Sylvia's Diary 22-05-25

Bedding Wars

Our bedding shed looks like the aftermath of a tornado that had a vendetta against cleanliness. Sadly, this is not just today—it’s every day. With 72 staff and 26 kennel staff on rotation, the rush for the best bedding each morning is less like a workday and more like the opening of Harrods on Boxing Day. Picture wild-eyed humans stampeding toward the fluffiest blankets like frenzied bargain hunters, except instead of designer handbags, they’re clutching faded duvets and fleece throws that may or may not smell faintly of dog wee.

Every single dog here is everyone’s favourite, which means every single staff member is on a mission to secure the comfiest, warmest, woolliest bedding in existence. People emerge from the shed looking like eccentric street performers—blankets over shoulders, laundry bags dragging behind, a wild look in the eye that says, “Don’t even think about touching this cushion, it’s for Biscuit.”

Then there’s the curious case of the pillowcases. We have, without a doubt, the largest collection of miscellaneous pillowcases in the Western Hemisphere. Seriously, if pillowcases were currency, we’d be billionaires. Sadly, they’re mostly useless here—too small, too slippery, too “your nan’s guest room circa 1983.” We offer them to mechanics, builders, and anyone who expresses even mild interest in fabric. Frankly, if you make eye contact with a staff member for more than two seconds, you might leave here with a bin bag of pillowcases.

And then there’s the great vet bedding debacle. The vets have special nonslip bedding for post-op recovery. It’s thick, practical, and—tragically—highly coveted by kennel staff. So it mysteriously vanishes from surgery and reappears in kennels being chewed into artistic shreds by a delighted spaniel. We tried solving this by requesting vets’ bedding in an obvious colour, something shocking like bright pink, but only one piece ever arrived. ONE. So now, it’s bedding roulette, and the vets remain unimpressed.

The washing situation is, in a word, apocalyptic. It never stops. I’ve hung washing out 25 times today. TWENTY-FIVE. Our fences—horse fences, garden fences, office fences—have all been conscripted into service as giant outdoor drying racks. It’s a patchwork of drying blankets flapping in the wind like some sort of surreal canine prayer flag display. Thank goodness for dry weather, because if we had to tumble-dry everything, the electricity bill alone would bankrupt a small country.

Some of the dogs think the bedding is a game—they drag it around like toddlers with security blankets, play tug-of-war with it, or try to bury themselves inside it like confused armadillos. Others, more heartbreakingly, don’t understand what it is at all. They just huddle on the cold stone floor, eyes blank, refusing to get into a bed because they’ve never had one. But they do know what food is—so that’s our starting point. Always food.

And the worst part? The bedding we can’t use. Either it’s too far gone to wash, or it turns up mysteriously dumped at the gate in bin bags full of damp towels, glittery cushion covers, and the occasional bra (yes, really). All of that has to go in the skip—and skips cost us thousands each month just to empty. It’s one of those invisible costs no one thinks about when they imagine running an animal rescue. We’re not just dog cuddlers—we’re logistics coordinators, laundry generals, and bedding negotiators in an endless, slightly soggy war.

And we fight on. Armed with pegs, patience, and one very jazzy piece of vet bedding.

Finding Trust

Yesterday morning, a huge four-by-four pulled into the drive — a black, gleaming beast of a truck, the kind any man might dream of owning. Life has been so hectic lately, with so many dogs coming and going, my head spinning with worries and plans, I’d completely forgotten a Labrador was due in.

The truck had no solid cab at the back, just a roll-out cover secured at the sides — hiding what lay in the bed. And under that cover, sadly, was a chocolate Labrador. He had been returned by a breeder who claimed she had “no idea” what had been done to him — only that he was too scared to cope.

He came off the truck with his tail tucked tightly beneath him, shaking, and barking at anyone who dared approach. That night, I sat with him. He cowered in the furthest corner of his kennel, trembling, issuing a low warning growl to tell me to stay away. I didn’t leave. Instead, I pulled out a tub of Arden Grange liver pâté from my pocket and let the scent drift toward him. I saw his nose twitch.

"Sit,” I told him gently — and to my surprise, he did. I held out the treat. He couldn’t resist. He calmed, just a little. I sat quietly beside him and, eventually, stroked him. The smallest bit of contact, the first bit of trust.

Today, we moved him into a kennel with other dogs — and that seemed to ease him. The presence of other calm dogs settled his nerves. He’s a poor soul. So young, so confused, and already so let down.

The Ones We Lose

This morning started like so many others lately — with one of the dogs having a coughing fit. The day before it had been Bill coughing. Before that, Hardy with a bad tummy needing to go out. Each morning seems to start a little earlier, and I am a little more tired.

Still, I got up, let everyone out, and set my sights on getting through the morning’s work early. Two trustees and some others were due to visit. I wanted everything to be ready. The cattery is coming on beautifully, and I was excited to show them the progress — even if it meant lifting more than I should, cursing my aching back and my own limitations. I was hobbling around, trying to tackle the next job, when a car drove up.

A dog was choking. They needed urgent help. I ran — really ran — to the car. And my heart sank. I knew the dog. A beautiful lurcher with the softest temperament. She was a regular sight here, often following us when we were out riding. We’d taken her home more times than I can count. She was gentle, sweet, beloved by all who knew her.

By the time I reached the car, she had passed.

