Sylvia's Diary 12-06-25

I promised I would tell you everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly. So here goes.

A few weeks ago, a little poodle-cross came into our care, deaf and with very poor eyesight. It’s almost certainly the result of her being what’s called a “double merle.” That’s when both her parents had the merle gene, which gives dogs that unique dappled coat, but it comes with a terrible cost, deafness, blindness, or both. A breeder somewhere ignored that risk, and now here she was: a beautiful, vulnerable young girl… and heavily pregnant.

We had no history on her. The man who gave her up said he’d got her from someone else, and the story trailed off from there, as they so often do. We didn’t know who the father of the puppies was or what kind of health they might have. I agonised over what to do. Was it right to let her go through with the pregnancy? Would they be born to suffer? But I couldn’t bring myself to take away their chance at life. They were growing. Moving. Real. And to get rid of them would have felt like murder.

Today, she went in for a C-section. The puppies had grown too large and labour hadn’t started. Their heartbeats were slowing. Our vet made the call to get them out now, or we might lose them. So our team rushed in, and seven beautiful, healthy puppies were born.

We carried her and pups to her whelping box and sat with her, as waking up with 7 children suddenly would be a shock for any one. She woke slowly to the pups trying to get milk, but no milk came. She seemed to accept them, but as time went on it was clear she did not want them. Two very sadly died and we took the remaining 5 away. 

She was not at all worried about us separating them, so Chelsea kindly picked them up and they are being hand raised. 

It was not the way we hoped it would go, but we are trying to give them the best chance 

And if I’m honest, I’m already on my knees. Between the heartbreak of little Trigger last week, the worry over our Newbury Show this weekend (packing vans until midnight most nights), and now Promise, my beautiful boy, who was castrated today and is off to a foster home. It’s the right thing. A lucky, loving offer. But I will miss him so much. He’s one of those who leaves a mark. Quietly, deeply.

Put it all together, and this week so far has just about broken my heart.

But still, I get up tomorrow and I keep going. We all do. Because no matter how hard it gets, the dogs need us. And somehow, that’s enough.

I got up obscenely early Thursday morning. Not just “oh look, it’s dawn” early, but full-blown “even the birds are still in bed” early. Why? Because I was determined. Focused. A woman on a mission. I’d been a bit wobbly emotionally the past few days, so I threw myself into work.

After checking 47 things off my to-do list before 7 am, feeding inmates and rushing through the usual chores, kissing my own dogs goodbye accept “Frankly I don’t give a dam” known to most as Frankly and I leapt into Bill’s truck, which, by the way, had the Horse Box hitched to it. This thing was packed to the rafters with gear for the dog show: gazebos, tents, and so much more. All the stuff except the actual goods to sell, but I had to get there first, because if I didn’t, and everyone else turned up with all the stock but nowhere to store it, we’d be selling out of thin air. Not ideal, especially as it was due to pour.

Now, I may overthink things. Just a smidge. But this show has been a year in the making. I’ve hoarded more goods than a pirate.  I’ve written enough letters to make Royal Mail consider me a threat to the postal system. I wash, store, label, box, stack goods every day for these shows that help so many.

Anyway, off I drove to Newbury, at a pace so cautious I was overtaken by a tortoise. It took me nearly three hours to get there, during which time the sky morphed from “mildly moody” to “I’m thinking about crying.” Classic British weather.

Once I arrived, backup in the form of staff and fellow supporters rolled in. Together, about ten or twelve of us summoned our inner tent-building warriors and wrestled with canvas, poles, and wind for five hours straight. Somewhere in there, I lost the feeling in my toes and possibly my sense of humour. But we did it!

Before we even had a chance to unpack the boxes, eager showgoers were diving in like it was Black Friday at a pet shop. I had to politely say, “Yes, I’d love to sell you a collar, but could you please wait until it’s not still attached to my hands holding the box?”

Next morning, up at 6am (again, not sure why I even bother going to bed at this point). I prayed to every deity I could think of for dry weather. I even threw in a “please” to the universe, just in case it was feeling generous. And it held off! Only the odd shower, which mainly resulted in us selling doggy raincoats like hotcakes. Every time it drizzled, a crowd would appear desperate for stylish canine outerwear like we were the Louis Vuitton of Labrador leisurewear.

Thousands of dogs everywhere - fit, fast, focused. At 5:30 in the morning, people were already jogging with their dogs. Some had six dogs hanging off them like living windchimes. These dogs were athletes. Agility gods. Even the poodles, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Paris salon, were leaping and bounding like canine ninjas.

We met many dogs who started life at Many Tears, some now champions, all with proud owners grinning like they’d just won Wimbledon. It was heartwarming, in a slightly exhausting, “how are these people still standing?” kind of way.

