When Lucas Hixson, an American radiation scientist, made his first trip to the site of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant disaster eight years ago, he thought he knew what he was getting himself into.
As a specialist in the fate and transport of radioactive contaminants, he had visited a hundred or so different contamination sites around the globe, driven by a lifelong determination to help protect the natural world. “Growing up, my grandfather used to tell us, ‘Land is the most valuable thing in the world because they’re not making it any more’,” he says over the phone, “so I’ve always understood that.”
In Ukraine, he was hoping to share some of his knowledge, and to learn from those who had worked at the power plant, and in the surrounding 2,600km exclusion zone, in the 35 years since the accident. Although it closed in 2000, some 7,000 people still work at the site – including former plant workers, their children and grandchildren – conducting research and assisting with its decommissioning.
Given that Chernobyl is one of the most badly contaminated environments in existence, Hixson knew that his trip would be informative, but he never could have envisioned the impact it would have upon his life.
He remembers his first visit to the power plant in vivid detail, largely because of a formative encounter that took place. “I took the train in from the workers’ city of Slavutych, where I now live, about 40 kilometres east of Chernobyl. As we grew close, I saw the power plant looming out of the morning fog, and felt the anticipation building. I walked off the train and, to my surprise, was surrounded by a group of dogs. The workers told me they lived at the station, and greeted them each morning.”
These pups weren’t the only ones. “The more that we travelled around the site, the more dogs we saw,” Hixson marvels. “They were everywhere, living in packs next to key locations like guard posts or the canteen. The workers were clearly committed to them – giving them names and food.”
Intrigued, Hixson began to dig a little deeper into the history of these hounds, whose story dates back to the 1986 disaster. Triggered by the explosion of one of the plant’s reactors, the accident resulted in the devastating, widespread emission of nuclear dust. Tens of thousands of people, from the nearby city of Pripyat and its surrounding villages, were forced to flee. They were told to bring one suitcase each, and to leave their pets at home.
There are heart-wrenching tales of soldiers kicking dogs off the evacuation buses, and the distraught canines running after the vehicles until they could no longer keep up. After that, as anyone who’s watched the acclaimed HBO miniseries Chernobyl will know, shooting squads were sent in to cull the animals for fear that they were carrying radioactive particles in their fur. Evidently, however, the soldiers failed to find them all: today’s dogs of Chernobyl are these abandoned pets’ descendants, a living reminder of the site’s haunting past.
For Hixson, the dogs would soon make up a major portion of his work in Chernobyl, under the umbrella of the Clean Futures Fund (CFF), a non-profit organisation that he founded with his colleague Erik Kambarian in 2016. “Early on in our visits, we noticed that some social issues related to the accident were not being addressed – like vital healthcare for the workers and their families, for sick and disabled children – and we began to assist,” he explains. “We founded CFF to formalise our assistance.”
CFF’s principal goal is to provide support to communities affected by industrial accidents, Hixson continues, “because often the federal or international assistance that is given doesn’t make its way down to those who need it most”.
The dogs contend with extreme weather conditions, as well as threat from wolves and other predators, so only the strongest and smartest survive.
This includes the dogs, not just for their own safety and protection, which Hixson, a devout animal lover, felt instantly invested in, but also for that of the workers and visitors to the zone. “It was known that rabies existed there, and because Ukraine gets its rabies vaccines for humans from Russia [with whom they are currently at war], they weren’t getting an adequate supply any more,” Hixson says.
In April 2017, the power plant approached CFF with a formal request to help them manage the dog population, and Kambarian and Hixson – men of seemingly boundless energy and enthusiasm – agreed. Before long, a new branch of CFF, titled Dogs of Chernobyl, was born. “By September, we had our first spay/neuter/vaccination clinic,” the scientist says with an audible smile. “That’s five months to raise the necessary funds, find volunteers, purchase equipment, and secure vaccines. I see myself a bit like Don Quixote. I go out fighting these battles of conviction but not really understanding how to, working it out as I go!”
Four years on, Dogs of Chernobyl has worked with countless veterinary experts from around the world – aided by Kambarian and Hixson’s proficiency in safely navigating contaminated environments – to instigate an ongoing sterilisation and vaccination programme at three designated clinics. It’s been so successful that they’ve now created a template for other organisations to follow. “There were around 1,200 dogs here when I first visited,” says Hixson, “and the average lifespan was one to two years. Now there are about 600. They’re healthier and living three to five years at this point.”
Since 2018, they’ve also facilitated the adoption of over 500 Chernobyl puppies in the US,
Germany and beyond. “It would be too stressful for the older dogs to enter a domestic environment,” Hixson explains.
It becomes increasingly evident throughout the course of our conversation that Hixson knows these dogs inside out – a fact that Mark Peckmezian, the photographer behind this photo series, confirms. “The dogs all love Lucas. When they see him coming, they all come running!”
Peckmezian’s poetic photographs depict the various dogs dotted throughout the site, from those that reside near the derelict Pripyat amusement park to the checkpoint pups that have been adopted by the exclusion-zone guards. “It’s super cute: these burly men in military attire who obviously really care about these dogs,” he says.
Touchingly, in a recent interview with the BBC, one guard went as far as to describe the dogs as his “assistants”, explaining that their different types of bark alert him to the presence of strangers, vehicles or wild animals.
Some of the zone’s most renowned dogs include Tarzan, a crowd-pleaser, who poses for photos and lives near the Duga radar installation; Barium, whom Hixson met at the station on that very first day and is still going strong, and Sausage, a chubby pup, who can be found napping on heating pipes during the cold Ukranian winters.
The scientist explains that the dogs can largely be sorted into three personality types: the friendly jumper-uppers, who love to be pet; the more cautious canines, who keep at arm’s length; and the most timid ones that watch Hixson from under cover, and only creep out to eat and drink once he’s left.
“They’re all equally photogenic,” says Peckmezian. “If they were shy, I just photographed them hiding,” he adds, referencing a shot of a black pointy ear poking from long grass. “Actually their big pointy ears were the trait they all shared,” the photographer notes. “I had a stereotypical preconception that they might be sickly or radioactive, but they’re really healthy and regularly tested for particles.”
Chernobyl is a place where natural selection prevails, Hixson says of this common misconception. “The dogs contend with extreme weather conditions, as well as the threat from wolves and other predators, so only the strongest and smartest survive.”
His own beloved companion, Dvaa (meaning “two” in Russian), is no exception. “She was one of the first puppies we spayed in 2017,” he says fondly. “In the days after her operation, she came back to the clinic to watch over the proceedings like a mascot. One morning, I came in and found a pile of poop in the corridor and realised she’d stayed overnight. After that, we’d play a game of hide and seek: I’d spend the last 30 minutes of every day trying to find the new spot she’d gone off to hide in for that night.” Bonded by these daily escapades, and beguiled by Dvaa’s good nature, Hixson decided to adopt her.
Hixson’s whole life has been changed by Chernobyl: he now lives in Slavutych full-time, working and fundraising tirelessly for CFF and Dogs of Chernobyl. “I never would’ve imagined myself managing a population of dogs halfway around the world, yet here we are!” he laughs.
So what are his hopes for the pups and their future? “We want to establish a large 30- to 50-hectare sanctuary for them in the zone, where they can live out their lives as stray dogs – free and wild – while being protected from the elements and predators, and receiving food and veterinary care.” This will cost around €220,000, he notes, but, once achieved, will make all the difference. “There will always be dogs in Chernobyl – they’re beloved, and important reminders of the past – but our long-term goal is to provide the best quality of life for them as we can.” And if anyone can do it, Hixson can.
