16/10/2025
✨Sylvia's Diary 16-10-25✨
Smells, Showers, and Sweet Puppy
I lost my tackle today, not in the fishing sense, but in the “I’ve been up since very early, done a shift with Poppy, answered a million emails, and still haven’t found my brain” sense.
After finishing my “million things,” I decided to have a shower. It was meant to be quick… but of course, it wasn’t. Ever since I broke my ankle, we’ve had a chair in the shower. Bill used to help me get there, I would plonk myself down, and then it was my little bit of independence. I could not hop (too risky), so the chair was my safe haven.
Now, this chair has become a permanent feature. I told Bill I still needed it, for my safety as I still hobble a bit, standing too long hurts, and we don’t have any safety rails. But Bill’s taken a shine to it. He says, “Everyone should have a chair in the shower!” So now we’re a two-person shower chair appreciation society. Anyway, as I sat there, I noticed the lovely smell of the coconut shower gel a kind person sent me. I love coconut. It got me thinking (which is always dangerous). Smells really do matter, don’t they?
Visitors to our house, few and brave, must be hit with the unmistakable scent of 13 dogs. Thirteen wet dogs. Thirteen wet, beloved dogs. So perhaps I’m nose-blind to it now. But then I thought… What about people who come to the rescue? The first thing they smell shouldn’t be bleach, disinfectant, or eau de soggy Labrador.
When people sell houses, they bake bread to make potential buyers feel at home. There must be science behind that, scent, warmth, comfort. So, shouldn’t we be doing something similar? Shouldn’t our reception smell welcoming, like love, warmth, and hope (and maybe a hint of coconut)?
And then I thought of our foster parents. People visit their homes to meet dogs, maybe that first sniff, that first feeling, matters more than we think. Should we be sending out little welcome packs? Plug-in air fresheners? Scented candles? Bread-making kits? (Although that could end in smoke alarms.) I don’t mean to suggest anyone’s home smells like mine, but it might be a fun way to make those first meetings even more special.
Yes, everything I think about eventually circles back to dogs, or animals. It's a condition I can’t and won’t cure.
Last night, just when I’d collapsed into bed, the phone rang: Neighbors chasing ponies up someone’s drive......“Are they yours?” they asked. No, they weren’t, but I still found myself worrying about them half the night. That’s rescue life, isn’t it? You never switch off.
And now it’s 6 a.m. I’m with Poppy and her nine gorgeous puppies. They’ve all got collars ,and names to match: Orange, Bluey, Pinky, Brownie… they are called their collar colour, except the one I would have if I could…. He is called Austin, not exactly groundbreaking, but it helps me tell them apart. And we have to weigh them twice a day to check all are getting enough milk. I love them all, even though I know it’ll break my heart to let them go.
Bill says I can’t adopt them all, apparently thirteen dogs is my limit (I think that’s negotiable). But for now, I’m soaking in the smell of puppies, coconut, and chaos. And now, I have sprayed the chair in the puppy unit with coconut oil and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now I await the vet, Poppy is having to have calcium supplements and am worried as for the first time she won't eat . The vet is getting here at 8 so I guess I can wait to get her bloods done and a thorough check done.
Second Night With Poppy
It’s my second night on duty with Poppy and her puppies, and last night was horrendous. She was so anxious and distressed, something was really wrong. Her temperature was climbing, she was panting furiously, and her gums had turned brick red. I called the vet, and after talking it through, he decided he’d come in the morning to examine her and possibly spay her if needed.
The hours through the night felt endless. I stayed beside her, worrying, feeling physically sick with fear, but she still cared for her puppies. She still raises her sweet head and I held onto that as a sign she might make it.
Early in the morning, the vet arrived. He took one look at her and confirmed what I already knew deep down, something was very wrong. He asked what I wanted to do, and I knew the risks of putting her under anaesthetic were high. Poppy is very thin, in-fact emaciated. I tried to keep busy, to focus on all the other things that needed doing, sending someone off to Northern Ireland to collect dogs, sorting out puppies, and facing the mountain of other work that never seems to stop. It was too much, but I couldn’t stop.
I know I shouldn’t get so emotionally involved, but I can’t help it. My love for these dogs, my patients, my responsibility, it breaks me apart every time. There wasn’t even time to talk to Bill, to have him beside me, to steady me with his arms and his love. I just had to keep my head down and work.
Around 11 o’clock, they decided to take Poppy to surgery. I asked if I could be there to assist, I couldn’t bear not to. There was already a vet nurse and the vet, but I needed to be there to watch over her, to pray for her. I left Kay and Hannah caring for the nine little puppies, making sure their bellies were full, and they were warm.