We sold our socks off Friday afternoon, all of Saturday, and right up until we packed up on Sunday. And today, drumroll please, Bill counted the money while I de-mystified the van, and we raised a whopping £14,250.21. All from tombola’s, second-hand leads, and the power of my not-so-secret superpower: politely pestering companies until they give me free stuff for the animals.

Back at the rescue today, it’s business as usual staff buzzing about, animals being cared for, me trying to juggle hiring new people and thanking everyone who helped. Because, truly, it made all the difference. But there’s no time to nap on a stack of donated duvets, we’re off to Ardingly next month. Yes, I’m doing this all again. Yes, my spine may never forgive me.

The funds raised help pay for things that only specialist vets can handle. Hearts, hips, knees, wobbly legs, and all the precious broken bits that make our animals whole again. I’ve had a hundred emails about new intakes today (and I only cried once - progress!), and I’m trying to shuffle things around so we can squeeze in just a few more.

Kindly, the staff have organised a night feed relay for the hand-reared puppies, so I don’t have to do the 3am zombie shuffle. Thank heavens, because once I’m up, my brain starts solving problems like a malfunctioning calculator on a rollercoaster, and I never get back to sleep. 

Honestly, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t worry about something.

Anyway, that was my whirlwind weekend. Now it’s Monday, and the show must go on. Literally. Again. Next month. Send bottles for tombola please.

And anyone or everyone who would like to be a part of doing the above all over again, Please let me know as I truly could not do this without help, though the staff who came were all magnificent.

The final show we hold a stall at is at the South of England showground at Ardingly. It again is an agility show. We drive down and put up the tents on July 3rd. We aim to put the tents up and stalls from 12 onwards.  We do sell that day once the goods are out, but the show is really open Friday 4th-6th July. All help really needed. Spare tents or gazebos really help too. Please contact me swvanatta@gmail.com if you can help.

Narlie arrived with us this week.

His name is Narlie. He’s an 8-year-old Lurcher, adopted as a puppy, wanted, loved, and part of a family for almost his whole life. But then, like so many others, his world fell apart. A relationship breakdown meant everything changed. Narlie didn’t understand why. He just knew his home felt different… broken.

He became anxious, unsettled, grieving the loss of the only life he’d ever known. The lady who had him said she couldn’t cope with his distress. He missed the children, the comfort, the routine, and most of all, the feeling of being part of a pack.

Now, he’s here. In kennels. And Narlie is devastated.

He lies in his bed with eyes that search every face, hoping one might be his person coming back for him. When you pass his kennel, he leans forward, willing you to stop, to speak to him, touch him, see him. He is desperate for human connection. For someone to tell him this isn’t the end of his story.

But right now, to Narlie, it feels like he’s lost everything.

And he’s just one of many.

Trigger’s Tail (and Tail-Wagging Progress!)

Last week, I told you about a rather dashing little dachshund called Trigger, the kind of dog who looks like he should be reclining on a velvet cushion, sipping gravy from a crystal goblet. Well, poor Trigger had slipped not one but two discs in his back. Without help, he would’ve faced the unthinkable. But thanks to the miracle of veterinary specialists, and the kindness of so many, we got him the big, very expensive, very must-be-worth-it operation he so desperately needed.

He’s now being looked after by a dedicated fosterer and is under the strict guidance of a dog physiotherapist.

Trigger, bless his brave heart, has been nothing short of incredible. He used to be a stud dog, yes, our little Casanova spent years in service, fathering litters galore and never having a home of his own. That is, until he met us and finally swapped fame and fortune (and a very busy dating life) for TLC and proper belly rubs.

Despite everything, he still has his waggy tail and signature dachshund grin, like someone who knows the best joke but won’t tell it. He’s working hard every day to regain strength, and we’re all crossing paws that one day soon, he’ll walk into the arms of a family who truly loves him, for the first time in his life.

I want to say a huge thank you to Juniper, our fabulous physio, and to Trigger’s incredible fosterer, Anastasia, who's poured time, love, and possibly their entire backs into helping this little man recover. I’ve attached some videos of him doing his exercises so you can see just how determined he is and how absolutely adorable he looks doing his doggy squats.

Trigger is one of the reasons we do this. He reminds us that behind every rescue is a story that deserves a happy ending.

The Post Dog-Show Slump

I’ve been home for two whole days since the dog show, which now feels like a sparkly, noisy, gloriously generous dream. People were literally walking up just to give us money. Not even buying a tombola ticket, just donating, because they believe in what we’re doing. I thanked them a million times, and honestly, I meant every one of those thank-yous… though I think by the 748th time I’d developed a sort of polite auto-thank reflex.

