Sylvia's Diary 05-06-25

Friday Reflections with a Side of Regret

Well, I won’t be winning any awards for diplomacy this week. Friday came and went, and with it, a parade of people through the rescue and I’m not proud of myself.

Let’s start with the star of the show: a Beagle cross terrier, named Giselle. Picture a cuddly sausage with legs, a grey muzzle, soulful brown eyes, and a heart the size of Wales. No glossy coat, no fancy party tricks, just love. Pure, uncomplicated, unconditional love. She was one of four dogs left behind when their owner died. They were dumped in hunting kennels and forgotten. I saw the photo of where they’d been living, and I jumped into action, like a knight in muddy wellies.

We took three of them in. This one last one was left behind because someone thought she was pregnant. Turns out, nope. Just chubby. (Haven’t we all been there?) So, eventually, she came to us. Her friends had already gone to new homes, but she fit in beautifully, greeting everyone like they were her long-lost cousins. Honestly, she’s the kind of dog who would knit you a jumper if she had thumbs.

And then Friday happened.

Someone came to see her, lovely lady, kind eyes, gentle but….. She didn’t kneel down to meet my gentle super star, didn’t connect. Though our dog wagged and hoped. The lady blinked and said, “She’s just not what I’m looking for.” And I, God help me. I let my mouth go galloping ahead without checking if the saddle was secure.

I said, “Well, you should’ve met her, because you’d be hard pressed to find a nicer dog.”

She was polite. I was… less so.

An hour later, round two: another visitor, another rejection. This one wanted a “more poodlie” looking dog. What does that even mean? One with an upper class look? A tragic backstory in five chapters? I asked if she wanted a glamour dog. She said no, not necessarily, just something “more clearly like a poodle. I still don’t know exactly what that meant, but I snapped again. I pointed out that she’d reserved the dog for a week, which meant nobody else could meet him and couldn’t she see he wasn’t 100% Poodle or pre-washed with lavender conditioner?

It was like someone walking into your house and saying, “Sorry, your child’s not pretty enough for me.” These dogs are my family. It’s not ridiculous, it’s just reality.

It took me right back to Arizona, years ago, when my husband thought he’d treat me by buying a horse. I met one, said, “That’s it, he’s mine,” and burst into tears at the thought of anyone else taking him, especially if it meant he might end up in a slaughter pen. My husband looked at me like I was entirely unhinged, which, to be fair, I probably was, and possibly still am.

Arizona was full of cowboys. Some were gentle and brilliant with animals. Others, less so. They’d spit (even without chewing tobacco), wear their hats to weddings and funerals, restaurants and say things that would make a docker blush. But if I mentioned a dog’s fear or a horse’s trauma, I’d be the one called too sensitive.

I learned then what I clearly forgot yesterday: Your opinion only matters if people can hear it. And if they can’t, well… maybe zip it.

So, no, Friday wasn’t my finest hour. I made people feel uncomfortable. I let my heart drive the bus and my brain forgot to call off the shotgun. Those people would make wonderful families, just not for my dog they thought they wanted. And that’s okay. Everyone has their idea of the “right” dog, and sadly, not everyone sees the beauty in an old girl with soft jowls and a heart that shines brighter than her coat.

We home check before the adopter sees the dog often, as they may live many miles away. So the meet and greet is the first time many meet their dog. All I ask: At least if it’s a small dog, get on your hands and knees and meet these dogs, or bend and gently talk to them before turning them away, if only to appease me.

Other dogs were adopted that day. Some wonderful things happened. Some sad ones, too. But I need to take a breath, step back, and remember just because I love them like my own doesn’t mean everyone else will. And next time I feel my mouth winding up for another passionate rant, I’ll try to give it a biscuit and tell it to sit.

“Operation disguised blubber Reduction”

Well, today I must make a public confession: I live with the canine equivalent of a teddy bear, one of the extremely rounded varieties that squidgy as you cuddle them. His name is Base, and he is a professional-level dumpster diver. Honestly, if there were an Olympics for scavenging, this dog would be bringing home the gold while wearing someone’s leftover sandwich as a medal.

No crumb is safe. No field unturned. No bin left behind. If there’s a rogue sausage in a hedge five counties over, Base will find it. He has the nose of a bloodhound and the appetite of a teenage boy left alone with a pizza buffet. And over the years, as his fur fluffed out and his belly gently expanded, I somehow didn’t notice that my once lean, mean sniffer-machine had transformed into… well, a coffee table with legs.

The wake-up call came when I was giving him a loving pat and thought, “Huh. That feels suspiciously like I’m drumming on an ottoman.” So off we waddled to the scales. And there it was. A number so shocking I nearly threw the scales in the skip with the rest of Base’s secret snack stash.

