ASAN, South Korea — Reverend Joo Yeong-bong has worn two hats for years: preacher and dog meat farmer. But now, one of those roles is rapidly becoming obsolete.

Since South Korea’s National Assembly passed a landmark ban on dog meat in January 2024, farmers like Mr Joo have found themselves in limbo — stuck between a vanishing market and a law that criminalises the trade by 2027.

“Not one buyer has come since last summer,” Mr Joo, 60, said from his farm in rural South Korea. “We’ve been trying to sell the dogs, but the traders are just staying away.”

The law grants a three-year grace period for dog meat operations to shut down. But midway through that window, many farmers are running out of time — and options. Roughly 500,000 dogs remain in captivity across the country, according to government estimates. Rehoming them is proving more complicated than lawmakers had anticipated.

A Crisis Without a Clear Exit

For Chan-woo, a 33-year-old farmer who asked not to be fully named due to fear of backlash, the clock is ticking. He has about 600 dogs left on his farm and 18 months to move them. If not, he could face prison.

“I’ve put everything I have into this farm,” he said. “Now they’re saying they can’t even take the dogs.”

By “they”, he means not only the butchers and traders who once bought from him, but also the authorities and animal welfare groups who helped push the ban through. With public opinion turning against the trade, many believed such a law was overdue. But few considered the scale of what would come next.

“There’s no real plan,” said Chan-woo. “It’s like they passed the law, then walked away.”

Dogs Too Big, Too Stigmatised, and Often Unadoptable

Lee Sangkyung, campaign manager for Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak), acknowledges the vacuum.

“Even though the law has passed, both the government and civic groups are still figuring out what to do with all the dogs,” he said. “There’s been very little public discussion about the animals that are now left behind.”

The Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs (Mafra) insists local governments will care for surrendered dogs through shelters. But these facilities are already overcrowded, and adoption rates are low.

Most meat farms raise larger breeds like the tosa-inu — a dog classified as dangerous in South Korea. That makes them difficult, if not impossible, to rehome. Many live in isolation and show behavioural issues. For urban dwellers, especially in high-rise apartments, they’re simply not a viable option.

“There’s a stigma,” Mr Lee explained. “People worry these dogs are aggressive or diseased. Even though they were raised for consumption, they carry a social label they can’t shake.”

Euthanasia: The Unspoken Ending

Rescue groups like Hwak have rehomed around 2,800 dogs since 2015 — a drop in the ocean compared to the numbers now facing displacement. Even they concede that not all the dogs can be saved.

“If these animals end up as ‘lost and abandoned’, they’ll be euthanised,” said Cho Hee-kyung, head of the Korean Animal Welfare Association, during a public forum in 2024. “It breaks our hearts, but it’s the reality.”

Mafra has sought to downplay that scenario, announcing 6 billion won (£3.2 million) in annual funding to support shelters and encouraging early shutdowns with compensation of up to 600,000 won (£324) per dog.

Still, many in the industry say they’ve heard more promises than solutions.

“All we’re asking is to extend the grace period,” said Chan-woo. “It’s not about fighting the ban. It’s about having time to manage the fallout.”

A Generation Left Behind

Some, like 74-year-old Yang Jong-tae, have found an unlikely way out. In 2023, he surrendered his dogs to Hwak. The animals were sent to new homes in the United States and Canada.

“When I saw how gently they treated the dogs, it moved me,” Mr Yang said. “We never thought of them that way. To us, dogs were just a means to survive.”

He’s proud of how his animals were treated. But he still disagrees with the ban.

“If we can’t eat dogs, why can we eat pigs or cows?” he asked. “It’s a cultural decision, not a moral one.”

That distinction is echoed by veterinary experts, who argue the difference is more practical than philosophical.

“Dog meat has never been regulated like other livestock,” said Dr Chun Myung-Sun, director of Veterinary Medical Education at Seoul National University. “It’s harder to ensure safety, and that’s one reason why public sentiment has shifted.”

Public Support Wanes, But the Human Cost Grows

A 2024 government poll showed only 8% of South Koreans had eaten dog meat in the past year — a sharp drop from 27% in 2015. Just 3.3% said they planned to eat it after the ban takes full effect.

More than 600 of the country’s 1,537 dog meat farms have already closed.

“This is no longer about tradition,” Dr Chun said. “It’s about how society changes. South Korea has decided to stop eating dog meat.”

Yet for the farmers, the transition is not so clean.

Mr Joo, who also heads the Korean Association of Edible Dogs, worries deeply for younger farmers like Chan-woo.

“They’re stuck. They can’t sell, can’t shut down, and can’t start over,” he said. “Their futures have just vanished.”

He fears that without more support — financial, logistical, or psychological — some farmers may not survive the fallout.

“People are barely hanging on,” he said. “By 2027, I fear something tragic will happen. Because for many of us, this isn’t just the end of a business. It’s the end of a way of life.”