Elizabeth Olson wants everyone to study her animal abuse spreadsheet
THE PINELLAS CRUSADER TRACKS CRIMINAL CASES ACROSS THE STATE HOPING TO SEND ABUSERS TO JAIL — “No one was keeping track of these cases,” she said.
From the benches in the Hillsborough County courtroom, you couldn’t see the video being shown to the jurors. But you could hear the evidence, amplified from a recording on a Ring camera:
“Rex! Come on! If I have to drag you in here, I’m going to beat the shit out of you!”
Then an animal whimpering, a fist striking, again and again, and desperate cries.
In the third row, behind the prosecutors, Elizabeth Olson pressed her hands over her ears and wept.
She had seen that video too many times.
Olson was there for the dog.
She didn’t know Rex, either, a speckled bird dog with almond eyes and long, floppy ears.
Rex, barely a year old, suffered broken bones, internal injuries and, a vet said, showed signs of strangulation.
His owner, then 21 and a Manatee County sheriff’s deputy, was charged with felony animal cruelty and misdemeanor animal abuse. He was facing five years in prison.
Olson posted the court date on her Animal Justice Task Force Facebook page, added the case to her spreadsheet, wrote the state attorney: “We’re watching!” and rallied four people to join her at the trial that Tuesday morning in January.
“I just want him to go to jail for at least a year,” she whispered to the woman next to her.
She didn’t have much hope. She had been to so many of these hearings where charges were dropped, or the defendant got probation.
How much time should someone serve for beating a dog? Or beheading one?
‘No one was keeping track’
She started the task force for Ember.
When Olson heard about that Siberian husky — what had happened to her and what happened later — she felt sick.
How could a man put on a husky costume, sexually assault his dog, post a video, get charged with aggravated animal cruelty, admit guilt — and get three years’ probation?
Even more disturbing, Olson said, the man posted on his Instagram years later a picture showing him walking another husky.
“No one was keeping track of these cases,” she said.
So she began devouring news stories, setting Google alerts, logging incidents of abuse across Florida.
In March 2025, she started a spreadsheet. Sorted into 24 counties, it includes the alleged abuser’s name, address, arrest date, charges and next court hearing. A description of the offense. Links to articles. The names of the judge and state attorney. The bond amount. If the case was settled. And, most importantly, the sentence.
“We have good laws on the books,” Olson said. “We just don’t use them.”
In one year, she has chronicled 53 incidents that haunt her — and fuel her crusade:
Chase, a Pasco County pit bull, slipped out of the yard. Witnesses said a man driving a pickup deliberately swerved to drive over him. Later, the man told police he wished the dog were still alive so he could run him over again. The state attorney’s office dropped the animal cruelty charge because the driver said Chase had killed a neighbor’s cat. The law permits a killing in defense of a domestic animal, even after-the-fact retaliation. Olson’s still trying to get the driver punished.
Trooper, in Hillsborough County, was found tied to a fence along Interstate 75 as waters rose during Hurricane Milton. The bull terrier’s owner was charged with aggravated animal cruelty — facing five years in prison. The case inspired “Trooper’s Law,” mandating tougher penalties for people who abandon pets in emergencies. The state attorney’s office dropped all criminal charges, saying it wasn’t clear that the dog was intentionally tied to the fence. Prosecutors said its collar appeared to have gotten stuck.
Dexter’s death, in Pinellas County, also inspired a recent law. Four days after the bulldog mix was adopted from a shelter, Dexter was found beheaded in Fort De Soto Park. Gov. Ron DeSantis signed a bill enhancing penalties for animal cruelty and establishing Florida’s abuser database. A jury found the man guilty of animal cruelty and unlawful disposal of a dead animal. A judge sentenced him to a year plus 60 days in jail, the maximum penalty. He filed an appeal and is out on bond.
Other cases in Olson’s spreadsheet include Sparta, hurled from a second-floor balcony; Ponce, beaten and stabbed to death; and pet peacocks killed and eaten by their owner.
“Too often, clear abuse goes unpunished or barely punished,” Olson wrote when she formed the task force. “We’re here to change that.”
It’s not just about fighting for animals, she said. It’s about protecting the public. According to a study by Northeastern University and the Massachusetts SPCA, people who abuse animals are five times more likely to also harm humans.
Olson would like to see mandatory minimum sentences for animal abuse. “Incarceration needs to be the norm, not the exception.”
In addition to charting cruelty cases, Olson and her volunteers circulate petitions, email politicians, track lawmakers’ votes, file public record requests, and fight to regulate puppy mills and backyard breeders.
And they come to bear witness, driving across the state to attend court hearings, sometimes two or three a month.
Their presence might not matter, Olson admits. “But it’s better than not showing up.”
Waiting for the verdict
By 1:15 p.m., the evidence had been laid out. The prosecutor stood to deliver closing arguments.
“You saw the video of him yelling at Rex, holding him upside down,” the assistant state attorney said. “You can hear Rex screaming, crying out in pain.”
This case wasn’t about animal abuse, the defense argued. It was about a breakup, revenge. The deputy, Daniel Kujawa, had told his girlfriend to move out, so she accused him of beating their dog.
“The dog kicked him in the groin. That’s when the loud screaming started,” the lawyer told the jury. “Everything you saw was a disciplinary action.”
“Broken bones aren’t discipline,” the prosecutor countered. “This is criminal conduct. He struck Rex with closed fists.”
