Sylvia's Diary 10-07-25

Ardingly, Thursday to… whenever I next sleep

Since Thursday, I’ve been living at the Ardingly Showground, running on equal parts adrenaline, dog hair, and instant drinks. We’re here raising funds at an agility show,  setting up our stalls, hauling boxes of donated goods, and doing our best to charm people into buying just one more tug toy or squeaky hedgehog. Why? Because this is the last show I’m doing this year, and quite frankly, the bills at the rescue are breeding faster than the unneutered dogs we keep getting called about.

At the show we raised a total £9,985.00.

Thank you to all who helped and my magnificent staff.

It’s surreal. The agility world is its own little planet, a tightly-knit, gloriously muddy, hyper-caffeinated planet. People chase rosettes like Olympic medals, touring the country with their dogs, their families, and their entire mobile homes. There are caravans, campervans, tents… you name it. And around each one, they construct these adorable little dog-friendly garden zones, complete with windbreaks, camping chairs, fairy lights, and a fence so Fluffy can sunbathe in peace without legging it after a pigeon.

It’s like Glastonbury for dogs, only cleaner, with fewer questionable food trucks and a lot more squeaky balls.

The dogs are absolute athletes. Fit, fast, freakishly clever, and (in most cases) better groomed than I’ve been in years. Honestly, you could eat your dinner off some of their coats. They prance around like supermodels, not the kind being judged in the ring for their looks, but for their brain power and agility. It’s like Crufts meets the Olympics meets a very well-behaved hen party.

And the people? Lovely. Genuinely kind. Everyone knows everyone. They help each other, cheer each other on, lend dog coats and leads and biscuits without a second thought. Some come by just to chat, some to cuddle Promise, who turned up in all his shining glory looking like a shampoo advert, and some, blessedly, to spend money.

The volunteers, loyal and kind, turned up enthusiastic, willing and so appreciated by us.

But it’s not just about the money. Not really. It’s about making connections, keeping our rescue in people’s minds, showing off the amazing dogs who’ve found homes through us, and occasionally stealing a few precious moments to just breathe.

Except, of course, I don’t really breathe. Because while all this is going on, while I’m smiling and chatting and trying to remember if we actually brought the card reader, the rescue is still running. The emails don’t stop. The emergencies don’t pause because I’m standing in a field trying to flog a dog coat in July.

Case in point: in the middle of the show, I got a call from a vet hundreds of miles away. A dog was about to be put to sleep, not because she was ill beyond help, but because her owners couldn’t (or wouldn’t) pay for a cruciate ligament repair. Thousands of pounds. Too much. So they chose to end her life.

The vets called us. Because they knew we’d try. And try we did. By the next morning, despite being knee-deep in agility poles and dog bandanas, I’d somehow arranged for a specialist to take her on. A kind volunteer drove her down, and yesterday she had the surgery. Life saved.

I haven’t even met her yet.

But as I was walking my own dog around the show ring this morning, dodging flyball maniacs and small humans wielding bacon sandwiches, I found myself thinking: this is why we do these stalls. This is why I haul all this stuff, stay up until midnight answering emails, and harass everyone I know to buy another blooming dog drying coat.

Because it all adds up. One jar of homemade jam. One old jumper sold on Vinted. One chew toy at the stall. One kind-hearted stranger with a petrol tank and an afternoon to spare.

All adds up to a life saved. It’s not glamorous. I don’t think I’ve worn clean socks since Thursday. My phone is full of half-written messages, my car smells like wet fleece and dog biscuits, and I’m genuinely not sure what day it is anymore.

But we saved a life. And if that’s not worth a few blisters and the mild threat of bankruptcy, I don’t know what is.

The drive home from Ardingly show grounds  was long and exhausting. By the time I arrived, my back was aching, my legs were cramping, and it was very late. My dog was thrilled to see me, as was Bill. After a quick update on what had been happening in my absence, we both went straight to bed, completely worn out.

We were up early on Monday morning to begin the daunting task of unloading four vehicles. They were full of unsold stock from  Books, crates of random items and display materials, along with the empty crates we’d brought back to store more for next year. Although the show itself had gone well, it wasn’t as profitable as the previous ones. The organisers had charged us for our stall space, which significantly ate into our profit margin. By lunchtime, I never wanted to see another bag of books again or a crate again. It was overwhelming.

I started thinking seriously about how to sell the remaining stock and recover some income, especially considering how expensive things have become while I was away.

I met the retriever that had had a serious medical procedure. She should have been operated on long before she came to us, and by the time we saw her, she was in pain and very withdrawn.To make matters worse, she had to be isolated. Breeding dogs are rarely alone, they’re either in groups or with their puppies , so isolation was incredibly stressful for her. She’s had her operation now, but recovery will take time. She’ll need to rebuild confidence and learn how to walk on four legs again.