But sometimes, you can bring them back. So we raced her into the surgery. Adrenaline took over — I didn’t even notice my back. We got her on the table. A vet, a nurse, another vet, and I all worked on her, trying everything we could. I managed to get the food out of her throat and we got a tube down. For 25 minutes, we gave it our all. But she didn’t come back.

It was a freak accident — one that could happen to any dog. She’d snatched up food too quickly, gulped it down, and choked. Her family — her human mum and daughter — were devastated. So were we.

She was 11 years old. Eleven years of love, friendship, and familiarity to everyone in our community. And now she’s gone, just like that. It’s hard to accept how quickly things can change. No one could have prevented it. There’s no lesson in blame here — only a reminder.

Every single day matters. Every minute with the ones we love — dogs, friends, family — counts.

I will write a special leaf for her and place it on our memory tree. So many people loved her. She didn’t just belong to her family; she belonged to all of us. And now, we are all just a little more broken-hearted.

It’s hard to carry on today. Her name, her face, the fight to save her — it’s all weighing on me. But still, we do carry on. Somehow.

The Best Kind of Family

I used to run the Humane Society of Richmond County — which, let me be clear, was neither particularly humane nor particularly functional. It was in Richmond County, North Carolina, a place that surely inspired The Dukes of Hazzard. My staff thought a wild day out was a trip to Walmart to flirt with strangers. Most of them had never even crossed into South Carolina, despite living ten minutes from the border.

When I arrived, nobody really knew much about animal welfare. The board of trustees — and there were about 18 of them — mostly liked to boast about being trustees. Doing trustee things? Not so much. The job itself was soul-destroying. Dogs were given three days, and if there wasn’t space, that was it. Because the previous staff had been fired for stealing euthanasia drugs (yes, really), dog catchers were left to handle it — sometimes with car exhaust fumes, sometimes with bullets. It was grim. I took the job over because I love dogs so much, and each and every one I killed took a piece of me.

I made changes but still no homes came forward — in fact, the more publicity we got, the more dogs and cats came in to die.

One of my least favourite jobs was facing those trustees once a month. They’d roll in cheerfully while I updated them on how many more dogs had died, and how we needed more black bags. I even made posters with bright red borders begging people to take just one dog home — “This dog will die tomorrow. Please take it today.” None of them did. Not one.

Eventually, only three people at that entire place were actually doing anything. The rest came for coffee, a social, and a pat on the back for “caring.” So when we started Many Tears, we did it as a non-profit company, not a charity. We wanted no meddling trustees with good shoes and bad ideas. But as we grew, we had to become a charity — and that meant facing the ghost of trustees past.

And here’s where the twist comes in.

Our trustees at Many Tears are nothing like the others. They don’t strut in with clipboards. They don’t boast. They don’t need to. Yesterday, two of them turned up — they didn’t even say hello to me. Instead, they first said hello to the dogs and horses and cats — just the way I’d hoped. They were too busy walking round the rescue, meeting the dogs, checking in on the therapy horses, and working with visitors. They were genuinely interested, full of warmth and kindness. A third had to cancel because her own dog was unwell — and she was devastated to miss it.

These people are family. They work hard. They care deeply. They have their own jobs and lives, but they still give their time and energy to help us. They don’t interfere — they support. They’ve changed everything I believed about what trustees could be.

And it’s not just them. Spend five minutes at Many Tears and you’ll see it — the workmen pausing to pet a dog as they carry their tools, the finance people managing endless forms with dogs too scared for kennels curled up on their laps or by their feet, office staff helping someone who’s just lost their beloved pet find a new companion, also with dogs all around them. Everyone is moving, helping, caring. You can feel it in the air — that strange mix of heartbreak and hope.

We may not all share blood, but we share something better: purpose. And I’m more grateful than I can ever say.

Hope in the Back of the Van

Tonight, 21 hopeful little faces arrived, not knowing what was going to happen to them. We took them gently from their cages — confused, tired, but safe now.

The Labrador puppies were just unsold pups — chunky little monsters with playful natures and enormous appetites. Another stop had picked up three beagles, all used for breeding. Two of them walked nicely on the lead. The third had no idea what a lead was.

There were so many others. Despite their fear and the exhaustion of a long journey, they found their beds easily. The comfort of those soft spaces gave them something they’ve probably never had before.

Many of these dogs have never left the premises they were born or kept in. This is all new for them. Some are elderly, some have slipping patellas. One has no eyesight at all. Some need eyes removed. There are dogs with terrible teeth, bad skin, and complicated health issues.

So many of them urgently need veterinary care. But we never turn down a dog. Once we go to collect them, we take every single one — the old, the young, the broken. We worry about the vet bills later, but it’s a privilege to help them. Thousands of people will tell you how these dogs, once given a chance, become the most wonderful friends they’ve ever known.

It takes pretty amazing people to adopt the very old, the very frail — the ones with heart conditions, the ones with no eyes or poor vision. But together, we can save them all. We’re really trying.

Foster mums and dads are the answer. They’re that vital stepping stone between kennel and forever home. And what a wonderful role that is — offering comfort, stability, and love.

Maybe you could be one of these people. Maybe you could give up a bit of your home and your heart to help a dog that truly needs it.

The Day They Arrived

⚠️ Some images may be upsetting

These are the faces of dogs cast aside — unwanted, broken, forgotten. This is what neglect looks like before love begins to heal it.

You can help change their story