Then Monday came.

I woke up with the swirling mess of a hundred van loads of tangled leads, soggy bedding, and the subtle smell of dog pee hanging in the air. Everything was a mess, the vans, my inbox, my brain. Especially my brain. Emails had flooded in asking if dogs could come in. I could practically hear the subject lines shouting “URGENT” like a fire alarm. 

So, Sunday night I lay in bed, trying to mentally sort everything. And on Monday, I did what I always do when overwhelmed: I started. I went outside and got my hands dirty. I checked what space we had for incoming dogs, because if there’s no space, we can’t say yes, and if we can’t say yes, well… some of these dogs just won’t make it. That reality sits like a rock in my chest.

So I cleaned, tidied, and emptied the vans. I moved, physically and mentally. It helped. A bit. Joyce turned up and quietly grafted with me.

That night, I sat with Promise, who is rapidly becoming my dog, though someone is coming to see him soon to potentially adopt him. He’s got a foster home lined up if not, but that doesn’t stop him from curling into me like he’s already claimed the title of “Best Dog in the World (Mum’s Edition).” And honestly? I’ve claimed him too. I’m going to miss him more than I can say. Just thinking about it makes my eyes prick.

This week has been lonely. I should be floating from the success of the dog show and all that money raised, instead, I’m sort of crash-landing into reality. It’s all food rotations, wet bedding, staff illnesses, rota gaps, and trying to find decent people who don’t think working with animals means cuddling puppies and going home early. It’s tough. I just want a break. But I can’t bring myself to leave. There’s always more to do, more dogs that need us.

Tuesday was Monday with a clipboard. I wrote long lists and handed them out like a very tired Santa Claus with zero elves. Delegation isn’t my strong point, but I’m learning slowly.

In the evening, I took Sage, the horse (not a herb), for a walk. He is solid and calming and didn’t ask me for anything other than grass and a scratch. Then Promise and I sat on a bench, and after he did approximately 87 laps around me like a canine Formula One car, he collapsed next to my leg with a ball in his mouth like a toddler refusing to nap. I tried to take a selfie. He left. Dignity intact. Mine, not so much.

Tomorrow our little border terrier is going to have a cruciate op. She’s been holding her leg up for nine months, nine months! Nothing was done until she came here, and now we’re doing something about it. She’s a total sweetheart. Cross your fingers. I’ve crossed everything.

More dogs are coming. One’s a Collie, only 7 years old, whose owner died. No one in the family wants him, and without us, he’d be put down.

Another is a bulldog who lives outside because she malts! That apparently makes her unfit to live with. The stories just keep coming.

But I remind myself: I’m not them, those people having to, or willing to bring the dogs to us. I remember the comments like will you take this dog as its to expense for the vets to put to sleep and get rid of its body. They’re not me. I don’t know their lives. So, I mustn’t judge. I’m here for the dogs. I must stay strong.

Even when I feel like it’s a never ending story for the dogs of doom.. 

Some days I get up knowing I will do jobs on my own all day, avoid all the humans I can so I have space to cry, and today Wednesday is one of these days.

Last week we took in two Cocker Spaniel puppies, and two Springer puppies all of around 16 weeks and an adult Springer Spaniel.  None had clearly ever been handled or shown kindness, no stimulation, no affection, likely only a boot. The fear in their eyes tells the story. It has meant long, difficult hours for the staff.

To someone visiting the centre, it might seem like they’ve barely changed. But to us, the smallest shifts are monumental. They’ve started to come out to look at us. They’ve stopped playing only in the dead of night when no one is around. They’ve begun to carry things, to chew things, signs that they’re starting to be dogs.

But don’t be fooled into thinking they’re “fixed” now that they’ve jumped the first tiny hurdle. Without consistent, patient, daily work, they’ll slip back into that frozen place. Every single day we must corner them gently to get a harness on, not to frighten them, but to begin lead training, to help them realise that humans can offer more than fear. We want them to experience something beyond a cage: a walk, a sniff through the grass, a roll in the mud, a glimpse of what a life should be. That’s the moment we know we’re moving forward. But right now, it feels like pigeon steps. And my heart aches for what they’ve endured.

People often think dogs care where they live. I can tell you, they don’t. I’ve lived with my dogs through every situation imaginable: walked over 1,000 miles with them, shared tents, even lived in the back of a van with twelve dogs, not as a holiday but for months, when I had nowhere else to go, and we were happy. Because it’s not where they live; it’s how. They need food, water, and comfort, yes, but most of all, they need you to live with them. Not shut them away while you get on with life but truly be with them. That’s what they crave.

