Sylvia's Diary 19-06-25

The Case of the Vanishing Everything

There’s a magical place where socks go to die, pens vanish into oblivion, and shoelaces begin new lives as something altogether unrecognisable. It’s not Hogwarts. It’s not Narnia. It’s Many Tears, the Bermuda Triangle of basic belongings.

You cannot, I repeat cannot, put anything down here. EVER. One minute it’s in your hand, the next it’s been absorbed into the Great Collective Resource of Stuff. A scrunchie? That’s now tying up a horse’s mane like some sort of equine fashionista. Your toothbrush? It’s probably scrubbing out a kennel. You think I’m exaggerating, but last week I caught sight of what looked suspiciously like my sock being used to polish the dog van. Yes, polish. My sock!

Now, let’s talk about the Holy Grail of Many Tears: the wheelbarrow. We technically have four. One works. The other three are what I’d describe as “abstract interpretations of a wheelbarrow”, sort of Picasso meets post-apocalyptic scrapheap. The working one moves around like a phantom. Nobody sees it happen, it just appears in different places, always in high demand, always under suspicion. Earlier this week I spotted it mysteriously parked by the shop. The horse team swore they hadn’t taken it up there. So either the wheelbarrow has legs, or someone’s lying. Personally, I suspect witchcraft.

Now, I had a secret weapon: my special drawer. Inside, nestled among ancient receipts and some suspiciously furry mints, lived my treasure trove, scissors, bulldog clips, rubber bands, a vegan party ring stash (don’t judge me), and my prize possession: a fully functioning biro pen. Yes, the kind that writes more than a single letter before conking out. I hid them all… my own treasure trove!

So imagine my horror when I opened that sacred drawer and found… emptiness. Not one scissor. Not one clip. Not even a party ring crumb. Just betrayal, echoing off the bare walls of my once-glorious hoard. Honestly, the heartbreak.

I don’t even mind people borrowing them, I just want them to return! But that’s the stuff of fairy tales around here. I’d have more luck getting a feral cat to write me a thank-you card.

And then there’s duck tape. Oh, glorious, sticky saviour of all things. When I see a roll, I get a little giddy. I jump. I squeal. I imagine all the things I could fix: torn dog food bags, broken buckets, the last wheel on the wheelbarrow. Duck tape is the glue holding my life together, literally.

So if you happen to have:

• Scissors (that cut)
• Rubber bands (that stretch)
• Bulldog clips (with actual grip)
• A scrunchie (that hasn’t been on a horse)
• Duck tape (in any colour, I’m not fussy)
• Or a WHEELBARROW  or just a TYRE

Please send help. Or supplies. Or cake. Actually, just send the duck tape. The rest I can steal back eventually, if I ever see it again, but another amazing wheelbarrow would be incredible, any condition as long as it is usable! 

Mystery and the Seagull Puppies

A few weeks ago, we picked up a gang of dogs from a farmyard, the sort of place where dogs outnumber blades of grass and they all seem to be at some sort of 24/7 muddy music festival. There were big ones, small ones, hairy ones, bold ones, and one rather rotund little lady who looked suspiciously like she’d swallowed a beach ball.

Now, I didn’t know this dog. We’d only just met. But there was something about her, maybe it was the glint in her eye, or the way she waddled like she was smuggling melons under her jumper, that made me think: “Let’s scan this one.”

Lo and behold, the screen lit up with teeny tiny skeletons and fluttering heartbeats. A womb full of puppies! And not just potential puppies, these ones were practically RSVPing to life.

So, we popped her into her own little maternity suite  and began Operation Pup Watch. She was sweet, shy, clearly preferred by men (we try not to take it personally), and far too pregnant to fit into a harness. Teaching her to walk on a lead would have to wait, unless we wanted to try rolling her like a snowman.

Fast forward to last night. Amanda and I were pulling a late shift, she was on Newborn Puppy Watch, with the orphans, tube feeding, and I was on Fat Dog Countdown. Around midnight, our girl started nesting. Scraping. Digging. Rearranging newspaper like she was auditioning for Changing Rooms: Canine Edition. She panted, she fussed, she made it very clear that motherhood was imminent… or at least, inconvenient.

By 3 a.m., I was worried. By 5 a.m., I was in full panic mode. The dog had stopped doing anything puppy-related. No panting. No nesting. No dramatic gasps. Just silence. Like she’d changed her mind and decided motherhood wasn’t for her after all.

