Sylvia's Diary 13-03-25

I think this might be the week I officially started playing God. A rather tired, slightly cynical, very broken version of God, but God nonetheless. The phone rings, and instead of just “Can you take this dog?” it’s now, “If you don’t take this dog, we will be putting it to sleep” No pressure. Just the literal power of life and death sitting on my already overburdened shoulders.

It’s gotten so bad that before we even say yes, we have to ask for the dog’s medical history. Not that most owners seem to know what that is. In fact, I’m starting to suspect  “medical history” means “a fun quirk we like to laugh about.” One owner cheerfully told me how “adorable” it was that her Frenchie constantly had her tongue hanging out, snorted like a pig, and snored like a freight train. She seemed utterly unaware that her dog was, in fact, struggling for every breath. It’s apparently a mystery to many that when their dog has to sleep sitting up like an asthmatic pensioner, that might indicate a problem.

And it’s not just the Frenchie's. I’ve seen dogs so lame they could double as doorstops, ears so infected I’m surprised they haven’t grown their own postal codes, and eyes clouded with cataracts that make me want to weep. Yet time and time again, the owners just smile and say, “Oh, that’s just how he is!” Yes, Barbara, that’s just how he is, because he’s in agony!

We try. We try so hard. We have the Broken Heart Fund for dogs who need heart surgery. The Gift of Sight Fund for the blind, to give them the chance to see again. And then there’s the Gift of Life Fund, which empties at a terrifying rate. This week alone, we have a puppy going to a specialist for what can only be described as faulty plumbing, two dogs getting X-rays before major surgeries, one having her slipping patella's fixed, and another getting cataract surgery. Every single minute, the costs mount up. Every single minute, I wonder how we’ll keep going.

And then, because apparently, I like to pile even more on my plate, I still dream of building a cattery. A dream that currently feels as likely as me winning the lottery, especially since, thanks to two confirmed spinal fractures, I am now officially “medically unfit” to do all the crazy fundraising stunts I used to do. No more thousands of miles ridden. No more hundreds of miles walked. The doctor practically wrote me off. But then again… they don’t know me very well, do they? If I believed every time someone said I couldn’t do something, none of these dogs would have been saved. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way.

For now, though, I sit here, my heart aching under the weight of all these worries. So many desperate dogs. So many desperate calls. So much suffering. It eats into my soul. But I keep going. Because if I don’t, who will?

Clover’s Conundrum: The Art of Human Training

Last week, I talked about raising a puppy the right way. This week, let’s talk about what happens when things don’t quite go to plan: enter Clover, a 13-month-old genius who has mastered the fine art of training humans.

Clover has developed a rather unfortunate skill: resource guarding. But let’s be clear, she’s not just any resource guarder. No, no, she’s a professional. She has learned that if she growls, humans will step back. If she charges at them when they drop something, they’ll freeze in terror and surrender their belongings like peasants offering gold to a queen. And, of course, every time she wins, she files it away in her ever-expanding book of How to Dominate Your Humans in Three Easy Steps.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Clover is a beautiful, intelligent dog. But she’s also too clever for her own good. She didn’t realise that by outsmarting her humans, she was ultimately outsmarting herself. Because when a dog becomes dangerous to live with, no matter how gorgeous they are, they lose their home, their family, and their comforts. That’s how Clover ended up at Many Tears, a brilliant dog with a bad habit that had spiraled out of control.

Habits: The Cigarettes of the Dog World

Think of bad habits like smoking. If you tell a smoker to quit but leave a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in every room, chances are, they’ll fail. Now, imagine a dog who has learned that growling, lunging, or nipping gets them exactly what they want. If you keep letting them win, why on earth would they ever stop?

So, what’s the solution?

It’s called tough love, not to be confused with mean love or shouty love, but a structured, no-nonsense approach to breaking bad habits and rewiring a dog’s brain.

The Rules of Tough Love

1. Nothing is given freely – If Clover strolls up demanding love, we walk away. But later, when we decide, we call her over for cuddles.

2. No more “winning” through bad behaviour – If she growls over a toy, we don’t back off. Instead, we step forward, unfazed. The moment she stops growling? That’s when we leave her alone.

3. Crate games & food rewards – We turn the crate into a happy place and make her work for her kibble. If she calmly approaches us, she gets a piece. No drama, no force, just clear rules.

4. Exercise, socialization, and structure – We make sure she’s tired, happy, and mixing with other dogs, but we don’t put her in situations where she could fail.

This kind of training isn’t for the faint-hearted, and it’s certainly not for people who aren’t willing to be mindful every single day. But it works. Dogs like Clover can change. I’ve seen it happen.

But if they don’t get the right training, they’re the ones who end up being put to sleep. And that’s the real tragedy. Because dogs like Clover aren’t bad, they’re just victims of their own intelligence, playing a game they didn’t even realise would cost them everything.

