Sylvia's Diary 15-05-25

This Week at Many Tears: From Mole Dogs to Numb Toes (and Everything in Between)

This week has been… well, a bit like accidentally sitting on an electric fence while holding a crying puppy and juggling vet invoices. There’s been good, bad, happy, sad, scary, ridiculous, painful and frustrating, all rolled into one big emotional smoothie. And if I never have another week like it, I’ll count myself lucky.

It all started when Bill, my rock, husband, morning helper, wheelbarrow wrangler, and all-round sanity-preserver, left for Tucson to visit his mum. She’s 92, lives alone, and is amazing. Of course, after his heart attack, travel’s been off the cards for a while, so this was his chance to go. Which is lovely. For him.

For me? Not so much!!!.

Without Bill here in the mornings, everything’s harder. I miss his help, I miss his hugs, and I miss having someone to talk to when I’m teetering on the edge of exhaustion and caffeine poisoning. Tired on top of tiredness is a very real thing, and when you’re caring for over a hundred animals, one pony with PTSD, and a blind/deaf pregnant mole-dog, it hits hard.

Let’s talk about that pony, Chiro. He’s tiny, terrified, and clearly traumatised. I suspect someone yanked him out of a field, shoved him in a car, and tried to force him to work with fear and a stick. Charming. He ran me into a fence the other day, reared up like Black Beauty on a bad day, and generally reminded me that even small hooves can ruin your week. We were told he was “driven.” Well, he was. Driven to madness, maybe. So we’ve gone back to basics, hedgerow nibbling, gentle strokes, and lots of pretending I know what I’m doing. It took five days just to get him to eat from my hand, and each time I look at him, I feel like I’ve been punched in the heart. He’s scared of everything, including me, and I can’t help but imagine what hell he’s lived through.

Then there’s the mole-dog. She’s adorable. She can’t hear. She can’t see properly. She’s basically operating on smell and vibes. We thought she had a bit of a belly on her because she was finally eating well. Nope. Scan says she’s pregnant. Puppies are over 30 days along, so spaying would mean… well, you know. The big ethical no-no. I’ve asked vets, friends, strangers, I even asked a crow I passed in the field, but no one can give me a clear answer. So now I’m sitting with this choice that makes my stomach hurt. If we let her have the pups, they might be blind and deaf too. If we don’t, well, then we’ve made that choice. I lie awake thinking about it. Then I lie awake thinking about lying awake. It’s fun.

Oh, and because I’ve been doing my job, and Bill’s job, I haven’t been able to walk our own dogs in groups like usual. So I’ve been walking them in three smaller groups, mile after mile. Maybe that’s why, one night, I got into bed and my legs went haywire, electric shock feelings, then numbness, then no feeling at all below the knees. With a broken back in my history, I panicked. Lay there wondering if that was it, if I’d wake up paralysed. Morning came, and I could walk, minus three toes that have been on a sabbatical since my injury anyway. But yes, that was terrifying. 

Oh, and the paperwork. SO. MUCH. PAPERWORK. All the dogs from Southern Ireland have to be perfect on paper, microchips, birth dates, vaccinations, you name it. And I’ve been training a new driver too, so in between decoding puppy microchips and trying not to lose my mind, I’m sending him off across the sea while I coordinate everything from HQ like a sleep-deprived air traffic controller.

And through it all, we’re still catching flak online. Some say we fuel puppy farming. Others say we make money off the back of suffering dogs. The truth is: rescues cost money. A lot of it. And we don’t “sell” dogs, we carefully vet homes, spay or neuter, feed and care and do whatever is needed, and the cost to adopt is far less than the cost to get that far. We fundraise, we vet, we rehab, we cry, and we do our damned best for each and every dog that lands here, no matter where they came from. We work with licensed breeders, the public , the pounds, the hunters and the users and abusers, because those dogs deserve a second chance, even if their start in life was grim. And if anyone thinks we’re rolling in cash, I invite them to spend a week here walking dogs in the rain with numb toes and see how glamorous it feels. We have 72 paid staff; Rescue is a very costly institute to run.

But look, enough moaning. I’ll tell you about some of the brighter bits next. Like the bulldogs who look like cartoons and wriggle so hard with joy they nearly dislocate their backs. Or the magical Oreo, who might never be a “perfect” dog on the lead, but who’s learning to love again. And Promise, my brilliant, quirky, fast, food-loving boy, who still hasn’t found a home, even though he’s got the personality of a superhero on espresso.

It’s Sunday now. I’ve got a van run to prep, more paperwork than the Inland Revenue, and still no idea how to make people understand what rescue work really feels like. But I’ll try again next week.

Let’s Be Honest, You’re Reading This Because You Love Dogs

Let’s face it, if you’re reading this diary, it’s probably because you’re a dog lover. And if you’re a dog lover, chances are, you’ve got a dog (or several) curled up next to you right now, malting on your sofa and silently judging your snack choices.