Poppy came through the operation, and I felt such relief. When they let me see what had been removed, it was clear we’d done the right thing: a grey, infected mess inside her was removed, the start of acute infection, though thankfully it hadn’t spread yet. We brought her back to her pups around 6 o’clock, those little souls she had loved so deeply. But her spark was gone. She was exhausted, flat, and though I hoped their presence might revive her, it didn’t.
I sat with her through the night again, watching, waiting. She drank water, was sick, then drank again. I took the water away and called the vet. He was kind and told me to keep feeding the puppies and to keep watch over her. I did, but I was terrified she was slipping away. I gently placed her puppies beside her body, hoping their warmth and tiny movements might give her strength to hold on.
And that’s where I am now, sitting, watching, waiting, praying. Her breathing is slow. I don’t know if her body will give up, and I don’t know if I can bear it if she does.
My mind keeps drifting back to something that’s haunted me since a few weeks ago. We were driving through the New Forest after visiting a shepherd’s hut that turned out to be no good. On the radio came awful news, someone speeding through the forest had hit and decapitated a pony. Just another senseless, cruel accident.
The New Forest ponies have roamed there for centuries. They live alongside pigs, sheep, deer, and cows, free and wild, and yet people race through their home with no thought, killing them again and again. There are petitions and committees, but nothing changes. People come for the beauty, for the wildlife, yet drive through it with such carelessness that they destroy the very thing they came to see.
I keep thinking that maybe I should try to do something, to start a campaign to raise awareness, to make people understand what speeding through that forest really costs. It would need funding, of course. The people who live there, the ones with the helicopters and the grand houses, they're the ones who could help. But how to reach them? How to ask them?
I know how to run a campaign. I just don’t know how to find the time or the money when I already have Many Tears to care for. Tonight, like so many nights, it all just feels too much.
Still, I’ll keep watching and praying for Poppy. Please, God, let there be good news in my next entry.
Saturday 4:30 a.m.
It’s 4:30 in the morning, and I’m lying here lying on my mocked-up bed on the portacabin floor, wondering what on earth I’m going to do next. Poppy has lifted her head a few times but still won’t eat or drink. I’ve rolled a duvet between her and the puppies, they’re not happy about it, but are full of milk but still crying to reach her. They can smell her and know she’s close, but I can’t let them get to her just yet. As cruel as that feels, I’m hoping the sound and smell of them will help stimulate her, remind her why she needs to keep fighting.
I tried to get up a little while ago, but with this wretched equilibrium problem, I fell straight over again. So here I am, lying on the floor, dizzy and frustrated, trying to think clearly. I haven’t got my pills with me. I haven’t got Bill with me. What I do have is a dog who might not make it through the morning, a handful of newborns needing warmth and milk, and a floor that’s spinning under me.
I need to get Poppy up for a wee, to move her a bit, to try and keep things normal, but right now even standing feels like a risk. I’m going to have to negotiate it carefully and hope I can stay upright when I try.
It’s Saturday, which means chaos. The poor driver had his own nightmare, stuck for hours at Fishguard when the ferry was delayed. It should have left at two but didn’t go until about nine at night, so he’s been driving through the night with no proper rest. By this morning he’ll be picking up dogs again, and I’ll need to call to check he’s okay. I imagine he slept a bit on the ferry, maybe grabbed some rest before he left, but what a mess.
Here, the puppies are all fed and wriggling in their box, each wearing their tiny, coloured collar so I can tell them apart.
For the next eight weeks, I’ll have Austin. I picked him the moment he was born. I knew he would be mine, even if only for a short while. So yes, he’s the favourite, though all that means for now is he gets a little extra kiss when I check them. There’s not much else you can do for a three-day-old puppy.
The room’s still spinning, which I suppose is my cue to try moving again. Wish me luck, I am going to see if I can get Poppy outside for a tiny bit, see if she will or can stand, I need to change the puppy’s duvet, I need to stop spinning.
Monday
I never did get to write Sundays diary, it was so busy , no one to help with Poppy, I had been up three nights now and desperately needed to sleep, Kay came and cleaned the surgery, Irene came and as she usually did, got the reception in order, and I looked after poppy and her family.
This has been one of the most distressing and heartbreaking weeks I can remember, so much so that I’ve caught myself thinking this could be the week that breaks me. I’ve given everything I have to this rescue for years, but lately it feels like it’s killing me, and I’m not sure how to go on.
Our driver went to collect dogs in Northern Ireland as usual, but when he reached customs, everything began to unravel. They were scanning the dogs’ chips, something they do every time, and one dog’s chip didn’t show up. After a long search, they eventually found it, only to come back and say the dog was lame because she hadn’t stood up.
This particular dog was special (but of course they all are). A man from Northern Ireland had contacted me weeks ago, desperate to find her a good home. He’d had her for five years, but his new work schedule left her alone too much, and being a lively Springer Spaniel, she needed company and stimulation. We spoke often, exchanged videos, and after learning more about our rescue, he asked if I would take her. I gladly agreed.
