15/01/2026
✨Sylvia's Diary 15-01-26✨
The New Dog’s Journey
Last night, as I lay in bed stroking one dog, another immediately leapt up and wriggled her way under my arm, convinced she was the one who deserved the attention. Within seconds a third appeared, determined not to be left out. They pushed, squirmed, shuffled and sighed until they were all wedged in as close as physically possible. No one could bear the thought that someone else might be getting more love than them.
I smiled and thought, these are my green-eyed monsters.
They are impatient, needy, occasionally rude and completely unapologetic about wanting affection, attention and reward. I love them, they make me smile and make me feel whole.
I have met green eyed monsters in other forms too, horses who rush to get a pony nut, kicking or biting other horses who dare come too close.
Then sadly there are also the humans!
The difference is, I enjoy cuddling my green-eyed monsters. They are kind and pure and their only agenda is to get love.
It felt like the right moment to explain, properly, what really happens here. Many people who support us, fundraise for us, read my diaries or share our posts have never actually been here. You may watch videos on your phone, but that is not the same as standing in the lanes, hearing the radios crackle, watching frightened dogs take their first steps into safety.
So this is the new dog’s journey, at this very special rescue.
Things have changed over the years, but we learn, we adapt, and we keep doing what we believe is right.
Sadly this rescue takes special pride in helping so many, and so many are broken…..
When a dog comes in, they are usually collected by myself, Joyce or Bill, unless a breeder or owner brings them directly. Some collections stay with you forever. I have walked into homes marked by addiction, despair and even death. Where police and coroners are present and also places that there is no one left but the dogs. I have stood with farmers’ wives whose worlds have collapsed in a moment through su***de. I have searched for dogs hidden in filthy outbuildings, hoarded in numbers that should never exist, desperately trying to remove them from a small semi-detached house while the doors are being shut in your face. Eviction leaving the home empty, bar dogs left, and so much more. It is devastating work, but the van always drives away carrying hope.
Those vans matter. They are cleaned, serviced, and checked constantly. They travel thousands of miles and sometimes double as hotel rooms when sleep happens across the seats. We cannot break down with dogs on board. We carry responsibility with us everywhere we go.
When the dogs arrive, they are met with kindness by the staff. I am nearly always here too, of course accidents aside.
Each dog is gently lifted from the van and placed into a kennel with a heated lamp, soft beds and an outside run. Some have never seen a bed before. They freeze, terrified it might swallow them whole. Once they understand, they cling to it like treasure and never want to leave. They are given space to settle, a small warm bowl of food, quiet if it is night, and time to breathe.
The next few days are for decompression. Hands are gently run over bodies to see what is tolerated. Can we check ears, mouths, movement, handling. This is not judgement. It is information. It helps us decide what comes next.
Then the vet becomes part of the journey. Our vets are close by and extraordinary with these dogs. Whether they walk on leads or not, they go into the surgery for proper checks. Suspected pyometra, dental disease, ear infections, hidden pain, they try to identify all early. While under anaesthetic, ears are flushed, teeth removed, coats clipped if needed so stress is reduced. They recover, safe and watched, while we carry on teaching them that the world does not always hurt.
We introduce new experiences slowly, not overload. A harness is introduced before a lead. A lead before a walk. They are all ready at different times. That is okay. Assessments are repeated. Progress is measured. Foster homes are considered carefully and behaviour is assessed with any biting using the Ian Dunbar scale. This does not mean a dog is unadoptable. It tells us why. Fear, memory, confusion, panic. It gives us a map.
Julie, our volunteer groomer, arrives like an angel several times a week. She bathes, trims, clips nails, cleans ears, and transforms dogs who have never known gentleness. Then comes the coats. The knitted coats you send. The moment they are wrapped in one, they dance. Truly dance. Those coats go home with them, carrying the smell of friends and warmth and safety, like a comfort blanket.
Blankets themselves cannot go. They are washed once or twice a day. If you have seen our laundry room, you will understand. Mountains of bedding, endless cycles, hours of work, all so dogs are warm and clean.
When dogs leave us, we know who they are here, but not yet who they will be in a home. That is why fosters are gold, to allow assessment in a home environment.
