07/08/2025
07-08-25 Sylvia's Diary
My Glamorous Day Out (AKA Hospital Visit with Bonus Wheelchair Wrestling)
Yesterday was the highlight of my social calendar: a hot date at the hospital. I dressed up for the occasion sort of, well, as far as dragging on something clean and not covered in dog hair goes, and off I went. While Joyce was off heroically rescuing dogs in our newly licenced van (and I was technically supposed to be coordinating the rescue schedule), I found myself stuck in a room full of knees, arms, fingers and other bandaged bits.
Yes, all those bandaged bits. We were a collection of damaged people, sitting in silence, collectively trying not to think about our legs or other parts, or our lives, or even how we’d make it to the toilets. It was hotter than the sun, so I tried to imagine I was somewhere in the south of France, sipping ribena.. Even though I don’t like wine. My foot was elevated, a gentle breeze fluttering through my hair. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the NHS clinic with my leg stuck out like a broken deckchair. Bit of a letdown, if I’m honest. Now here’s where the real fun began. First, they called me into the wrong room. Because apparently, no one noticed the enormous plastered limb I was dragging like a wounded pirate. Once they figured out which leg was injured (tip: the one covered in plaster, sticking straight out, and being carefully avoided by everyone in the waiting room), I was redirected.
New room. New staff. Same chaos.
They cracked the cast open ….which was less “medical marvel” and more “DIY with garden shears.” I had a little peek, and no, it did not look like when a dog’s had a neat, tidy operation. No fluffy bandages or happy tail wags here. Just blackened blood, crusted stitches, a grey dead looking ankle and calf, and me trying very hard not to faint or cry or scream.
They started pulling the stitches out one by one, and my foot, now resembling a fully inflated beach ball, was not happy about it. I asked why they didn’t use that magic numbing cream we use on dogs. You know, the stuff that stops them from biting the vet. They looked at me like I’d just asked for a glass of prosecco and a foot massage. “No, we don’t use that.” Well maybe you don’t, I said, but you would if it was your foot being picked apart like a roast chicken!
Eventually, when I was sobbing and pleading and making a proper scene (no shame), they gave me gas and air. I sucked that stuff down like I was trying to inflate a bouncy castle. Bill my husband started to shake, not from me, I thought, nor from laughing or nerves, but it turns out he was just a bit traumatised by me being a total wreck. I asked afterwards if it was my behaviour that upset him and he said, “Oh no, it was the pain you were in.” Which I thought was very polite.
So, covered in sweat, shame, and missing about 27 stitches, I left the hospital feeling like I’d been hit by a large dog transport van. And then! Right outside? Costa Coffee. Excellent place to vomit publicly, I thought, but managed to hold it in. Barely.
Bill fetched the car and helped me into the world’s most impractical wheelchair. I’m not sure who designed it, but it was roughly the size of a tank and couldn’t fit through any doors. Perfect for patients who can’t walk. Genius.
We got home. Bill said, “You’re going to bed.” I said, “No I’m not. I’m going to the vet.” Because obviously, what else would a sensible person do after surgery-level foot trauma? So he, like all wise husbands who knows when not to argue, guided me one hop at a time, straight there. I sat sweating in the vet room, forgetting names, drooling slightly, and trying to feel useful while not actively keeling over. Eventually I was politely ejected and parked outside like unwanted luggage. Maybe never really getting off my chest what was worrying me.
The dog van rolled in. I couldn’t help unloading, obviously, so I perched on a stool while Chelsea handed me a clipboard and told me I was helping. I’m fairly sure I was in the way. I checked off a few dogs, patted a few ears, took some blurry photos, and finally gave in. Back up the stairs (on my backside, sobbing), into bed, where Bill wrapped me up like a human burrito and handed me my Box of Bed Survival….remote, glasses, lip balm, five pens, emergency notebooks, and the sacred Irish dog transport book.
Now, about that good news…
They finally answered the questions that have been swirling in my mind for weeks! I asked, “Can I walk now the cast is off?”
They said, “No.”
“When can I walk?”
“Maybe in four weeks. Maybe more.”
“How long until I’m better?”
“No idea.”
“Will I walk normally again?”
“Most people do… but your injury was very bad.”
Cheers. That’s the kind of medical pep talk that really lifts the spirits.