Clover is a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde, sweet and loving one moment, then a growling menace the next. But with the right people, the right rules, and a whole lot of patience, she can become the dog she was meant to be.

And if she could talk, I’m sure she’d say:

“Well played, humans. Well played.”

The other day in Brechfa Forest, I saw a woman playing fetch with her dog, throwing a ball down a steep slope toward a stream. Each time, the dog retrieved it eagerly, until suddenly, he didn’t come back.

She panicked. Instinct kicked in, and before I knew it, I was sliding down the slope on my backside, adrenaline silencing any second thoughts. At the bottom, I found him choking on the ball. No time for permission, no time for hesitation, I did what needed to be done and got the ball out. He lived. But if that ball had been even slightly bigger, he might not have.

So I’m posting this as a reminder: Know what to do if your dog is choking. You won’t have time to think, only to act. I’ll include instructions below, read them. They could save a life.

The Loneliness of a sponsored 3000 mile ride.

Years ago, I did a sponsored ride for a rescue in England and another in Arizona, where they saved dogs from the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation. On my first day, a Native American celebrity named Garney Pony Boy joined, along with a group of riders. He insisted we ride bareback which I did (others not so brave… or stupid?), which, for 25 miles, is just as painful as it sounds. But the ride lasted four and a half months, mostly alone.

My only companions were vast blue skies, my diary, and the occasional wildlife, like a coyote who followed me for three days. A Native American I met along the way told me the coyote was guiding me, keeping me safe. A nice thought, though maybe he was just hoping I’d drop my lunch.

Another time, I found a poisoned roadrunner, carried him with me for a day, and handed him off to someone who promised to take him to a wildlife center. I hope he did.

Loneliness gets into your bones. After a while, you stop talking about it. You lock yourself into your own little box of despair. That’s what I think has happened to those two elderly ladies. They’ve lost their dogs, and with them, their sense of purpose.

So What’s the Answer?

Should someone who’s very old still be able to have a dog? Or is it unfair to the dog, knowing they may lose their person?

I don’t know the right answer.

I take each case as it comes, trying to do what’s best for both the person and the dog. But I do know this: loneliness is a slow death in itself. And sometimes, a dog isn’t just a pet, they’re a reason to keep going.

Promise haunts me.

This tiny, fragile Cocker Cross was found by a rubbish bin, discarded, unwanted, like something broken beyond repair. He was barely 3 kilos, too weak to stand, yet somehow still clinging to life with the wild, desperate determination of a creature who does not yet know he has been given up on.

I fed him, and for a brief, reckless moment, I allowed myself hope. His symptoms resembled those of a liver shunt puppy - terrifying, but treatable. I clung to that thought. Surgery could save him. Some dogs recover. Some go on to live.

The vet took his blood, and we all braced ourselves, convinced we knew what we were facing. But the results came back, and they told us no. Not a liver shunt. Not the answer we wanted. Not a fixable problem.

We’re testing again, clinging to the slimmest thread of possibility, but we are all beginning to understand the truth: if not a shunt, then brain damage. And that is a door we do not know how to unlock.

Promise is a heartbreakingly happy little soul. He does not know there is anything wrong. But he cannot stop running. Not for joy, this is not the playful, carefree sprint of a dog who knows love and safety. This is something else. He runs in frantic, endless circles until exhaustion forces his tiny body to collapse. He does not stop. He cannot stop.

And so, we cage him. Not out of cruelty, but because there is no other way to keep him safe. He hates it. He doesn’t understand. He cries, and it feels like a betrayal, but what else can we do? I am dreading what may come. The decisions I may have to make. The weight of playing god over a life that has already been discarded once. I do not know what the future holds for Promise. All I can do now is pray for a miracle.

Chaos, Canines & Questionable Humans

Ah, another week, another batch of four-legged lunatics arriving at our doorstep. You’d think we were running a five-star hotel for the emotionally complex and questionably parented, except the guests don’t leave glowing reviews, they leave fur, drool, and existential crises.

First up, we have Charlie, a Chihuahua with the heart of a dragon and the body of a teacup. If you’ve ever believed the Hollywood lie that Chihuahuas are just fashion accessories, let me tell you - you are mistaken. These tiny creatures are not pets; they are pocket-sized warlords. No need for a security system when you’ve got Charlie. Burglars? Forget it. Postman? Consider him warned. A leaf blowing in the wind? He’ll fight it to the death.

Sadly, Charlie’s elderly owner could no longer care for him, so now he sits, betrayed and bewildered, trying to decide if we are worthy of his affections. Spoiler: We are not. Charlie does not trust easily. He will require a very special human, preferably one who enjoys long walks, small dogs with large egos, and having their ankles ambushed at least twice a day.