In addition to her, we’ve been dealing with several complex medical cases: dogs being assessed for liver shunts, and blind dogs undergoing specialist investigations to determine whether surgery could restore their sight. Each case requires extensive diagnostics before surgery is even considered, and the costs are piling up. On top of these worries the staff are taking turns day and night to hand raise pups, 4 poodle crosses and one Frenchie.

Despite all of this, I had planned a moment of peace for myself. After walking my own dogs, finishing paperwork for Ireland, and wrapping up the day’s work, I wanted to take a quiet walk with beautiful Sage, one of our horses. A reward to myself for everything I’d managed over the weekend.

At around 2:30, I took my first group of dogs out for their walk. I separate them based on age and size, some are elderly, others young and energetic, and a few are just very large. Watching them run brings me joy, especially Archie, who is blind but still gallops confidently, following my voice and Bill’s.

Once that group was home, Bill collected the next dogs from the kitchen. There used to be three, but since losing Stan, a loss that still feels very raw, we’re down to two. Usually, Bill catches up to me a few fields in, but yesterday took a very different turn.

As I entered the first field, I released five dogs: a collie, two large Saint Bernard–poodle crosses, and two golden retriever–poodle crosses. Two of them began playing a high-speed chasing game and, running full pelt, collided with the back of my legs.

I was thrown into the air and landed hard on my back. My ankle twisted badly. When I looked down and tried to move it, I could see it was dislocated, flopping at an unnatural angle, the bones shifting crunching and crackling , and pain and numbness hand in hand. 

I lay there for some time, surrounded by my worried dogs. I managed to reach my radio and repeatedly called for help. Eventually, someone heard me. I kept my voice calm and said I thought my ankle was broken and needed help. Bill was alerted, and he drove across the field to collect me in the truck. Staff took my dogs home, and I was taken straight to hospital.

The pain was intense. At the hospital, they moved quickly, X-rays, CT scans, and multiple attempts to manipulate the joint back into place. I was plastered, then X-rayed again, and this process was repeated three times. By 11 p.m., I had been moved on a trolley through corridors at least five or six times, bumping into people and equipment every time because of overcrowding.

Eventually, they told me I needed to stay in, but there were no beds available. They let me go home with pain relief and anticoagulant injections, warning me that I must have surgery within two days, after that, the swelling would be too great, and they wouldn’t be able to close the wound properly. Unfortunately, the theatre slots are being prioritised for life-saving operations, so I’m currently waiting.

Despite the pain, I’m trying to stay focused. I’m flat on my back, managing Irish transport paperwork and keeping things going remotely. Being a CEO from bed is no small feat, but I believe in my team, and I’m relying on painkillers, communication, and resilience.

They’re now counting the money we made from the show. Oddly, I thought luck was with me while I was there. One evening, while walking Frankly, I found a Bible in a field. Moments later, I found a five-leaf clover. I thought it was a sign of great luck, but now I’m not so sure.

Apparently, while I was under the influence of pain relief during one of the foot manipulations, I started rambling about my time at the Humane Society of Richmond County, blaming myself for dogs I had killed, telling the staff and apparently the whole hospital that I deserved the pain for what I had done. That guilt clearly lives deep inside me.

But I want something good to come from all this. I had an idea: maybe people would like to celebrate by emailing me a few words to put on my plaster with messages about their own wonderful dogs. Something uplifting. If anyone would like to contribute, they can send a message to swvanatta@gmail.com and, in return for a small donation, I’ll have it written on my cast, messages of hope and celebration.

Hopefully, this painful episode can still lead to something positive for the dogs.

The Great Bedridden Bureaucratic Breakdown

Today, dear diary, I did something utterly unthinkable. I, brace yourself, stayed in bed! All. Day. Long. I know, I know. It’s the kind of scandal that should be whispered behind fans at high society tea parties. “Did you hear? She stayed in bed. No mucking out. No rescuing. No chasing a semi-feral cat across the roof in her slippers. Just lying there. Like a Victorian lady with a fainting couch and a bottle of laudanum. Shameful.”

But instead of embroidery and swooning, I’ve been drowning in paperwork for the Irish trip, which I’m pretty sure is a new form of torture. I’m surrounded by paper like a squirrel buried itself alive in bureaucracy. My borrowed pen has vanished approximately 400 times (likely stolen by the paperwork gremlins), and the page I was working on has developed Houdini-level escapology skills. As for my train of thought? It derailed, exploded, and now lives in a ditch somewhere in East Anglia.

And let’s talk about the pain. Sweet mother of meowing kittens, the pain. If it were a TV show, it would be EastEnders, loud, endless, and inexplicably depressing. I can’t even have my dogs up here to comfort me unless Bill is acting as security detail in case they do a flying leap and land on my leg, turning me from “bedridden” to “flatlined.”

Now, in a dazzling display of NHS brilliance, I was told if there had been space, they could’ve operated in the next two days. But there wasn’t space. So now I have to wait until my ankle does not resemble a marinated aubergine before they’ll touch it. Why? Because after two days the swelling is too big, and apparently performing surgery on a balloon animal is frowned upon.