Anyway, a new day has dawned. All the new dogs arrived. I lay in bed sulking because I couldn’t help settle them, couldn’t cuddle them, couldn’t reassure them. Instead, I kicked Bill out to do all that, and later he let me play at being useful with a little desk, a chair, and a pile of paperwork where dogs were brought to me like an assembly line.
Each one got checked by me, then by the vet, then by the groomer. Some got a quick bath, some got a loving cuddle, some looked horrified by the whole thing, and some wagged their tails and gave me hope. After an hour, I went back to bed, exhausted, victorious, deeply unhelpful but determined.
And now, as if I’m some kind of queen…dinner will be brought to me in bed.
God help the staff.
God help Bill.
Friday
Today has been what I can only describe as a blur of fur, vet notes, and very pregnant surprises.
The rescue is bursting at the seams again. We’re trying to get all the dogs onto our system so we can keep track of who’s in urgent need of medical attention and who simply looks like they’ve had a hard life (sadly it’s most of them). But that’s only half the battle, the real panic starts when we realise we’ve also got to figure out how we’ll pay for it all. That part isn’t written on any medical notes, sadly.
My main job today was inputting vet notes onto the dogs’ physical cards. Yes, we have a digital system (we’re not in the Stone Age), but these cards are essential for the team, they let us quickly see who’s been health checked, who needs meds, and who’s being fast-tracked to surgery. Each dog gets a “med sheet” for minor treatment. Others… well, let’s just say they get a fast pass to the vet’s table.
There have been some really sweet souls arriving lately, but a lot of them are in rough condition, neglected skin, rotten teeth, dodgy hips, lumps and bumps where there shouldn’t be any. We know major surgeries are looming for many of them. Oh, and we haven’t even touched the group of 34 dogs that arrived the other day. That’s not because we’re lazy, we’re still working through a backlog. The 34 had health checks then were given time to gain weight, finish worming treatments, and get thoroughly checked. We’ve even been scanning them for pregnancy. At first, to our great relief, none showed any signs of being in pup. We all sighed, joked nervously, and moved on.
But time has passed… and one of them has started to blossom, a bit like a ripe watermelon. While the others stayed lean and sprightly, she began to grow in the middle. A quick trip back to the vet confirmed what we were all dreading: she’s very, very pregnant. Somehow, the initial scan missed it…..which isn’t unusual, especially when a dog is very far along. But still, it gave us all heart failure.
Again.
Now the new panic begins: how many of the others are also expecting? They came in together, they live together, and wouldn’t you know it, they’ve started synchronising their seasons like a canine flash mob. So now, every time one of them so much as blinks too long or lies on her side, we all start whispering, “Do you think she’s pregnant too?”
I’ll have to tell you about the rest, including the group from the breeders later. My screen is misbehaving and threatening to eat this entire entry and if it does, I will probably cry again. I am very well practiced at that at the moment.
A Tipping Point, and No Miracles Left?
The last two days have been so intense, we’ve had to bring in two vets working flat-out, plus another just to handle health checks. It’s been non-stop, syringes, scans, surgeries, and enough paperwork to sink a small island. But every single one of these dogs is worth it. Every ounce of worry, time, energy… they deserve it all. But if I’m honest, brutally honest, we can’t carry on like this.
There has to come a point where we say no. I’ve been dodging that moment like it’s a snake in the grass, but I can feel it approaching. And when it comes, it’ll be me who has to say the words. Me who has to look at a desperate plea for help and say we can’t take that dog. It sits so heavily on my shoulders that it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And what frightens me most is that I don’t think we’ve got any miracles left. The adoptions have slowed to a crawl. People are off on holiday, distracted, busy with summer, not looking to adopt, not thinking about the ones still waiting. Even our fosterers are away or still caring for dogs they haven’t yet rehomed. So, while the rescue is hurtling forward at a million miles an hour, the lifeline of adoptions has gone quiet.
It’s a strange kind of heartbreak working this hard, pouring everything in, but watching the doors stay closed for the dogs who so desperately need out. The vets keep going, the team keeps going, the dogs keep arriving, but the space, the funds, the miracles… they’re not infinite.