But here’s the thing: that dog had to come from somewhere.

Some come from rescues. Some come from shelters overseas. And yes, some come from breeders. And not all breeders are bad people. In fact, some are the very reason we’re able to help so many dogs in the first place. We work with some  breeders who genuinely care about their dogs, like one who has a five-acre lake on his land. His dogs swim daily. Some of them probably swim better than I walk. And when they’re no longer breeding, he trusts us to take them, spay them, and find them homes with full backup for life.

As a (somewhat frazzled) vegan, I believe every animal deserves a chance. And if I said, “No, I won’t take dogs from breeders,” then I’m not punishing the breeders, I’m punishing the dogs. And those dogs deserve better than that. They deserve a chance. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s expensive. Even if it means I occasionally lie awake wondering how I’m going to make it all work.

Now, Let Me Tell You About Promise—Our Little Miracle

Promise didn’t so much arrive as he sort of collapsed into our lives. He was found near a bin in a car park, curled up and limp like a sock full of jelly. The young woman who brought him in mentioned he might’ve been kicked by a horse, a strange comment, unless she knew more than she was saying. There was a field of horses nearby. We’ll never know. For the first three days, he couldn’t stand. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t even understand what food was. He didn’t know when he was weeing or pooing. He was just… existing. Broken. I wondered, was it kinder to let him go? Was I clinging to false hope? But I’d named him Promise. And I promised I’d do my best. So I did.

Every tiny thing he managed was a miracle. First, he stood. Wobbled, sure, but stood! Then he blindly bumped into chairs and tangled his legs like he’d never had them before. Slowly, painfully slowly, he started getting better. Today? He runs across the meadow like a pint-sized gazelle. He still has zero spatial awareness and regularly runs full speed into my legs, but when I call him, he flops onto his back at my feet like a little clown. He’s only the size of a Cavalier, but his heart is enormous.

He’s seven months old now, and absolutely not the easy fix anyone’s dreaming of, but he’s magic. He’s survived something horrific, and now he’s looking for his happy ending. I can’t keep him, as much as I want to. I’m too old for puppies, and I have to be sensible. But oh, it’s tempting. But I never did sneak him in while Bill was away.

I may have snuck the pony into the house instead. Just for a bit. For a cuddle. For a connection. Chiro didn’t seem to mind, and if Bill reads this… oops. Let’s hope he skips this paragraph.

We had a wave of bulldog types arriving or waiting to arrive, 20 or 30 of them, and there are still another 20 “pocket bullies” to collect locally.

These dogs are lovely, kind, affectionate, and full of character. But they’re not exactly easy to home. Most people want a fluffy Instagram-ready pup with two perfect ears and no cherry eye. These little guys? They’ve got Nora Batty legs, undershot jaws, and the kind of faces only a mother could love (or me, apparently). But inside? Inside they’re full of devotion and joy. They fall to the floor when they see you, bellies up, wiggling with delight like sausages on strings.

They’re not “proper” bulldogs, if they were, they’d be snapped up. But they’re not crosses anyone can quite identify. They’re bulldog-ish, with a touch of who-knows-what. And because of that, they sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

We subsidise the cost of their care, trying to make adoption as accessible as we can, but we can’t give them away. That’s not how rescue works. Every dog costs us money, vet bills, food, care, transport, treatment. And the longer they stay, the harder it becomes to keep the rescue going.

I could become a full-time bulldog rescue at this rate. Or maybe open a wrinkly dog sanctuary. But for now, we just keep doing what we can, loving them as best we can, and hoping someone will see past the stubby legs and funny faces to the gold inside.

Then there is Oreo, a galloping hearth rug of a pup, who for some reason feels all dogs are the doggy mafia out to get him, and that the only way forward is to fight for your life. His manors to man are wonderful, he is friendly, happy, loveable, knows tricks, plus how to win your heart. I started his education with a muzzle and two of my dogs. After 5 minutes of my dogs only wanting to play ball, and Oreo working it all out I took off his muzzle, and he played with them. Today he played with seven dogs. On the lead with nice dogs is also working well, but if a dog barks or charges him aggressively, he just goes into defence mode.  He’s incredibly smart, endearing and a little damaged, but we will work on that alongside the damaged pony, both will get our love and attention.

We have also been working with a glamorous heavy cob. He’s now ready for the right home, but for fear of him being stolen I only want a home where he will live where the adopter lives, not three miles down the road. This is proving hard to find, but he’s so happy here there is no rush.

Four sets of pleading eyes.

The other evening, four dogs came in, elderly Cavaliers. They’d been surrendered because their owners were moving. Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same: the dogs lost their home. After learning to love and trust the people they thought were there, they suddenly had nowhere.

They’re beautiful little souls, each with such gentle, hopeful eyes. When I went to see them, they leapt up softly, nudging my hand, asking for comfort, asking to be loved. Later, as I did my evening rounds, I passed the gate and saw them still sitting there, waiting faithfully, as if their owners might come back. But they won’t.

