide a harder fact.

Of roughly 393,857 dogs counted on farms that have already shut down, an estimated 381,465 — about 97 percent — were "shipped out," an official euphemism covering sale for slaughter or distribution, not rescue. Only 623 were adopted, 9,358 were transferred to other farms and 498 were turned over to public shelters.

For most dogs on closing farms, the grace period has not brought protection — it has meant one last market transaction before the deadline.

The government says its hands are tied by property law.

"Under civil law, dogs are classified as private property," said Choi Kyeong-cheol, director of the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs' dog meat consumption phaseout task force.

"Unless a farm owner voluntarily surrenders ownership, the government cannot forcibly seize or purchase them," Choi said. "To receive closure subsidies, the law requires local officials to confirm zero remaining animals on-site and the complete dismantling of farming facilities." 

The farmers' catch-22

Farmers counter that the payout structure and zoning rules have trapped them.

Ju Yeong-bong, president of the Korean Association of Edible Dogs — who ran his own farm in Gyeonggi until closing about a year and a half ago — said the base incentive undersells what farmers are giving up.

"The government claims it is giving 600,000 won, but 225,000 won is the actual base closure incentive," Ju said. "A government-commissioned survey showed our annual net profit per dog was 300,800 won, even after deducting labor costs. Giving us a fraction of a single year's profit for a permanent, forced closure of our entire livelihood is completely insufficient."

Ju said farmers trying to switch to raising other livestock — such as goats, cattle or poultry — hit a bureaucratic wall.

"Because dog farms were built with raised wire cages, over 90 percent do not possess standard building permits," he said. "When farmers try to switch to other animals, local governments block them due to strict livestock restriction zones and building permit requirements. Many who closed their farms over a year ago remain completely unemployed because they cannot obtain permits to start a new agricultural business."

Bridging gaps

Humane World for Animals Korea, like other animal welfare groups, has spent a decade attempting to bridge that gap.

Since 2015, the organization said it has supported the closure of 18 dog farms and rescued roughly 2,800 dogs, through two tracks: "Models for Change," which works with farmers willing to surrender their dogs and exit the industry, and direct rescues from farms already abandoned or shut down illegally.

By the time communications head Lee first meets a farmer, persuasion is rarely the hard part as most are already looking for a way out, he said.

"We work for animals, but in the end, this is still people working with people," Lee said.

Trust is built over repeated visits before any agreement is signed — farmers who join pledge never to re-enter the dog meat trade and agree to have their exit documented.

The group says it does not leave a single dog behind at a rescue site. 

From panic selling to $1,000 per dog

The transition has scrambled the market.

In mid-2025, farmers rushing to qualify for early closure incentives triggered panic selling that crashed prices to 50,000 to 80,000 won a head. As breeding ground to a halt nationwide, supply collapsed.

"Prices have completely reversed," Ju said. "A single dog from a farm now trades for over 1 million to 1.3 million won because there are virtually no dogs left. Those who didn't rush to close early are actually making more money selling meat than they would have received from government subsidies."

That tracks with wholesale data.

Dog meat that traded at 20,000 to 30,000 won per kilogram ($6.41 to $9.62 per pound) as recently as December 2025 was selling above 80,000 won per kilogram by July 2026.

Restaurants and distributors are moving far more slowly than farms.

As of the end of May, only 899 of the 4,154 dog meat restaurants required to close or convert had done so — a 21.6 percent compliance rate, against 82 percent for farms.

Unlike farm operators, restaurants receive capped support of roughly 2.5 million won — enough, restaurant advocates say, to cover new signage but little else. 

Blind spots in enforcement

Advocates warn that oversight is thinnest in rural areas.

Lee cited the Gangjin farm as evidence. It was registered with local authorities as holding 20 dogs, but an initial assessment found nearly 80. 

"I got the feeling the [grace-period requirements] aren't really being enforced," Lee said, adding that smaller, unregistered farms often operate under the radar or shuffle animals between sites.

On July 14, two dozen animal welfare groups held a joint press conference in Gwanghwamun Square, arguing that the government's 82 percent closure figure obscures a tracking gap — that no one is systematically accounting for where dogs from closed farms actually end up.

The ministry maintains oversight is rigorous.

"Local authorities conduct monthly checks on dog count changes, quarterly full inspections, and a special summer inspection drive running from June through August," Choi said, warning that fraudulent subsidy claims face full revocation and legal prosecution.

Asked why public shelters or government bodies cannot absorb the remaining farm dogs, both industry and government point to cost.

"Maintaining a single farm dog costs at least 1 million won per year in food and labor," Ju said. "To shelter a dog for its natural lifespan of 10 years requires 10 million won per animal. Neither the government nor animal groups have the billions of won required to care for tens of thousands of dogs, which is why commercial disposal became the unwritten agreement."

Shift to black goat

As dog meat disappears, demand is shifting to black goat in Korea.

In Seongnam, Gyeonggi, Moran Market — once one of the country's largest dog meat markets — has rebranded its former dog-meat alley as the "Moran black goat specialty street." Nationwide, roughly 200 of 300 to 400 farms weighing a switch to other livestock are considering black goats, which require similar housing and lower startup costs than other options.

Lee said black goat farming, regulated under standard livestock law, lacks the specific welfare oversight applied to dogs. In response, the organization's boknal campaign is promoting plant-based meals as a compassionate alternative.

The last legal boknal arrived with fewer farms, far fewer dogs, but no settled answer for what would happen to the ones still left — except, in the end, for the dogs on one farm outside Seoul.

BY SEO JI-EUN, PAIK JI-HWAN [seo.jieun1@joongang.co.kr]