But at customs, this was the dog they questioned. In the end, they claimed her chip was missing and said that without it, she couldn’t travel. Instead of calling me, which I would have expected and begged him to do, the driver panicked and signed her over to customs. When he finally phoned me, I was in blind disbelief. I don’t think I shouted, but I know my voice shook with anger and heartbreak.
I asked him why he hadn’t called me. He was already through customs, waiting for the ferry, and couldn’t go back. I told him the ferry fare didn’t matter, I would have paid anything for him to turn around, take the dog re-chip her (he is licensed to do that) or even have a vet do that. But it was too late.
I called customs myself. They were polite, but firm: the dog had been signed over, sent to the pound, and there was nothing I could do. I was devastated, I still am. Even now, as I write this, I can hardly see through the tears. The thought of that poor, frightened dog, alone, confused, and in a strange place, this makes me feel physically sick.
I managed to find out who runs the pound and have written to her. The dog’s former owners are also trying to get her back, as they are distraught. I’ve explained that my driver had no right to surrender her, that she wasn’t his to give up. But the system is inflexible, and nobody seems to care that this was an honest mistake. And that this was a dog’s life.
We don’t smuggle dogs. We don’t need to or want to. Our drivers are fully licensed and approved to microchip, and our paperwork is always in order. Yet it feels like we’re being treated unfairly, as though someone has put us on a blacklist. Other drivers in the same situation have been allowed to correct their chips and travel on, why not us?
Now Poppy has become incontinent from the surgery and has to wear nappies that I wash and dry between changes. I do this three times a night to change them. I top up her puppies with milk so they don’t drain her completely every two hours, the rest of the time I seem to cry. She’s exhausted, but she still adores them, and they keep her going.
If she’s well today, I’ll try to start leaving her for short periods overnight. The staff who do nights get a day off to recover. When I do it, I just keep going, because there’s too much to do and too many animals depending on me. I feel like I’m cracking, but I can’t stop. It's like I have a bad addiction. The horses keep me going, I try to take half an hour between everything with them most days to cure my distraught mind.
The puppies are thriving; they are round, warm, and full of life. There are nine tiny retriever souls who have fought their way into this world. I should feel joy. Instead, I’m weighed down with worry for Poppy and for that poor Springer in Northern Ireland. I can’t bear the thought that she might be put to sleep before I can reach her, before anyone listens or cares.
At 8 o’clock, I’ll start ringing the dog warden, the pound, anyone who will answer. I have to try. I have to plead for her life, whether it’s to come back to me or return to her owner. I can’t give up on her.
In between all this I am planning to run a campaign to slow drivers down in the New Forest.
It's not just Many Tears dogs I care about and worry about. I have calls, pictures and videos sent every day of dogs in pounds with hours to live, some so pitiful that they must wear coats to be pictured as their ribs and back bones protrude like poor Poppy's.
The shepherd hut dreams started, The wheels donated by a Fosterer will arrive. It will only be a few weeks till it's started.
The forest campaign is in my head and taking shape, though that will be a long time before I am ready , as I need to get sponsors to help me.
Today maybe things will look brighter, we certainly have some amazing digs here, and wonderful staff too.
Monday Evening Diary
I spent the whole day waiting for the Dog Warden to call, but the phone never rang.
I finally managed to reach the man who’d owned the Springer. He hadn’t heard anything either. Then, just as the day was ending, he phoned to say they’d contacted him, they said the dog wasn’t in a pound after all. They said she’d been handed to another rescue, and that was the end of the story.
He sounded relieved, saying that as long as she was in rescue, he was happy. But I’m not sure as I don't know where she is. They never had the decency to call me back, never thought to tell me where she’d gone, or what was happening. They can’t possibly love dogs the way I do.
I’m still so cut up about it. I’ve never before felt that I let a dog down so badly, never thought it could hit me like this, not even knowing where she is has left me feeling broken. Today has felt like a day of waiting, worrying, and ending in nothing but hurt.
Meanwhile, Poppy had more blood tests and scans. For her sudden incontinence. The vet said her kidneys look alright for now, but if the bladder cannot expel the urine and backs up into the kidneys, then we would have to let her go. The thought of losing her is unbearable. I keep whispering to the universe that I need a miracle tonight.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I heard that little foal, one of the ponies in the New Forest, was hit by a car last night. The driver didn’t even stop. She’s alive but badly injured, and the vet bills are rising fast. I feel I have to do something, because others have failed her, but I’m so worn out I can barely think straight.
I have ideas, plans that could help but right now, every day feels like an uphill climb, and every decision feels heavier than the last.
We have had at least 5 staff come down with Covid, and there seems to be no way to get some rest.
