Sylvia's Diary 29-05-25

The Groundhog Gallop

Today started at 4:15am – or as I like to call it, “Why-is-the-sky-still-black o’clock.” The dogs needed feeding, and I had to rally the troops for our 6am foster van loading session. There’s something quite magical about dragging three half-awake staff and one half-asleep husband into action before the birds have even had their first yawn.

Now, every morning, without fail – I turn to Bill (my long-suffering partner in all things barking mad) and say sweetly… or maybe slightly aggressively… “Bill, PLEASE can you help me?” And bless him, he always does. Then we spend the next two hours wrestling with van doors, dog crates, hay bales, and mystery boxes I’m certain I didn’t pack. We’re like a circus act: I plan it all meticulously, and Bill heroically executes it while wondering where his peaceful retirement went.

All of this chaos is in preparation for our stall at the Newbury Show, which, naturally, I’ve overthought to the brink of madness. I lose sleep over door displays, weatherproof signage, and whether we packed enough poo bags. It’s an artform, a stressy, messy, slightly sweaty artform – but it keeps the doors open for the special animals, so I keep going.

And yet… every day feels like Groundhog Day. If the groundhog were also hauling feed sacks, coordinating the maintenance work, and wondering where the lead to the blind poodle went. It’s hard. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The days blur together in a muddy mix of heartache and triumph.

Last week’s dogs were enough to break anyone’s heart. Steph took home an ancient, gentle soul with a heart condition. One beautiful American Cocker Spaniel had both eyes removed. I felt sick even thinking about it. Would he miss light? Shadows? But by the next day, he was bouncing with relief, no pain, just joy. It was a moment of clarity. Sometimes, the worst thing we imagine is the kindest gift.

Another blind, deaf little darling, who lives for cuddles is heading for more tests. He’s already stolen everyone’s hearts. These dogs come in broken, but they teach us more about hope than any human ever has.

When the staff clock off and the last van door slams shut, that’s my time to breathe. I wander out into the field with Promise, our miracle pup who came to us with brain damage, and somehow, by divine grace and excellent veterinary care, not only survived but thrived. Different, yes. But joyfully, gloriously different.

Promise and I have a little ritual. We sit on a log, him galloping in joyous circles, me sniffing and snotting into my sleeve, unloading the day’s grief. He listens like a therapist crossed with a kangaroo. Then, right on cue, he launches into his daily performance: galloping like a lunatic, leaping two feet into the air over a seven-inch clump of buttercups. Honestly, if springboks had floppy ears and a wiggly bottom, that’d be him. He’s good-looking, an excellent listener, and, heartbreakingly, still without a home of his own. You’d think there’d be a million applicants, and yet, nothing. If I were allowed, I’d be the first to apply. But I’m “mature” (aka knackered), and he’s young, bouncy, and built like a four-legged party. If you are having a bad day come and walk him in the buttercups, you will leave with a smile on your face. That's Definitely a “Promise”.

At last the ends in site

This… this has been a saga. A 21-year, nose-burning, back-breaking, never-ending epic saga.When we first took on the site, cattery and kennels was a generous word. Think duck runs draining straight into a gravel pit full of congealed hair and mystery sludge. Ammonia so strong it could curl your eyebrows from ten feet away. A mobile home with “boarding cages” built from hacked-up cupboards. I wouldn’t have put a stuffed toy in there, let alone a living cat.

So, we rolled up our sleeves, gagged a bit, and started again from scratch. Piece by stinking piece. Over the years, we’ve torn down the horror show and replaced it with something better,  proper drains, heating, clean spaces. But this new cattery – this is my dream.

I wanted something peaceful, a sanctuary away from the noise of the dogs. A place where the cats could lounge, stretch, bask in sunbeams (real or imagined), and where people, even in wheelchairs could come, sit, and just be with them. A healing place for both sides of the fur.

What started as a “simple conversion” turned into several weeks of heavy graft with three men, myself, and any poor soul I could bribe with coffee and biscuits. Just when I think we’re finished, something else crops up, another pipe, another shelf, another bolt that mysteriously disappears.

