In a quiet valley near Mandi, Himachal Pradesh, lies a sprawling shelter that houses over 300 rescued animals — dogs, cows, bulls, donkeys, and cats. The shelter isn’t government-run or NGO-funded. It’s managed single-handedly by Dipala Chauhan, an independent animal rescuer who has dedicated more than three decades to saving injured, abandoned, and aging animals from across the state.
A 24-hour operation on uneven mountain land
Spread across a few acres of uneven orchard land, the shelter is home to 167 dogs, around 150 cattle, five donkeys, and eight cats, apart from rescued chickens and a turkey. Most of the animals have been injured, abandoned after accidents, or discarded after becoming unproductive.
“I started by picking up one injured dog from the roadside,” says Dipala. “Then another, and another. I didn’t plan a shelter. It just grew because the cruelty didn’t stop.”
The terrain makes logistics difficult. Supplies, food, and medicines must be carried up steep slopes daily. Winters are particularly harsh — temperatures drop below freezing, and roads are blocked by snow. “We store fodder in advance. If the trucks can’t come up, my staff and I carry the sacks ourselves,” she says.
Feeding, cleaning, and treatment, a daily system
The day begins at sunrise. Workers start by feeding the dogs their morning snack — a mix of rice and vegetables. By noon, the animals get their main meal: cooked rice, lentils, vegetables, and occasionally eggs or chicken. “We cook around 40 kilograms of rice and 15 kilograms of dal every day,” she explains. “For the cattle, we use dry fodder and grass. Each one eats about 25 to 30 kilos a day.”
Every kennel and cattle shed is cleaned and disinfected daily. The sick and injured are kept in separate areas. Dipala and her team maintain a first-aid station with antibiotics, drips, and bandages. Serious cases are referred to nearby veterinary hospitals. “We can’t afford delays,” she says. “We’ve trained ourselves to handle basic treatment — wounds, fractures, infections.”
Each dog has a separate fenced enclosure for exercise and safety. The aggressive ones or those used in fights are housed individually until they are rehabilitated. “One of them, a dog named Scooby, guards his 50-by-40-foot field like it’s his kingdom,” she says.
From rescue calls to rehabilitation
Most rescues come through phone calls or word of mouth. Villagers inform her about injured cattle, dogs hit by cars, or donkeys abandoned by owners. In some cases, she travels several kilometres to bring them back.
She recalls one incident from last winter: “A cow had fallen into an icy stream and had been lying there for two weeks. People walked past her every day. We used a JCB to lift her out and treated her for two weeks. She didn’t survive, but she died warm and fed.”
Her approach to rescue is long-term. Unlike many shelters that release animals after treatment, she keeps them for life. “A healed leg doesn’t mean they can survive outside,” she says. “They’re old, blind, or simply not wanted.”
Challenges: funding, manpower, and hostility
Running the shelter without institutional backing is financially draining. Dipala manages through personal funds and occasional donations. “Most of the money goes into fodder and rice,” she says. “A single day’s feed costs about ₹4,000.”
Her biggest struggle, however, is manpower. Only a handful of workers assist her, and turnover is high due to the physical strain. In the early years, she also faced hostility from locals who accused her of spreading disease or attracting animals to the village.
“Two of my houses were burnt down,” she says bluntly. “Once in a land dispute, and another time to scare me off. But I didn’t leave. If I go, these animals have nowhere.”
Recognition from the state
Her perseverance has slowly changed perceptions. Locals now bring injured animals to her instead of chasing them away. Over the years, her work has been recognised by the Chief Minister of Himachal Pradesh, the Deputy Commissioner, and the local police department, each acknowledging her contribution to animal welfare in the state.
She’s rescued over 4,000 animals so far — a number that continues to rise every month. “Some come walking, some come limping, some are carried in sacks,” she says. “All they want is food and safety. That’s what I can give.”
Teaching compassion through action
Dipala believes the next step for animal welfare in India lies in awareness, not just rescue. “Children should learn kindness in school,” she says. “If you teach compassion early, you won’t have to rescue so many later.”
Despite limited means, her shelter has become an informal learning site for local children who visit during weekends. She shows them how to feed, clean, and comfort the animals — hoping the habit of empathy will stay with them.
An independent model of care
Dipala’s work represents a growing model in rural India — small, independent, community-based shelters that operate without government or corporate funding but fill a critical gap in animal rescue.
Her operation may not have an official name, but in the surrounding villages, people know it simply as “Dipala ka Ashray” — Dipala’s refuge.
“People think I’ve given up my life for animals,” she says. “The truth is, this is my life. Everything else would have been meaningless.”