These five dogs we’ve just taken in, they’ve had none of that. I suspect the man who had them before was trying to breed. Maybe he couldn’t sell the last litter, these pups, or the one before, the adult. So he gave up. But I fear he’ll start again as soon as he hears there’s a market.

And nothing will be done.

Cruelty wears many faces. There’s the horror of dogs slaughtered for food. There’s the suffering of lab Beagles used in experiments that serve no real purpose, but extreme pain and suffering, but we humans won’t change, even when the truth is staring us in the face. And then there’s the silent cruelty: depriving animals whose minds are as emotionally complex as three-year-old children, and giving them nothing, no warmth, no stimulation, no love.

If we did that to a child, something would be done. But here we are.

I don’t mean to get on my soapbox but come here. Look at these five dogs. Look at what they’ve endured, and try not to feel as I do.

I’m no saint.

I know some of you who read these diary entries may find them heavy, maybe even too sad to keep reading. But I need to write them. They matter. These words help raise crucial funds, yes, but that’s never why I started writing them. I wanted people to see the reality of running a rescue.

Though we’re no longer small, we started that way and our values haven’t changed. We’re not corporate. We haven’t sold out. Our trustees feel the same heartbreak, the same burden, the same deep love that I do.

There are thousands, maybe millions, of small rescues around the world, each with someone like me at the heart of them, someone just trying to hold it all together. I know of people who’ve taken their own lives trying to keep their rescue going. I suspect there are many more I don’t know of.

I don’t know anyone my age who’s been in rescue as long as I have and hasn’t cracked completely at some point. That doesn’t make me a saint. It doesn’t make me stupid either.

I come from a family of people who care deeply. My mother, the kindest, sweetest person you could ever meet, never had her name in lights. But if she saw someone crying on the street, she’d be there, arm around them, cup of coffee in hand. She would invite complete strangers into our home, simply because they needed kindness. At her funeral, people we’d never even heard of came, people she had met at Victoria Station, at bus stops, in cafés, people she had helped in quiet, meaningful ways.

My sister spent her life working with physically and mentally handicapped children, the most patient, tolerant person I’ve ever known, besides Mum. My brother became a consultant surgeon. My aunt ran a church and took in waifs and strays, and my grandfather was the same. They cared for people. And me? I care for animals.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care about humans, it just means that animals come first in my life. That’s how I’m wired.

So when I write these diary entries, I write from the heart. I write because I want to show the real rescue, not just the polished, happy parts. I want you to see what it really takes. I’m sorry if some of it is hard to read. But alongside the sadness, there are happy endings. For every animal that comes through our gates, we fight for joy at the end of their journey, a new home, a soft bed, a second chance.

Please, if these words ever feel too heavy, visit our “happy endings” pages. See the smiles. See the transformations. Let them lift you. 

Two lives from hell to happiness

Next week, we will welcome two incredibly special souls to the rescue, Larry and Heim.

They are large dogs, gentle giants, and they’re arriving all the way from Korea, but their story begins in one of the darkest places imaginable. Larry and Heim were born and raised on a dog meat farm, created specifically to supply dogs for Boknal, a time of year when dog meat soup is still consumed in parts of Korea.

Smaller dogs are often stolen from the streets, but they don’t produce much meat. So large-scale farms were created, dogs deliberately bred to grow big, fast, and fat. Larry and Heim are survivors of this system.

These meat farms are still legal, though thankfully a ban has been promised. But that ban won’t take effect for another six years and for dogs like Larry and Heim, that’s a lifetime too long.

They’ve spent their lives in wire cages with slatted floors, where their waste would fall through. They had no beds, no toys, no kindness. Often no clean water. They were fed to grow, not to thrive. No walks. No games. No names. Just numbers in a system that saw them as food.

Some puppies didn’t survive, falling through the cage floors, getting trapped, dying in silence. Larry and Heim were the “lucky” ones, if survival in such conditions can be called luck.

But they have been saved.

Thanks to the tireless work of compassionate rescuers in Korea, Larry and Heim were pulled from a failing farm and placed in loving foster care. And now, with every mile of their journey to us, they are moving closer to something they’ve never had: a real life.

They are flying thousands of miles, from Korea, via Hong Kong, to safety. To grass underfoot. To fresh air. To hands that will touch them gently. To voices that speak with love.

They’re coming to a place where dogs are cherished.

We’ve worked with these wonderful rescuers before, (Ark rescue) and it’s a privilege to do so again. It’s hard not to cry thinking of what these two have been through and yet, it’s even harder not to feel hope.

Because next week, they start again. And this time, they are wanted.

We cannot wait to meet them.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. Thank you for standing with us. I write from my heart, and from my heart, I thank you.

Sylvia x