All my years of lecturing about healthy weights, joint issues, early doggie doom, poof! Out the window like a flying burger wrapper. I had a walking, woofing reminder of every guilty treat, every sneaky biscuit, every lovingly donated chip from well-meaning staff and visitors. And let’s be clear: Base has a fan club. He is adored. Especially by Holly, who basically arrives like a Treat Fairy with enchanted pockets of dreams and gravy bones. I’ve told the team, no more snacks, but I’ve seen the sneaky handoffs. lunchtime kibble deals. After-hours nibble trafficking.

So, we began Operation Fluff Reduction with some weight control food. I didn’t tell Base, he still thinks he’s eating the food of kings, not “sensible portions for previously rotund sausage dogs.”

And would you believe it, 8, nearly 9 weeks in, and my boy has dropped 7kg! That’s like losing a small terrier! He’s bouncing around, looking sleek-ish (underneath all the fluff), and seems genuinely proud of his new waistline. He even trots now. Not gallops, let’s not exaggerate but there’s definite trottage happening. It’s glorious.

I now weigh everything precisely. I stick to the guidelines. I am a converted feeder. I even squint suspiciously at staff who “just happened to be near the treat tin.” Fluff is not an excuse anymore, I’m on it. Because Base deserves every happy second of his life, and I’d never forgive myself if an extra sausage roll took him from us too soon.

So, Goodbye, coffee-table Base. Welcome, slimline, still-naughty, slightly-less-bin-obsessed Base 2.0.

And no, you cannot have my toast crust. Not even if you tilt your head like that.

Nice try, pal.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The Good

What could be better than being there, really present, when a mummy dog has her babies? Being able to help, to witness life begin… and to save one that might not have made it.

One of the pups couldn’t stand or walk as he grew. But with physiotherapy, gentle stretches, support to build strength around the knee, and a lot of duct tape and foam for makeshift bracing, I managed to correct his little legs so that, finally, he could walk.

Homing’s like his tears at my heart. He was a gorgeous little retriever pup, and saying goodbye felt like a part of me was being pulled away. But then the perfect family arrived. And I knew. I knew, as soon as I saw them, they were his. No doubts.

Today he’s a year old. For his birthday, they took him to North Wales where he ran free on the beach, tail wagging, heart full. He’s their son now. They adore him. He’s part of everything they do.

This is the good part of rescue. No, the amazing part. The part that makes my heart sing.

The Bad

We take dogs from all sorts of places. Some come from breeding farms. Some are handed in by the public. The five I’m writing about now came from a breeder, maybe small-time, maybe not. I don’t know. But what I do know is these dogs are terrified of people.

And I mean terrified.

I’ve taken in Romanian dogs that have been beaten, stabbed, shot at, that have watched their mothers die in front of them and even they didn’t show this kind of fear. But these five? Two cocker spaniel puppies and three springers? They panic at the sight of a person. The oldest, only eight or nine months, shakes from head to tail. They climb over each other, trying to hide, trying to vanish. One tries to bury his head, like if he can’t see us, maybe we’re not really there.

I’ve managed to reach the point where I can gently rest a finger on one of their paws. That’s it. That’s all I can do. And still they tremble and climb the walls.

It’s heartbreaking to see animals that have been bred for humans so utterly destroyed by humans. Domesticated dogs, meant to be our companions, treated like commodities, then discarded or damaged beyond belief. You can’t report someone unless you see physical abuse. But I don’t need to see it. These dogs are proof. Something very wrong has happened to them. And it is bad. Really bad.

The Ugly

And then there’s the ugly. The bulldogs. So many of them lately. Cherry eyes that bulge from their faces. Deformed noses. Twisted airways. Their little bodies struggle with every breath. They’re uncomfortable all the time, some barely able to function. And they suffer for the way they’ve been bred, for a look.

A few days ago, one of my girls was leaving Tesco in Swansea when she saw a homeless man who’d just been handed a bulldog. The poor thing was in a terrible state, and couldn't breathe. She sent me a video, asking what to do. I told her: get it to the vet immediately.

But it didn’t get there in time.

By the time it reached the vet, the dog was so far gone they had to put it to sleep. It had spent the entire afternoon struggling to breathe, suffocating slowly. Its throat was likely swollen, its airway failing.

That’s the ugly. The real, raw, unforgivable ugly.

We’ve created animals that suffer just by existing. And they do suffer. Every single day.

And it makes me so very sad.

Trigger

Trigger is a six-year-old dachshund who arrived with a group of others from a breeder. He was a quiet little soul from the start, walked a bit strangely, as if something deep inside him wasn’t quite right. We had him assessed, and the advice was strict rest for six weeks. We followed it to the letter. And for a while, it worked. He began to move freely again, tail wagging, his eyes brighter. We dared to hope.

He went into foster care, and it felt like the beginning of his new life. But just two weeks in, something shifted. At first, it was subtle, like a shadow creeping in. But last night, Trigger lost the use of his back legs entirely. Joyce drove to fetch him.