Then there’s Ronald. Who is Ronald? Good question - one even Ronald himself cannot answer. He was sprung from a London pound where he was on death row, sentenced to the needle for the crime of… well, existing. Was it an owner who grew bored? A victim of bad luck? Another casualty of human irresponsibility? We don’t know. But what I do know is this:

• Ronald is a complete blank slate.

• Ronald has no training.

• Ronald has selective training when food is involved.

Wave a treat, and suddenly, he’s a scholar, fluent in Sit, Stay, and “Yes, I was totally listening to you all along.” Without food? Well, let’s just say he has the attention span of a goldfish in a tornado.

And his parentage? Oh, clearly a cross between a hare, a springbok deer, and a 90s supermodel. He’s got the sandy coat of a sunlit beach, eyeliner straight from Rimmel, and legs that go on for miles. He needs an active, adventurous human who enjoys jogging, cycling, and pretending they have control over their dog. If you’re looking for a couch potato, Ronald is not your man. But if you want an energetic best friend who will make you feel both exhausted and adored, he’s the one.

And then there’s Nat. Sweet, innocent Nat, a little Westie who went from us to a foster home, then what we thought was a perfect forever home. Oh, how wrong we were. Because some people are, quite frankly, the worst.

The woman who adopted Nat sold her weeks later for £600 on the internet, turning her from a rescued pet into a quick profit. The poor lady who unknowingly bought her only discovered the truth after the fact. And so, terrified and confused, Nat is back with us, shivering, shaking, and wondering what the hell happened. She now needs actual kind people with actual hearts, preferably with kind dogs of their own, to show her that humans aren’t all terrible.

Oh, and speaking of humans being terrible, let’s talk about the Bichon Frise we picked up. She arrived with a coat so thick with filth she looked like she’d been dipped in glue and rolled through a compost heap. But wait, there’s more! Beneath that crusty exterior? Mammary tumors. Because, of course, she had been used for breeding, because why treat a living, breathing soul with kindness when you can use her like a factory and toss her aside when she’s no longer “profitable”?

Honestly, some days, I wonder how we, as a species, have the audacity to call ourselves civilized.

But despite all of this, despite the Charlies who have been ripped from their homes, the Ronald's left to die in cold pounds, the Nat's who are betrayed for cash, and the Bichons discarded after years of service, they still trust us. Somehow, these dogs, with their broken hearts and weary souls, still hope. And that’s why we keep going.

Diary Entry: The Great Dog Toy Takeover

No sooner had I started panicking about how to raise funds for the cattery than fate, being the mischievous prankster it is, dropped an unexpected offer in my lap. A kind soul, no longer running a pet wholesale business, had a mountain of leftover stock and wanted to give it to us. Fantastic, right? Well… sort of.

Bill and I arrived to collect the goods, armed with our trusty van and a vague sense of optimism. As we crammed bag after bag of pet supplies into every available space, the plastic packaging let out a symphony of squeaks in protest. It was as if the toys themselves were horrified at their new cramped living arrangements. We packed in as many as we could, but there were still over 200 bags left behind, waiting for a second trip.

Then came the realization that nearly all of these were dog toys. Yes, you read that right. Somehow, in the grand cosmic joke of fundraising, it turns out that dogs will be the unlikely heroes helping the cats get a roof over their heads. The irony is almost too perfect.

And of course, the timing couldn’t be worse. Up here in Wales, we are once again approaching peak “cat chaos” season. Unspayed queens, lovestruck unneutered toms, and an inevitable flood of kittens will soon be upon us. Everyone thinks they can house a kitten… until they realize they can’t. We’ve never officially claimed to be a cat rescue, but over the years, we’ve quietly taken in those with nowhere else to go. The problem is, we’re bursting at the seams.

A quick look at the numbers tells the story:

Cats Taken In Per Year:

2017 - 81

2018 - 0 (I must have blacked out that year?) or was it the year we tried to upgrade the old cattery 

2019 - 9

2020 - 61 (Ah yes, the lockdown pet boom)

2021 - 51

2022 - 47

2023 - 34

2024 - 80 (!!!)

2025 - 9 (So far… give it time.)

Clearly, something needs to be done. Enter: The Great Dog Toy Fundraiser!

I’m thinking we can sell these toys to raise money, or perhaps some wonderful, animal-loving humans could sell them to friends or at boot sales? It’s just an idea, but as with all ideas, it only works if people actually pitch in.

So, if you fancy helping, whether it’s hosting a boot sale, selling to friends, or simply treating your own dog (or a neighbor’s dog, or a completely random dog) in support of the cats, let me know! Because whether they bark, meow, or just silently judge us, all these animals deserve a helping hand.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a van full of squeaky toys to unpack before I lose my sanity completely.

Thank you for reading my worries and caring. Sylvia x