But we’re nearly there.

And honestly, I can’t wait to show you. It may sound a bit smug, but I’m proud. This isn’t just a cattery, it’s a love letter to every cat who’s ever waited too long, loved too hard, and been let down too many times.

Once this is done (ha!), we move on to new play yards, fixing old bits, and tackling the next crazy dream I’ve cooked up in the middle of the night. This place is a bit like the M4 Severn Bridge, always being worked on, never truly finished. But in between all the mud, madness, dreams, and dramas there are animals whose lives are changed. And that, in the end, is why we do it.

So please, come visit. Come see the chaos. Meet the magic. Just don’t stand still too long, I might hand you a hammer.

Beagle bedlam

Today I wandered the kennels and realized over the last few months just how many beagles we have accumulated. I am very fond of this breed as is Sydney, my granddaughter who has had a beagle toy since she was born. She would often visit trailing Dave with her, after a million washes his stuffing migrated down his neck to his belly , leaving his head with no support. As she slept one night I restuffed him to his former glory. In the morning Syd awoke and cried so much because she loved him just the way he was. He then had to undergo surgery again to de-stuff him back to his old floppy self.

Now, when people hear Beagle, they often think “cute,” “small,” “gentle.” And sure, they’re all that. But my first thought? Suffering. These dogs have long been the go-to victims in the twisted world of animal testing, used and abused in the name of “science” that, frankly, has already proven them unnecessary. Beagles are chosen because they are trusting, kind, and heartbreakingly compliant. And after enduring unimaginable pain? They’re discarded like rubbish, bagged up in black bin liners, their lives valued less than the cages they were kept in.

I just know if you lived with a beagle you’d join the fight to stop vivisection. In America they have done a lot of research, and this clearly shows that experiments on animals are not necessary.

“White coats, black mask

The dog was old
He lived his life in nothing but a cage’
The white coats came and he stood still,
not to insight their rage.

He tried so hard to be good,
but nothing made them smile,
He whacked his tail,
They laughed at him, and dead bodies in a pile.

As so, he slept on concrete bed,
held up the best he could he thought,
perhaps if he’d lie quite,
they might think him good.

He wondered why they so enjoyed
the pain they did bestow,
and next time oh perhaps this time,
they wouldn’t hurt him so.

But white is good and black is bad,
or so the story goes,
one snowy night three men in black.
left footprints in the snow.

They picked him up so gently,
but then he saw the face and mask,
the black is bad, and he was scared,
But the cage bar slowly faded.

He cowered in the corner,
with seven beagle pups,
they gently patted his old head,
his clouded eyes looked up.

Who are these men who hugged him,
and gently called his name?
they gathered him in heroes’ arms,
they stole him without shame.

Black mask they wore to give him life,
they found for him a home,
his eyes closed as he dreamed,
of things that he had never known.

His pain fled as they held him,
all fears were laid to rest, for black was good,
and although cold he liked the snow the best.”

We do not get the chance to rescue the vivisection beagles, but hope you will be interested to rescue our beagles and honour this special breed by fighting for others lives.

Let’s be clear: these beagles here aren’t from vivisection labs. The labs NEVER rehome; they just murder instead. But we welcome beagles with the weight of all those who never made it out from vivisection. Every single one of them deserves to live the rest of their lives surrounded by love, not latex gloves.

And just so you’re fully prepared, here’s what Beagle really stands for:

B is for Brave – they’ve been through more than most and still wag their tails at strangers.

E is for Eloquent – their “singing” is legendary. Operatic. Unapologetic. Usually aimed at dinnertime or passing squirrels.

A is for Adorable – their eyes alone could melt steel.

G is for Gifted – especially in the ancient art of pretending to be deaf. With a sausage in hand, you’re their soulmate. Without one? You’re white noise.

L is for Laughter – not yours, but theirs, as they disappear over the horizon mid-walk while you flail about yelling their name like an unhinged shepherd.

E is for Echo – the only thing you’ll hear as your beagle vanishes, nose to ground, tail high, living his best life while you’re still tying your shoelaces.