Not everyone wants to adopt an older dog, especially one with health problems, heart murmurs, few remaining teeth, and the rising costs of vet bills. It would be wonderful if they could go in pairs, at least. But more and more, I see that people don’t want to take on “problems.” The idea that a dog is for life seems to be fading.

When you adopt, I believe you should be willing to put your own needs behind theirs. That’s how it’s always been for me. I think of the years I lived hidden in an attic to ensure I was with my dogs, there were  times I lived in vans just to stay with my dogs. Many would call that suffering. But for me, as long as my dogs were with me, I wasn’t suffering at all. As long as they were by my side, I was home.

I know not everyone feels that way. I know people have their reasons. But I wish they did feel the same. I wish the world was different. I wish those four little faces didn’t look up at me, searching, every time I walk past. They’ve done nothing wrong, yet they’ve lost everything.

It breaks my heart.

I wish I could save them all!

Tuesday morning Romanian dogs were due. I got up at 3.30am, yes 3.30 in the morning to be ready as they were due to come at 6am. However, no one called. So, I cleaned my kitchen and took the trash up to the skips. In the car park was a huge van and two men fast asleep, their long legs propped up on the wind screen. I politely tapped and woke them and invited them to drive down the road to our main gates. It was when I finally met Duffy and Melody, my new Romanian canine friends.

DUFFY – The Gentle Gentleman Who Forgot He Was Brave

When Duffy first arrived from Romania, tucked tightly into the corner of a big van full of worried faces, he smiled at me. Yes, smiled, not with teeth, but with his eyes, like he already knew he was safe. Of course, he also said quite firmly (in fluent tail-wag): “Thank you very much, but I don’t do leads.”

So, we carried him gently to his kennel and as soon as his paws hit the ground, that stubby little tail turned into a helicopter. You could tell he was thinking, “Blimey, this is alright!”

The next day, we introduced him to the play yard. He met other dogs, very politely, like a small diplomat at a canine peace summit and then we tried the harness and lead again. Something clicked. He gave us a look, as if to say, “Oh wait, I do know how to do this. Silly me.” And off he went, stumpy tail up, taking life in his quiet, thoughtful stride.

He’s not a big chap, somewhere between a Beagle and a Cavalier and he carries himself like a tiny professor who’s read every book in the library. His passport says he’s an older gentleman, but we don’t buy it. He’s got a spring in his step that says “four-ish” to us.

Duffy would love a calm home, maybe with someone retired or just looking for a lovely little companion. He doesn’t want loud parties but may well love long relaxing hikes with a best human friend. He wants soft beds, gentle walks, and someone who will love him forever.

MELODY – The Glamorous Mystery Mix with a Heart of Gold

Melody looks like someone shook up a bag of dog breeds and poured them into one magical, leggy masterpiece. Lurcher? Maybe. Collie? Could be. A bit of a unicorn? We wouldn’t be surprised.

When I first saw her photo, we all melted. There was something about her, soulful eyes, that slight head tilt, a quiet wisdom that said “I’ve seen things, but I’m still hopeful.” She reminded me of a dog, a special friend I had lost years ago called Joe.

She came off the van with Duffy, but while he gave us a shy grin, Melody was frozen with fear. We had to carry her to her kennel, and every step of the way our hearts cracked a little more. But here’s the miracle, day by day, she unfurled like a flower. First a wag, then a glance, then a full-on trot over to us, tail swishing like a runway model.

She’s soft, inside and out. She wants to trust, and she’s trying so hard. With another calm dog by her side (like Duffy or a similar gentleman), she blossoms. She doesn’t need chaos, just peace. Someone kind. Someone who will sit quietly and let her come to them. Because when she does,  it’s like the sun coming out.

The Romanian rescuers who pulled her from a hell most of us can’t imagine, saved her from going to a place of hundreds of dogs, fighting to survive, no hope, no help. But Melody got lucky. And now it’s our turn to pass that luck on.

She is, quite simply, a dream dog in the making, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of soul. Quiet, elegant, gentle. You’ll sit with her and just feel something shift. Like your heart’s been reminded of what matters.

Another night of new faces

Last night a lot of dogs came in. Many dedicated staff turned up to unload the dogs and make them comfortable, (this was at 12.20 am)... Now the next day we have been bathing and the vets are looking at them all. We are blessed to have volunteer groomers who show up and put their heart and soul into getting the dogs looking and feeling wonderful.

Every available pair of hands are working helping these dogs. Megan in the office is even multi-tasking with a sweet dog helping her with her work, rather than sitting in kennels.

The sun is still shining, Bill's due home today, and A LOT of dog’s lives were saved this week. All great news.

Thank you for supporting and reading my diary, and most of all for caring…

And the group of cavaliers I was so sad about went to foster!!!!

 Sylvia x