A Hard Lesson on a Sunny Day
Today was bright and sunny, one of those days that should have felt wonderful. It began well, spending the morning with Poppy and her puppies, who always make me smile. I also got an e-mail sent to all the dog rescues in Northern Ireland I could find. I sent a picture of Sophie the springer and asked if she was with them, and if they could send a picture so I knew she was safe. I find it hard to believe in someone who does not answer letters or phone calls, yet tells the previous owner the dog was safe. Especially as they are working for a council, thus I really need to know she is ok. As yet no replies!
At lunchtime, I took Edith the pony out. She’s been struggling to stand still in her cart, and after a recent incident where her behaviour caused her driver to get hurt I wanted to take her for a longer drive and see what was going on. Before I left, I asked someone to feed the puppies, thinking everything was fine for a short while.
When I came back, I discovered that one of the puppies had somehow got stuck behind the rail in the whelping box and had died. I can’t describe how heartbroken I am. I’ve been with these puppies day and night, every hour, every feed, and they’ve kept me going through some very difficult times. Losing one is unbearable.
It’s hard not to blame myself. As the CEO, I’m supposed to be strong and steady, but moments like this remind me how fragile life can be and how easily our hearts can break. I know I can’t be everywhere at once, but that doesn’t make it easier to accept.
Poppy’s remaining puppies are still doing well, and I’ll keep praying for them, especially Poppy, the mum who’s had a difficult start. I’m hoping with all my heart that her bladder and kidneys stay healthy and that she’ll grow stronger every day.
Today the sun is shining, and although I don’t feel I deserve it, I know that tomorrow I must begin again, for all the dogs and people who depend on us. The sadness is heavy, but so is the love that keeps me fighting for the animals here and everywhere.
A Week of Heartbreak and Hope
Last night, one of my staff kindly took over looking after the puppies so I could try to get three hours of sleep. When I came out at 12:30, I found Pinky, one of the strongest puppies, lying cold and fading fast. I worked desperately to warm her, to get her moving, to keep her alive. All through the night and all through today, we fought together for her life. But at 2:30 this afternoon, she slipped away in my hands.
You never really know why some puppies don’t make it, and it breaks your heart every single time. When you’ve poured your love, your time, and every ounce of hope into them, losing one feels unbearable. But I’m trying hard to hold onto the good things today, to focus not on sorrow, but on gratitude and the lives we can save.
As pinky died a tiny Yorkie puppy was born Jack has him to hand rear, though his odds are poor, as so tiny.
Two little Bulldogs arrived this week, and you could hear them the moment they came through the gates, snorting and grunting as they struggled to breathe. Many people think those noises are endearing, but in truth, they’re the sound of suffering. These dogs live their entire lives fighting for air.
One of the two was so bad that when she got excited, she’d collapse and have fits from lack of oxygen. Both needed life-changing surgeries, including a complex “BOAS” procedure to remove the excess tissue at the back of their throats and open their airways. It’s risky but vital, giving them the chance to breathe and live normally for the first time in their lives.
We were incredibly lucky to have a specialist come and perform the operations here. It cost thousands of pounds, though still far less than if we’d gone to a referral hospital, and we are so grateful that, thanks to your support, we could do it. To help them recover, we served their food ice-cold from the fridge to reduce swelling, and it worked a treat! Just three days later, they were wagging their little stumps and even barking, high-pitched, happy sounds that melted our hearts. Soon, they’ll be able to run and play without fear of collapsing.
These two are a perfect example of why your help matters so much. More and more people are surrendering their dogs because they can’t afford the care they need. For these Bulldogs, the alternative was euthanasia. But now, they have new lives, and the ability to breathe freely.
Poppy, the beautiful golden retriever who came to us as a skeleton and later gave birth to her puppies, is still here and recovering from a bladder and urethra problems. She’s gentle, loving, and utterly devoted to her babies. She also has a huge appetite for all the wrong things! Yesterday she stole my Burger King chips, and this morning it was garlic bread. She’s ignoring her dog food completely but adores roast chicken.
If anyone is visiting, please bring her a little treat and sit with her for a while. She loves company as much as she loves food. She’s one of those dogs who makes you forget how hard the day has been, just by her leaning on you and sighing contentedly.
We also have kittens, beautiful dogs of every kind, and for once even room for one more horse who might otherwise face a tragic fate. We’ll help wherever we can, because that’s what Many Tears is here for.
Thank you for reading this, and for standing beside me through the hardest weeks. I know this diary entry is sad, but I promise brighter days are ahead. Every heartbreak reminds us why we do this because for every Pinky we lose, there are others who live, breathe, and run free because of your kindness.
Thank you, always, for your love, your belief, and your support.
With love and gratitude,
Sylvia
To donate, please follow the link: https://many-tears-animal-rescue.giantgiving.com/campaign/sylvias-diary/