Now, this tiny, gentle boy lies trembling in pain. You only need to lift him slightly and he cries out, a sound that breaks you inside. His eyes, usually soft and longing for affection are now wide with confusion and fear. He can still feel when we gently pinch his toes, which means there’s hope, but the window to save him is agonisingly small. If there’s any chance to relieve his pain and give him a chance to walk again, we must act now.

It’s not just that he’s dragging his little legs, it’s the pain he’s in. If it were only about mobility, we could think about a wheelchair. But right now, he’s trapped in a body that won’t move and screams with every attempt. And this is the dog who so badly wants to be held, to be loved, to belong to someone. He can’t have any of those things like this. Not until something changes.

We’re getting him to a specialist in Bristol. We’re holding onto hope, fragile as it feels. But the reality is brutal, these operations are thousands of pounds, and even just understanding what needs to be done costs more than most of us have.

None of that matters when you look at Trigger. None of it feels relevant when you see him try to lift his head toward you as if to say, please, just help me. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, only that it hurts and that he’s alone in it.

This little dog is breaking me. Please keep him in your thoughts. I don’t know what else to say tonight except that I am scared for him, for what lies ahead and I wish with all my heart that I could do more.

Inmates

The dogs that have come in this week have been a mixture of those thrown away ending up in a pound and on the death row list, to breeding dogs, to those who just were an inconvenience. The weeks did nothing to help me gain faith in man, in fact just the opposite.

Some days feel like an emotional obstacle course, the last few days, Trigger the dachshund took us all on a wild ride. Quite literally.

It started with a slipped disc, or rather, two. Poor little sausage dog Trigger, yelping in pain, needed a specialist fast. And just like that, in swooped Joyce, our rescue’s very own action hero dropping everything to pick him up from his foster home and ferry him straight to the vet, who squeezed him in like a miracle. Then back again to be collected, referral sent, and off once more to Bristol. Honestly, if there were Olympic medals for logistics and compassion, Joyce would have golds piling up.

Now, I’ve grown far too attached to Trigger, as I do with too many of these furry little heartbreakers, so sitting around waiting for news felt like trying to breathe underwater. Eventually, the call came: imaging done (a mere £3,500’s worth!) and yes, two discs were badly herniated. Surgery was needed. “Of course,” I said. He was in agony. You can’t put a price on the life of a dog who’s looking at you with pain in his eyes and trust in his heart.

Then, two minutes, and I mean two minutes before surgery, the phone rings again. “We’ve just found something else,” they said. Stones in his stomach and colon. “Shall we address it too?”

“I need time to speak to my vet,” I pleaded

“There is no time,” they replied cheerily, which felt like being mugged mid-sprint. I ran to my vet, who also had no time to decide, and in the end we both just said yes, what else could we do?

So I waited. And I worried. Then waited some more. Finally, around 8pm, a kindly voice called. “He’s through the surgery. He’s doing well.” I nearly collapsed. But then, “Oh, about the stones… turns out it wasn’t stones. Just some food, possibly raw hide and it should break down and pass. Should pass naturally.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, we opened him up. And found that.”

So now our bill’s gone from a hefty £6,000 to… well, “let’s not talk about it” territory. But Trigger is alive, out of pain, and on the road to recovery. That’s what matters. Money comes and goes. Dogs’ lives shouldn’t.

We then scrambled to find a foster who could handle post-surgery physio. Enter Juniper, a gifted physiotherapist who said yes immediately, just before being catapulted off her horse and cracking her ribs. Because of course she did. So now we’re phoning around again, trying to find the right recovery home while Juniper supports from the sidelines, bravely broken but still determined.

I don’t know if I’ll see Trigger again. He’s off to foster in Devon now. But he’ll always be in my heart, this brave, ridiculous, noble little dachshund who wagged his tail through unbearable pain and stole all of our hearts in the process.

And just as I thought the day was over and I could get inside, a woman came through the doors in tears. Two scruffy dogs at her side. They were her dad’s. He’d passed away. She couldn’t keep them. No one would take them in. The older black dog, thirteen but still full of joy, had lumps and bumps, but the vet said to just let her live her life. The younger, a red scruffy sweetheart, stuck to her side like Velcro. They’ve lived together forever. Now, they’re homeless.

We took them in, of course.

They’ll likely be with us a while, especially the older girl, but maybe, just maybe, someone out there will take a chance on a bonded pair of scruffy joy-bringers. If not, we’ll find them homes, even if it means splitting them up, which breaks my heart.

It’s a sad world sometimes. Sadder still for those left behind, human and dog alike. But that’s why we’re here. To catch the ones falling through the cracks. And thanks to all of you, we can keep doing just that.

One last thing before I go, we have our very first member at the new scratch pad!

Goodnight.

And goodnight, Trigger. Keep healing, little one