I know I’m supposed to end on a hopeful note, and I wish I could. I really do hope that tomorrow brings some kind of uplifting news, something that makes us all smile and keeps us going. But today has been a day of hard work and quiet worry, of facing the truth that we can’t save them all no matter how much we want to. And sadly I had always believed between us we somehow could.
But until that moment where we have to say no, we’ll keep showing up. One scan, one surgery, one miracle at a time.
Diary Entry – August 5th
Everyone’s working so hard, and yet there’s a sense of quiet joy in the air. I can see how much the team is genuinely enjoying caring for the new dogs we’ve taken in. These poor souls need so much extra care, urgent veterinary work, complicated operations, and still, no one complains. The dogs don’t either. They’re so noble. They make so little fuss, even though they’ve been living in such discomfort for so long.
Some have hernias so large that their bladders have popped through. Others have teeth falling out, their gums painfully raw and inflamed, it’s horrendous. A few need operations so complex our vets can’t even attempt them here. And yet, already, some are beginning to greet us. Their tails are starting to wag, their heads lifting with a kind of cautious hope. And in their eyes… that look of longing. It’s impossible to ignore. They want to belong. They want to be loved. And I want so much to give them that. They deserve it more than most will ever understand.
I can’t stay out with them for long. If I let my foot hang too low, it turns a horrible colour, and I know I need to get it healed as quickly as possible. But in the brief moments I’m with them, I see everything I need to.
What I want most is to see these dogs find homes…not just the dogs, but the cats too. This week has reminded me just how overlooked our cats are. Let me tell you about Chuckles. He’s a beautiful cat, gentle, curious, and so full of character. He’s funny too, the kind of cat who lifts your spirits just by being in the room.
I built the cattery to be friendly and welcoming for the public, somewhere people could come and spend time getting to know these wonderful cats. But the truth is, it’s just not attracting visitors. Nobody is coming forward for them, and we’re getting fuller and fuller. We’re having to turn away more and more, and it’s heartbreaking.
I knew the situation with unwanted cats in this area was bad, I just didn’t know it was this bad. What’s even harder to understand is that our adoption fees are lower than what it would cost to get a cat spayed or neutered, microchipped, vaccinations, wormed, and anything else it needs - all of this is done for adult cats. Yet still, people aren’t coming.
Maybe it’s the journey, it might feel too far for some. But I can’t help thinking: you’d travel hundreds of miles for a two-week holiday, yet not find a friend who could be by your side for 17 years? I just wish these lives were valued as they should be. We could help so many more if only people would come.
Today, Joyce is out collecting five more dogs. She won’t be back until late. Everyone here is rushing around, doing everything they can to make sure the dogs, cats, and even the horses are fed, safe, and loved.
Last night, a man called the emergency line. He asked, “Is it an emergency if I’m going to put this dog out on the road?” I said, “Yes. It is. How can we help?”
He’d come home from work to find the dog had chewed the toys, the sofa, basically wrecked the house. I don’t doubt he works long hours to give his family nice things. But that dog wasn’t being destructive out of spite, he was lonely, frustrated, bored. Dogs often chew because they’re unhappy. Because they’re left alone too long.
So now that dog, a beautiful little blue Frenchie, is here with us. Safe. Looking for a home where someone won’t leave him alone all day, or threaten to put him out on the street. A home where he’ll be valued for the amazing friend he can be.
Another dog came in today under very different circumstances. He belonged to a man who had served our country in the war, a man who had earned medals for his bravery. Years ago, he rescued this dog, he saved him from a life of misery. But now the man is gravely ill, and no one would take the dog. He was booked in to be put to sleep tomorrow.
I just couldn’t allow that to happen.
That dog, a strong and noble bulldog, didn’t deserve to end his life like that. He had been loyal. He loved his person. And now, he’s here with us. Confused, grieving, but safe. And we will find a way to honour both their lives.
Not the happiest of diaries, I spend at least 10 hours of my day doing paperwork, e-mails, sorting out problems and scheduling new projects and ensuring the materials for the projects are the cheapest we can find, donated or free, and arrive in a timely fashion.
We have two new staff who have replaced others who have left to follow other dreams (but who we hope to see back in 6 months or so) . The new people are enthusiastic and big dog lovers. The rescue carries on, but only because of you and people like you who care.