People choose dogs mostly by looks. More than half, probably closer to three quarters. We try to balance that reality with honesty, care and careful wording, because one wrong phrase can change everything.
It takes drivers, vets, behaviourists, carers, groomers, maintenance teams, office staff, volunteers and knitters to move one dog along this path.
Many dogs come from breeders. Some because they trust us and only us. Some have visited, seen everything, and learned from us. Some dogs are healthy and simply finished breeding. Some come because numbers are now tightly regulated. Some because a puppy has a heart murmur or a deformity and cannot be sold. Public dogs come too and returns are always welcomed back.
This latest group arrived from breeders. Some already knew love. Now they begin again.
And the journey does not end with adoption. Some dogs take months or years to become who their families hope for. Some never do. For example, Midnight lives with me. She is mine forever. Her fear aggression never left. She trusts me, not the world. That is her journey.
And at the very end, when a dog’s life closes, when they are cradled and held and loved as they take their last breath, remember this. Someone stayed. Someone walked with them, laughed, cried, slept beside them, and chose them again and again.
To those people, thank you.
Because of you, this rescue turns like the world itself, and keeps going.
What a Day
For anyone of a certain age, you will understand this immediately. Climate change is not just a theory anymore. It is amazing, drastic, incredible, and occasionally downright devastating to the joints.
Last night the wind howled as if it had a personal vendetta against the cottage. It rattled everything it could find and gave a very good impression of trying to lift the roof. Somewhere in the early hours though, things quietly changed. The dogs began inching closer and closer to me, clearly convinced I was the warmest object in the room. I felt colder and colder as they did. Bill joined in too. By morning, I was completely encapsulated by dogs, humans, and cold air, and despite snuggling deeper into the bed, it only got worse.
Unfortunately, lying in bed pretending it is summer is not an option here. There were jobs to do.
When I stepped outside, that was clue number one. There was a half moon hanging in the sky, shining beautifully onto what looked like sparkling ground. It was very pretty. What it failed to reveal was the black ice lurking beneath, waiting patiently to ruin someone’s day.
I managed to check some of the dogs, all of whom had sensibly stayed snuggled up all night. Then I checked the puppies. They live in what can only be described as a sauna. Warm, cosy, and absolutely necessary for them. I briefly considered moving in.
Feeling brave, and clearly not sensible, I harnessed up two dogs for a walk. This was a terrible idea. I made it to the verge, nearly breaking my neck on the way, crossed over to the drive by the sand school, and finally reached the fields. Victory.
The dogs, of course, thought this was the best thing ever. They galloped, raced, and played as the cold woke up their bodies, completely unbothered by the fact that their human was walking like a nervous penguin on a skating rink. Getting back was the same problem, the same worries, but somehow I stayed upright. I was extremely pleased with myself.
Back at the rescue, the signs had to go up. Slippery surfaces everywhere. Unfortunately, that description covered absolutely everything. The car park, the lane, the paths, the concrete. All sheer black ice. Someone, with very good intentions, tried to help by pouring boiling water over the worst patch. This resulted in the creation of what can only be described as a frozen river. It re-froze instantly and became even more lethal.
People slipped on the road. People slipped at the rescue. People slipped just trying to do their normal jobs.
The dogs, expecting proper walks, had to be told no. No roads. No lane. No adventures. Not unless the sun decided to do its job properly and melt the ice. The sun did shine. The ice did not care. It stayed exactly where it was.
The horses couldn’t go out. The dogs couldn’t go out. It was a very sad day for them. Some volunteers still managed to come in, which was wonderful, and the dogs got lots of attention. They had time in the play yards and galloped around on the artificial grass, but it still wasn’t what they wanted. They wanted freedom. They wanted fields. They wanted normal.
Watching them settle back into their kennels, snuggling in and adapting, reminded me yet again how special dogs are. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live like that and stay so hopeful. They deserve so much more, and they wait so patiently for it.
I hope that some of the ones who are constantly over looked might get a viewing soon. And I hope tomorrow is brighter, warmer, and far less icy. I want tomorrow to be a special day for them.
Today was not.
It’s absolutely pouring outside, but honestly I prefer the pretend rainfall of a hot shower hammering onto my back. I’m writing this on my iPhone while sitting in the shower, contemplating the last few days - which is probably not what Apple had in mind, but here we are.