These lovable lunatics don’t come house-trained. They come human-training ready. They will teach you how to give lavish attention, how to provide endless snacks, and how to accept that sometimes your dog simply needs to chase an imaginary fox for six hours.

They love a pack, and like crisps, you can never have just one. You’ll take one home. Then another. Before you know it, you’re living with five!!!

So, please, come meet these inmates. Fall in love. Let them take over your sofa and your life. And maybe, just maybe, take one (or three) home.

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A Week with a Broken Soul

I love dogs so deeply, so wholly, that sometimes it hurts. I don’t mean in the sweet way people say when a puppy makes their heart melt, I mean a bone-deep ache that keeps me awake at night, that wakes me in the early hours with a tight chest and a mind racing with questions I can’t answer: How do I help him? What else can I do? Is it enough?

Last week, an old Cavalier came in, a boy with a body tired from life, with no story to tell us but the one etched into his eyes and the way he carried himself. He might have been a stud dog once, used and forgotten, and now left behind with one bulging, painful eye and the other clouded over with cataract. He rubbed his face constantly as if trying to erase the pain or the memory of it and he was so, so sad.

Every morning, I’d approach his cage with breakfast. He never stirred. No wag of the tail, no ears twitching at my voice, not even when I rattled the door. I’d have to gently stroke his head, whisper him back to the world, and guide him to his food, his special breakfast, because I needed him to know someone finally cared.

It’s been a week now. One eye removed. He’s been castrated too, in the hope that it might help him settle, make him feel less lost in his own skin. I don’t even know how old he is, how long he’s been deaf. How long he’s been craving a hand on his head, a soft voice, a gentle cuddle, any kind of comfort.

He’s in a kennel now, and I do my best to love him when I can, in the cracks of my time, in between others who also need me. But it doesn’t feel like enough. He needs more. He deserves more. He needs a steady, warm presence. Another dog to guide him. A person who will see him not as old or broken or expensive, but as precious.

I want to try for him. I dream about the eye specialist, about the miracle that maybe, just maybe, he could see again. I know the world would say it’s silly, that he’s too old, that it’s too much money. But how can you put a price on hope? On a chance at light? Every dog is worth it to me. Every single one.

He brings tears to my eyes even now, writing this. I wish he were here beside me, tucked into my duvet, surrounded by my own sleepy crew. I wish he felt safe and warm. I wish he knew love like that. I wish he had more than a cage and kindness in passing.

He deserves forever. And I’ll keep hoping, fighting, dreaming for that day to come.

Nicky

Today, I met a little dog whose story has quietly broken my heart. His name is Nicky. He’s a Westie, eight years old, and has known nothing of the world that most dogs dream of. He came from a place where over sixty dogs roamed freely around a farm, not out of freedom, but because no one had the time, or perhaps the heart, to give them more. There were too many. Nicky was just one of the crowd.

He walks with a limp. We don’t yet know what’s wrong, he hasn’t been x-rayed but it doesn’t seem to slow him down. His spirit is uncrushed, though life hasn’t given him much reason to hope. He is so incredibly sweet. The kind of dog that melts into your hand with quiet gratitude. The kind of dog that watches you with soft, searching eyes, as if trying to understand whether you might be the person who finally sees him.

He’s good with everyone. Dogs, bitches, people, Nicky just wants to be loved. But what brings me to tears is knowing he’s never had someone to call his own. Not once. Not ever. No special person. No warm lap that was just for him. No one to whisper his name with love, or tuck him in at night, or choose him above all the rest.

And yet, despite that, he trusts. He hopes. He waits. We are desperate for someone to come forward for this boy. Someone who will love him not as one of sixty, but as the one and only. Someone who will make up for all the lonely years with patience, devotion, and time. Nicky is ready to give his heart. He just needs someone willing to give theirs in return.

Please, if you’re reading this, could that someone be you?

Please look at the video of our cattery, it is now open for customers. Thank you everyone who has made this a reality. It goes to show “just believe to achieve”.

Thank you for reading my diary, for caring, and for supporting this amazing place of dreams and reality.

 Sylvia x