From the edge of her bench, Olson clapped silently. “I don’t think it will take long,” she told the woman beside her. “Everything was so obvious.”
The woman, Mary Crouch, had driven from Largo. She had supported the task force since it started. She reminded Olson of how they met. “You helped me so many years ago. I’ll never forget,” said Crouch, tearing up. “I canceled all my appointments for today to be here with you.”
Crouch’s neighbor had died, leaving behind an ailing terrier named Teddy. The dog’s fur was matted, its long nails curled into claws and teeth rotten.
“I posted on Facebook, asking for help,” Crouch said. “You were the only one who responded.”
While the jury deliberated, the women shared photos of their dogs and animals they had fought for. The veterinarian who had examined Rex also was in the courtroom. She had known Olson for a decade.
“You do so much for the community,” Dr. Jasmine Simmons of Planned Pethood told Olson. “There’s a lot that can come from just putting a voice out there for animals who need it most.”
‘I can change things’
As a young girl, Olson had cried for King Kong. That poor ape, so hunted and misunderstood.
“I’m an animal empath,” Olson said. “I can look at an animal and feel what it’s feeling.”
Her mom told her that, as a toddler, she ran to every dog, cat, squirrel she saw, tried to lure them with licorice. “I was always bringing home strays,” she said. “Especially the broken ones.”
Her dad was in the Coast Guard; her family was always moving. By eighth grade, Olson had attended eight schools. Pets were her only constant companions. She finished high school in New Jersey, went to the University of Miami, became a flight attendant, traveled the world. Later, she worked in advertising sales and as a pharmaceutical rep.
She volunteered at the Humane Society, fostered kittens, walked dogs.
In 2015, she founded the nonprofit Rescue Pink. The group, with 9,000 followers, has saved hundreds of animals and helped sterilize thousands more.
Olson, never married. Doesn’t have a partner or kids. She lives off her retirement and refuses to draw a salary for her work. Donations and grants all go to the rescue.
One year, when funds were short, she chipped in $15,000 to help spay and neuter pets and also to save a homeless man’s dog.
Though she always knew animal abusers were out there, she wasn’t aware of the frequency and ferocity until she started running the Facebook page at Pinellas County Animal Services. She couldn’t believe so many people could be so cruel.
With the help of the League of Humane Voters, Olson got a law passed to prohibit people in Pinellas from tying up their dogs unattended. She pushed for an ordinance requiring inspections for people who breed dogs as a hobby.
“I realized I don’t have to accept the rules and the laws about animals the way they are,” she said. “I can change things.”
Kate MacFall, who directs Florida’s chapter of the Humane World for Animals (formerly the Humane Society), said Olson’s database is filling a chasm: “She’s tackling a task no one else has taken on, keeping track of these cases so we can work toward a solution.”
Hillsborough County State Attorney Suzy Lopez told the Tampa Bay Times that animal abuse cases are difficult to prosecute because the evidence is often circumstantial. Videos and photos are crucial. “The victims can’t speak for themselves.”
Lopez’s office prosecutes an average of three felony animal abuse cases every month. In the last two weeks, she has received more than 350 emails about a dog poisoning case, advocates demanding no plea agreements, maximum prison time.
“I’m glad the public is interested in what we’re doing,” she said. “We, as a society, have to stand up and protect our most vulnerable members.”
What’s justice? What’s next?
Olson couldn’t stay to hear the verdict. She had left her Palm Harbor home at dawn and hadn’t eaten all day. And she had to go home to let out her four rescue dogs.
Her friend later texted: The jury took two hours to find Rex’s owner guilty of aggravated animal cruelty, a felony. And guilty of misdemeanor cruelty to animals.
The defense wanted no jail time, just probation. The prosecutor asked for what Olson hoped for: a year in jail.
If the victim had been human, time would be added, depending on the severity of the injuries. But in Florida, animals are considered property.
The judge ordered the former deputy to spend 270 days behind bars, plus 36 months’ probation and 50 hours of community service, and to undergo a mental health evaluation. He would be listed in the state’s new database of people convicted of aggravated animal cruelty.
The database, started in January, lists more than 1,000 offenders. Instead of tracking current cases, like Olson’s, it includes those already convicted. Shelters and pet sellers can check the list before adopting out animals.
Rex’s owner getting jail time “is like winning the Super Bowl,” Olson texted her friend. She opened a bottle of champagne as her dogs crowded on her couch.
She tries not to dwell on the horrific details of these cases, though it takes a toll. “But it’s not about me. It’s about the animals.”
Soon, Olson would protest at the Pinellas County Courthouse, trying to get “Justice for Frosty,” a Shiba Inu puppy who died after his siblings were dumped in a Largo park. She’ll be there for Dexter, too, whenever his case gets retried.
And three new cases had been filed in the last few days:
A man who police say shot his neighbor’s dog in the head for barking.
An officer who allegedly poisoned and killed his girlfriend’s dog.
A woman whose pit bull fetched a lit firework and had its head blown off.
Later that night, Olson was on TV, praising the prosecutors. Minutes later, one of the jurors who saw her on the news found Rescue Pink’s number online and called to thank Olson and the volunteers.
Their presence, she said, made a difference.
Then she got a Facebook message with a photo of a speckled bird dog that looked healthy and happy, his head cocked to one side. His new family adored him.
Olson sobbed when she saw the picture and drank a toast to Rex.
Rex at his new home. [ Photo courtesy of Lauren Kay Fuc ]