But never fear, Bill the Builder is here! Inspired by either pity or YouTube, he’s installed ropes, pulleys, and what can only be described as a canine bungee-jumping harness, which I’m now dangling in like a sad ham. My leg is suspended midair like it’s waiting to be auctioned off. My toes are slowly changing colour, we’ve gone from blue to “mildly disturbing sausage pinkie lilac, and I feel about as attractive as a damp flannel from last Tuesday.

And just when you think surely it can get better, tomorrow I must tackle the most soul-crushing task of all: sorting dog pick-ups and cage assignments. It will take all day. Possibly all week. Possibly into the next dimension. And with the painkillers on board, I suspect I’ll be assigning Labrador puppies to the Queen of Denmark and listing “Kennel 3” as a postcode.

No cuddles, no cat rescues, no joy. Just me, some morphine, paperwork, and a leg dangling from the ceiling like it’s trying to make a break for it.

Honestly, if I had the energy, I’d turn this whole plaster cast into a work of art, motivational quotes, pictures of dogs, maybe a QR code to my JustGiving page. But then I think… Who'd want to write on a woman who smells faintly of antiseptic, despair, and day-old toast?

Yours, dangling like a bat with paperwork,

The Misery Queen (a.k.a. Me)

Today blurred past me, torn between paperwork and deep, aching waves of self-pity and pain. I kept telling myself to get a grip, to focus , but it’s hard to stay grounded when sorrow wraps itself around everything.

In between shuffling forms and sorting through admin, the phone calls came. They always do. But today’s stories pierced me in places I try not to visit too often.

A Collie, just two years old, might die, not because he’s ill, not because he’s old or badly tempered, but because his person is dying. There are only days left, and when she goes, so might he.  Desperate phone call for desperate case. Unless… unless we can find a miracle in the form of a space . How can something so young be on the edge of everything?

Then there’s the Cavalier, six years old, with eyes probably full of quiet confusion. His person can’t walk anymore, can’t even make it to the bus stop that stands like a silent witness outside their door. No one else to help. No one else cares. And again, if no one steps up, his life will be quietly extinguished too.

There’s a chow involved. I won’t say much. But it’s the same cruel thread of endings. They’re all tethered together.  All might be lost unless we act. Unless someone cares enough. Unless the right person is reading this at the right time. That’s the reality. It’s not dramatic. It’s just unbearably real.

And here I sit, planning vet schedules, juggling kennel spaces I might not see. I may not even meet these dogs. I might still be stuck here, leg in the air, watching life carry on below me like a stream I can’t step into.

I joked, perhaps madly about all the new dogs coming up the stairs to meet me for a change. Maybe we could sit together, and I could dream up homes for them from my prison of pillows and painkillers. But right now? All I can do is hope. Hope for space. Hope for kindness. Hope the public will open their homes, open their hearts.

Today I forgot to keep an eye on myself. I forgot to be strong. And maybe that’s okay, because today strength felt very far away.

Wednesday 

Today one of our staff bought Leo in. His owner, old and alone, could no longer care for him. Leo has been loved and cherished all his life, but now is on his own without all the love he knew and his home. Both parties, him and his old  owner will be feeling lost. It’s a very sad day for them both. Leo will get love and help here, as for his old owner we can only pray some kind person will help him too.

I feel like I’m in a prison cell, with the added bonus of crutches and zero upper body strength. Honestly, I’m about as useful on these things as a jellyfish in a tap dance contest. I’m trying to learn, really I am, but every time I attempt a graceful hop, it looks more like interpretive dance meets tragic giraffe.

Technically, I’m not supposed to get out of bed. But tell that to my bladder. Needs must, as they say. So I perform my sad little hobble over to the toilet, in the return hobble I lean dramatically on the windowsill like I’m starring in a Victorian tragedy, and peer wistfully out the window.

And what do I see? A full-on Pomsky puppy training session. Outside. In the sun. Freedom and fluff, just metres away. These pups are like cuddly supermodels with brains, they’re smart, adorable, and completely capable of manipulating humans using only their eyeballs.

There are tangled leads, tangled legs, tangled humans. People sitting on the ground with expressions of wild optimism, bribing tiny tornadoes of fur with what appears to be industrial quantities of Arden Grange liver pâté. At one point, I saw a puppy steal the tube, sprint across the yard, and stage what can only be described as a coup.

Honestly, it’s better than TV. Better than Netflix. Better than the cinema. I’m a captive audience in bed, yes, but at least I have front-row seats to the Puppy Olympics. It’s chaos, it’s comedy, it’s glorious. And for now, it’s enough, it will give me the fuel to boost the next two hours of paperwork.

So that’s my week, not exciting, happy or glamorous, but that’s the reality of running a non corporate rescue where the burdens of the world seem to sit firmly on my shoulders.

Thank you for reading this, for your support, and my oath b of all for caring.

Sylvia  x