Gower Giggles and Golden Moments
What a week! Steph, her mum, and a very persuasive relative (you know the kind who say “just hold this for a second” and suddenly you’re stuck behind a stall all day) went off to the Gower Show to raise funds for us. Now, if you’ve never been to the Gower, let me tell you, it’s not just beautiful, it’s ridiculously beautiful. Beaches that look like they belong on a postcard, hills that roll like cake batter, and skies that make you want to burst into song. Honestly, if Wales had a crown jewel, the Gower would be it, but Wales has many, not just one.
One of our amazing supporters holds a dog show just for us every year there, how amazing is that?! Steph, her mum, and their roped-in sidekick set up a stall with donated goodies: some rather posh salon items and health treats, and together these ladies raised over £500! Not bad for a day’s work surrounded by sandy toes and wagging tails. The show itself raised over £2,300 wow!!!
But the true star of the show? Tolly. A dog who once arrived here terrified, practically folding into herself, unsure whether to trust a human hand. But with patience and love, and a whole year of Steph’s gentle nurturing, Tolly not only attended the show… she came THIRD in her class! Steph’s face says it all. Beaming like she’d won Crufts and the lottery combined. And me? I was grinning like a Cheshire cat from my bed, because seeing a dog everyone gave up on before she came here, blossom and shine and makes other people smile …well, that’s what it’s all about.
The show itself was a hoot. None of your stiff upper lip and tartan-skirted judges are taking notes. Nope, this was joyful chaos, with giggling kids, proud dog parents, and pups prancing around in tutus and wagging with glee. It was pure fun, no pressure, no perfection, just love, laughter, and loyalty on four paws. The money raised was wonderful, but the spirit of the day? Priceless.
When I started Many Tears, I had no idea how many people felt like I did. But I did know one thing: every single penny counts.
My parents made sure I knew the value of money. Oh boy, did they. Want a treat? Save up. Want something special? More paper rounds. Cleaning windows, weeding gardens, walking dogs, yes all of it. No handouts, no shortcuts. Even now, when I open a can of Coke, I think, “Wow, this is a luxury!” We only ever got one on holiday here and there and even then, it was a rare thing. But it taught me that the real treasure in life isn’t things…. it’s effort, kindness, and appreciation.
And in my family, animals were treasures too. My mum once raised a fallen baby bird by hand. I can still see her chopping up worms with a knife and fork, delicately feeding the little one like it was royalty. When it flew away, she cried her heart out, not from sadness, but from the love she’d poured into something so fragile. That kind of care… That's what made me who I am.
Sometimes I wonder if the world’s changing. Kids think money grows on trees. People forget kindness. And animals? Too often seen through a price tag. Maybe I’m just feeling low. Or maybe I’m just getting old and nostalgic. But then something happens, and it all comes rushing back.
Like Saturday.
Moses came to visit.
Beautiful, bouncy, miraculous Moses, the puppy who was never supposed to live. But with a bit of human stubbornness (mine, mostly), he did. And now? He’s thriving. His new family, who already adored him, came to adopt another puppy. This one has cataracts, and will need a little extra care. But to them, that didn’t matter. They saw value, not flaw. And I felt so proud, so full of hope and happiness, I nearly cried.
I miss moments like that. Being stuck upstairs isn’t easy. I get tons of work done (which is great), but I miss the first spark in someone’s eyes when they meet their new best friend. I miss watching transformation, not just in dogs, but in people.
Still… life’s a rollercoaster, isn’t it? There are ups and downs, but thank goodness for the ups. Thank goodness for Tolly's third place. For Moses walking tall. For shows full of laughter, and volunteers full of heart. For Steph’s smile, and families who don’t flinch at imperfection.
I might be off my feet, but I’m not down and out. I’m surrounded by stories that lift me higher than any staircase could. And I’m clinging tight to those highs because they’re everything.
Thank you for believing in our work, for reading this and for loving the animals. Sylvia x
If you'd prefer to donate using debit card or PayPal via our website please follow this link, thank you! https://many-tears-animal-rescue.giantgiving.com/campaign/sylvias-diary/?fbclid=IwY2xjawMBm6FleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETBkYmxwTVFPTFZEeWRqeENaAR6X-iLRy3pFdhWD69C4wuRGU8eRYaRTWudyPyyJKvvAfq09bNDce-a9W5Ey6A_aem_V2vNUo2bDTmyfMr2BuIakg