Convinced we’d lost the litter, I rushed her to the surgery and scanned her. Heartbeats still there. Phew. Cue a flurry of phone calls to every vet with a pulse. Good ol’ Frank, our knight in slightly crumpled scrubs, rolled out of bed and drove over, probably cursing my name but too nice to say so.

What followed was pure chaos. The dog went under anaesthetic, and suddenly Frank was playing Puppy Frisbee, gently lobbing newborns toward whichever staff member had two free hands and a clean towel. Puppies landed like little hot potatoes: (this was so the vet kept sterile to get the next puppy out).

Then catch that! Clamp that! Rub that one! Blow in this bit!

I tied off cords like a miniature cowboy in a lasso competition, then suctioned out nostrils, and someone else squealed, “It’s MOVING!” as if that wasn’t the whole point.

And the puppies? I swear, they came out complaining. Loud, wriggly, and furious at the delay. They didn’t sound like puppies. They sounded like seagulls at a chip van. But they were alive, gloriously, vigorously, heartwarmingly alive.

Six tiny miracles later, the staff were exhausted, the mum was stitched up and snoring, and Frank probably needed a lie-down and a gallon of tea. But there’s something magic in moments like this. New life. Wiggly tails. The hope that maybe, just maybe, this one will grow up safe and loved.

As for mum… she’s doing brilliantly, resting and feeding. 

And me? I’m off to stock up on towels, tiny bottles, and earplugs. Because nothing says “Many Tears” like 3 a.m. puppy squawks and a wheelbarrow full of love.

The Last Goodbye

I meet thousands of dogs every year. Thousands of sad eyes, thousands of broken bodies, thousands of souls betrayed by the people who should have loved them. Mostly, I help. I patch them up. I send them on. I let go. But once in a while, just once in a long, long while, one stays. One reaches in and roots themselves so deeply in your heart that letting go feels like tearing a part of yourself out.

For me, that one was Promise.

I don’t know if it was something about him, his spark, his joy, his strange, clumsy magic, or if it was just the moment in my life when he arrived. A moment when I needed something good to hold onto. Someone who didn’t ask anything of me but gave me everything anyway.

He came to me brain damaged and has left me with my heart damaged.

He didn’t come here special. He came almost dead, starving and broken, confused and discarded. Later as he recovered he was busy and full of unspent love. But he grew into something I didn’t expect: my anchor in the storm. My evening playmate. My silent confidant. The one who always knew where I was, always watched, always waited. Out of all the chaos, Promise found me, and I found something I didn’t know I still had to give.

And tomorrow, he’s going.

He’s going to a foster home. A wonderful foster home. One I picked with care. People who will love him, who will give him what he needs, who will see the special in him like I do. I know they’ll do right by him. But knowing doesn’t stop the pain.

Because this feels final. Not a temporary goodbye. Not “see you when you’re adopted.” This feels like the last time I will ever feel his weight against my legs. The last time he’ll nudge his nose into my hand when I sit still for too long. The last time his eyes will search the yard just to find me.

The last goodbye.

I don’t know if he’ll remember me. I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if the people who adopt him will ever send a photo. I don’t know if he’ll lie down in some sunny garden one day and feel something stir in his chest, something familiar, and distant, and full of love and remember me.

I just know that tomorrow, at 6 am, I’ll load him into a van with a smile that isn’t real and a voice that pretends not to shake. I’ll say, “Go on, my boy. Go live your life.” I’ll watch him go with my hands in my pockets because if I touch him, I won’t let go.

And then I’ll cry. I will. I’ll cry in the dark when no one can see. And I’ll still be expected to show up, feed the dogs, clean the pens, solve the problems, and build the future. I’ll still be expected to carry on like nothing happened, like my heart didn’t just leave in the back of a van.

My other dogs love me but not like Promise. Not like the way he needed me. I was his whole world. And tonight, for a little longer, he’s still mine.

So tonight, I’ll sit beside him. I’ll whisper every good memory I have into the thick fur around his neck. I’ll thank him for showing me joy again. And I’ll tell him the one thing I never said out loud before now, because I didn’t want to believe I’d have to say it.

Goodbye, my boy.

Be happy.

And please… remember me.

Disheartened by the demands of some public, I felt compelled to put my thoughts to paper. 

“What the Eyes Can’t See”
They come with pictures in their hands,
Drawn from dreams and filtered lands
“She must have curls, a silky coat,”
“A head so round, a snub-nosed snout.”
They list their wants in glossy terms,
As if love comes pre-designed in perms.

