In a country more often associated with its hardline crackdown on gangs and crime, El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele has pivoted to a new, unexpected cause: saving the nation’s countless stray dogs and cats. In early October 2025, Bukele took to X (formerly known as Twitter) to announce a sweeping new initiative aimed at tackling the issue of animal abandonment—a problem that’s long plagued the streets of San Salvador and cities across Latin America.
“Thousands of dogs and cats live on our streets. We want to change that, but without cruelty,” Bukele declared in his now-viral post. “We have the financial resources, but we seek expert partners to make it a model for Latin America. Who wants to come and help?” His message, both a call for collaboration and a challenge, signaled a dramatic shift from the iron-fisted tactics that have defined his presidency.
For over three years, Bukele has dominated headlines with a relentless campaign against El Salvador’s gangs, declaring a state of emergency and jailing more than 70,000 people. His governance style—marked by spectacle, slogans, and sweeping reforms—has transformed the country’s image from a gang haven to a fortress state. Now, however, Bukele appears to be channeling his penchant for grand solutions into a softer, though no less challenging, battlefield: animal welfare.
According to the Associated Press, scenes of stray animals are an everyday reality in El Salvador’s capital. Packs of dogs nap under market stalls, scavenge through trash, and weave through heavy traffic. Abandoned cats crowd alleys, left to fend for themselves. Despite the tireless efforts of volunteers and a patchwork of underfunded shelters, the scale of the problem has always eclipsed the resources available.
Bukele’s personal connection to the cause is not merely performative. While serving as mayor of San Salvador, he adopted a street dog named Cyan, and those familiar with him say his empathy for animals is genuine. Yet, in a nation where compassion can sometimes double as political theater, the challenge is converting high-profile promises into lasting, systemic change.
El Salvador does have some building blocks in place. In 2021, the Bukele-controlled Congress passed legislation criminalizing animal abuse, with prison sentences of up to four years. The following year, the government opened Chivo Pets—a state-run veterinary hospital that provides treatment for a symbolic fee of 25 cents, or its Bitcoin equivalent. Both moves were lauded by animal advocates, but many stress that laws and hospitals are only the beginning.
“We need to change this bad culture of abandoning and getting rid of animals because they are living beings,” said Rafaela Pérez, founder of Good Fortune Rescue in Zacamil, in an interview with the Associated Press. Pérez underscored the urgency of the problem, noting that the number of abandoned animals seen on social media is just the tip of the iceberg compared to the true scale on the ground.
What’s missing, animal advocates argue, are the unglamorous but essential elements: mass sterilization campaigns, widespread vaccination drives, and ongoing education programs that address the root causes of abandonment. These efforts require not just compassion, but also logistics, funding, and long-term commitment—qualities that can’t be captured in a single photo op.
Bukele insists that El Salvador “has the resources” to lead on animal welfare, but the country’s finances tell a more complicated story. As reported by the AP, El Salvador recently negotiated a $1.4 billion loan with the International Monetary Fund, and its national debt continues to grow. For some, the idea of launching ambitious animal welfare programs while relying on foreign credit raises tough questions about priorities and sustainability.
Patricia Madrid, who runs Fundación Gratitud in Salcoatitán with the help of six volunteers, has experienced these challenges firsthand. Her organization relies on funding from a single Salvadoran woman living in the United States, and despite their dedication, they struggle to keep up with the growing need. “We’d like to work together with the government to change that,” Madrid told the AP, echoing the hope that true progress will require collaboration, not just top-down directives.
This desire for partnership extends beyond El Salvador’s borders. Bukele’s call for help quickly caught the attention of Niall Harbison, a Thailand-based social media influencer known for his global mission to save stray dogs. Harbison responded enthusiastically, writing, “I would love to talk about how to help. I’ve always been looking for a country to partner with to show how collaboration between the private and public sectors can work—to make it so effective that other countries can copy and implement it.” Bukele’s reply was swift and simple: “Let’s do it.”
Yet, as some advocates warn, international attention can be a double-edged sword. While it can bring much-needed resources and visibility, it also risks overshadowing local expertise and priorities. “We don’t need fame—we need help,” Pérez emphasized to the AP, cautioning that the focus should remain on practical solutions rather than publicity stunts.
For Bukele’s animal welfare initiative to truly become a “model for Latin America,” it must meet several key tests. First, it cannot serve as a distraction from the administration’s controversial human rights record. While the crackdown on gangs has brought a sense of security, it has also drawn criticism for undermining due process and civil liberties. A credible animal welfare program should not be used to whitewash these concerns, but it can demonstrate whether a government built on control can also foster genuine care.
Second, the initiative must outlast the initial burst of publicity. Latin America is littered with the remnants of once-promising shelters and campaigns that faded after the cameras left. The Chivo Pets hospital is a promising start, but lasting impact will require sustained funding, recurring budget allocations, and transparent reporting on outcomes—such as the number of animals sterilized, vaccinated, and adopted.
Third, the government must empower, rather than overshadow, the grassroots organizations and volunteers who have long carried the burden of animal welfare. By providing funding, training, and logistical support—while allowing civil society to take the lead—El Salvador could build a truly inclusive model that transforms compassion into infrastructure.
Finally, success should be measured not in headlines, but in hard data and real lives improved. Quarterly reports detailing progress, community engagement, and tangible outcomes will be crucial to maintaining credibility and momentum.
As Bukele’s post—“Who wants to come and help?”—continues to reverberate, the country stands at a crossroads. Will this initiative become another showcase, or will it lay the groundwork for a more humane, sustainable future? For now, the answer remains unwritten, but the eyes of El Salvador—and perhaps all of Latin America—are watching.
If Bukele’s government can turn this vision into reality, El Salvador may yet prove that even the firmest hand can learn to open in kindness, setting a precedent for the region and offering hope to animals and people alike.