Sleep wonderful sleep, where are you!!!!
In two days I’ve had about three and a half hours of sleep in total. Was it productive?
Absolutely not.
Was it fulfilling?
Not even remotely.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror earlier and I look like a raccoon who’s lost a bar fight. Even ghosts would cross the street to avoid being seen with me. I’ve tried everything to sleep, counting sheep (they were very uncooperative), counting backwards, lying perfectly still pretending I was already asleep. When none of that works, I get up to “do something productive,” achieve nothing whatsoever, then reread what I’ve written and realise it’s absolute rubbish. Page after page after page of beautifully raised nonsense, written at 3am with great confidence and zero value.
The puppy, meanwhile, is thriving.
He is utterly determined to throw his bumblebee toy into the shower. He takes it to the door, squeaks it a couple of times, just in case I’ve forgotten it exists, then he flings it at me. It smells faintly of wet bumblebee now, but the squeak still works and he’s currently lying upside down, tossing it around like it’s alive. It isn’t. It’s a small cloth toy with slightly tragic wings, but he’s convinced it’s his sworn enemy. We have a ridiculous number of toys, many second-hand, yet all he really loves are crunchy water bottles, the bumblebee, and anything he is absolutely not allowed to have.
Boots are a particular favourite. Socks are even better, especially if I keep them away from him, that adds excitement. He’ll grab one, run madly around looking over his shoulder, desperately hoping I’ll chase him, before tumbling dramatically into a corner of the bathroom. Or, more recently, the base of the toilet. It’s all excellent fun and, annoyingly, it does make me smile.
A foster mum sends me pictures of his mum racing around the garden and she looks exactly like him. Same face. Same chaos. Same “what’s the worst thing I could do next?” expression. I’m starting to wonder if there’s such a thing as a working line of problem retrievers, because if there is, he’s definitely from it. Rarely still. Always busy. Usually doing something he shouldn’t.
So back to sleep, or the lack of it.
I told myself I’d try harder tonight. I said that last night too.
At about midnight, a woman rang about a dog loose on the road. She was worried. I told her to phone around first and see if someone closer could help. Then, at about 1am, the police rang. Same dog, exact same description. I thought it must be the same one and told them the same thing: please try everyone else first, and if no one can help, then we will.
I said, “If I don’t hear from you by six in the morning, I’ll assume it’s sorted. Otherwise, you can bring him then.”
Cue the rest of the night spent thinking: Where is he? What’s he doing? Is he safe? Is he cold? Why does my brain do this?
Six came. Nothing happened.
Yay, spare kennel, and he is safe!
Then, at about one o’clock, the woman rang again. She’d “just got up” and now felt it was convenient to bring the dog to us. Despite waking me in the night. Despite me worrying about it all night. I asked if she’d phoned anywhere else. She said the police told her we could take him.
So I said I’d like the police to ring me.
The policeman who called was lovely, genuinely kind, and explained that it’s actually the owners responsibility to find somewhere appropriate, not just pass the problem on. He said he’d have a word with them.
So, the mysterious dog with the black nose, whose breed no one can tell me, is still out there somewhere, and I feel guilty that he isn’t with us. But I also know I have to be realistic and only take the ones that truly need us, because right now there are so many.
Still, guilt doesn’t care about logic.
And neither, apparently, does my sleep.
Day two, Police again, this time they found a splendid black Labrador. Yes he was chipped, but no one answered the phone. They took all the info and dog away to one of their homes I believe.
Day three, dog seen running across A48, across from one side to another. Sadly, they were hit by a car, and died. The body came to Many Tears. I scanned the poor dogs broken body. The chip was not registered to anyone. I did not know what to do with the body. The following morning, I talked to vets about what to do next. No one has called looking for him so far. A sad few days.
The week rolls on, problems dealt with or worried about.
This amazing rescue is still here saving lives and helping animals and man to have a brighter future.
So those who support, help care, THANK YOU.
For everyone else, please visit, because everyone is welcome here.
✨To donate, please follow the link: https://many-tears-animal-rescue.giantgiving.com/campaign/sylvias-diary/