They want the Instagram ideal,
The dog that looks like something real
But polished, posed, a walking trend,
Not ragged soul who’s learned to mend.
Not the one with scared, slow steps,
Not the one who flinches yet.

Why do we chase the perfect face
And skip the heart, the strength, the grace?
The dog who sat through storms and fire,
Who waited quietly in the mire,
Who gave his trust with trembling jaw,
And loved again despite it all.

The shaggy mutt with crooked grin,
The grey-muzzled dame with sagging skin
They may not make the cut for screens,
But they’ve lived lives worth twenty dreams.
Their loyalty is not just luck,
It’s courage wrapped in battered trust.

So next time beauty draws your eye,
Ask yourself the reason why
Do you seek a showpiece for the park,
Or a soul who’s wandered through the dark?
The truth is love wears many forms,
Not just the ones that fit the norm.

And the dog who’s passed by every day,
Might just be the one who stays
Not because her fur is neat,
But because her heart still dares to beat.

We have a dog here called Gage. He's been with us far too long, especially for a dog with no issues, no behaviour problems, no medical complications. He’s just… big. A big, gentle, wonderful dog. But in the eyes of so many, that’s a problem.

Gage was originally meant to be a stud dog, but he didn’t grow to the exact height they wanted. Ironically, he’s still very large, just not to someone’s breed standard. And he’s not the fashionable colour. He’s not a sleek blue, or a perfectly marked harlequin, or fawn with the handsome black mask. He’s white, with big black patches. Not what people dream of when they say they want a Great Dane.

But he is a Great Dane. He’s everything that should matter. Kind. Loving. Loyal. He missed out on the start in life he deserved, and yet he still leans into people with hope. Still believes someone will see him, not just look at him.

And yet… How many have passed him by? Troops of people, walking through the kennels, casting glances and then moving on without a second thought, just because he doesn’t look how they imagined. It hurts. It really does. Because his worth isn’t in his colour, or his size, or whether he ticks someone’s superficial checklist.

His worth is in who he is. A soul who wants companionship, who longs for his own home, his own person, and the chance to live the life he’s waited so long for.

It’s time people saw dogs for who they are, not just what they look like. It’s time Gauge got noticed for all the right reasons. Please, let this gentle giant have the chance he deserves.

Now I have got into the poetry mode I just could not stop myself….. sorry.

Pick of the Litter (by Gauge the Dog)
I sit in my kennel, day after day,
Watching the humans come strolling my way.
Some walk with a swagger, some wear fancy boots,
One wore a coat made of questionable suits.

There’s the pushy young lad with a glint in his eye,
Told me I’d “guard his garage”, oh please, I’d rather die.
A rich lady came in, all diamonds and gloss,
She sniffed at my fur like I smelled of old moss.

One bloke strutted in, said, “I need me a beast!”
Then shouted at staff, what a charming old feast.
And next came a girl who just cried on her phone,
Spoke five words to me: “You’ll do, I’m alone.”

A gent with a monocle? Yes, that was new.
Tried feeding me truffles - I prefer my own poo.
Then a big family, loud as a band,
Kids poked my eyeballs with peanut-smeared hands.

One came with a checklist: “No drool, and no shedding.”
Well sorry, my dear, but I’m not a wedding.
Then someone walked past with no glance at all,
I barked just a bit, they said I was “vile.”

See, I’ve seen them all - the bold and the bland,
The lonely, the loud, the ones who demand.
And if it were me doing the choosing, you see,
I’d skip all the drama and focus on “me.”

Not the me that you see - the colour, the size,
But the me in my heart, and the truth in my eyes.
I wouldn’t choose clothes, or car keys or wealth,
I’d sniff out the kindness, the humour, the health.

I’d pick a soul that’s gentle, not just a looker,
Someone who scratches right under my hooker.
You see, us dogs - we don’t judge by the skin,
We judge by the way you are deep down within.

So as you all walk past my kennel each day,
With your noise and your fashion and things you must say -
Know this: If I picked, you might not get far…
’Cause I don’t choose by how you look - but by who you are.

And if only man could do the same…
Well, then we’d both win this adoption game.

I must apologize for indulging my self in spilling my emotions this week. But I walk by the same rows of brown eyes every night, and it is just so sad.

Without you all we could not keep hoping, helping, and eventually finding them a home. Thank you for believing in Many Tears, for your help, prayers and kindness.

 Sylvia x