Sylvia's Diary 20-03-25

I often get asked why I work a seven-day week, long hours, and never seem to take a holiday. Well, it’s pretty simple, every second, minute, hour, or week I take off could mean the difference for an animal’s life. It's about commitment, hard work, and the feeling of achievement when a life is saved.

I stumbled across a statement once, and it stuck with me ever since:

“Rescue is not just a noun. Rescue is a promise.”

And it hit home because, honestly, that’s what this is all about. Every rescue is a promise I’ve made to those animals - no days off, no rest, just one goal in mind.

The weight of last week lingers still, a quiet ache that won’t fade. Apple Bee, our dear Old English puppy, made the long, difficult journey to the specialist. It was a journey born of hope, and yet, it felt like stepping into an uncertain future. I was excited, yes, but that excitement was wrapped tightly in caution, a deep, gnawing fear of what might come.

Her condition, this plumbing problem, it’s as if her body refuses to function as it should. Her bladder, a betrayal she cannot control. And so, she needs a bath every day, every single day. The idea of it all weighs on me, on her. There’s a surgery, an option, that’s meant to help. Many dogs have gone before her, and still, the success rate is heartbreakingly imperfect. They tell me that; the vet, the specialists. They say it’s worth a shot, that she deserves the chance. How could I not try for her?

But when the time came, after the long hours of waiting, after the imaging, the decision was made: no surgery, not yet. The plan is for another two weeks, another round of tests, and a kidney removal that might, just might, give her the relief she needs. A kidney. How strange, how terrifying.

And so, we wait. We cross our fingers, we pray. For this sweet, charming girl who deserves so much more than she’s been given. I don’t know if the future holds relief for her. I only know I will fight for her as long as I can. I owe her that.

And then there’s Promise, our little Cocker Spaniel Cross with a brain that can’t quite find its way. I can’t say much, only that things are changing, but they’re changing so slowly. Too slowly. The swelling might be settling, the storm in his mind may quiet, but we can’t know for sure. He’s still blind, still struggling to make sense of the world. But he sniffs now, at least. He’s interested in the smells, in the things I didn’t think he’d notice.

He’s calmer, a little less frantic, and maybe that’s progress. He’s growing, filling out. He looks healthier, more like a dog who has the chance to grow old. But even that comes with a cost. Promise is a challenge, a puzzle I don’t know how to solve. He needs eyes on him all the time. All the time. If we look away, for even a moment, he can unknowingly tumble into trouble, and it’s a danger I can’t always predict.

I made a promise to him, though. That’s why his name is Promise. I swore that I would give him my best, my everything. I can’t break that.

If there’s any kindness left in the world, if there’s any mercy, I ask for it now. I ask for prayers for these two. Their future is unknown, uncertain in every way, and I carry that burden every day. Their lives are in our hands, and those hands are trembling. I would never have asked for this responsibility, but here it is, and all I can do is hold on.

For Apple Bee. For Promise. Please, let them find peace. Let them find hope.

Thursday Late-Night Comedy Show (Featuring Cats, Dogs & One Very Unbothered Horse)

Oh, what a night! Peace and quiet reigned supreme - until about 2 AM, when all hell broke loose. Naturally, I decided to take one for the team and let Bill sleep while I embarked on a solo midnight detective mission. Off I went, creeping around in the darkness like a budget version of Sherlock Holmes, trying to figure out why the dogs were having an absolute meltdown.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No ghostly intruders, no burglars, not even a scandalous hedgehog minding its own business. Feeling somewhat defeated, I slunk back to bed, only for the barking symphony to start up again just ten minutes later.

Now, my prime suspects? The feral cats. These are not just any cats, oh no. They are freeloaders of the highest order. They turned up one day, sniffed out the all-you-can-eat buffet and five-star accommodation (complete with open doors and zero rent), and decided this was their new kingdom. Years later, they tolerate our presence, graciously allowing the occasional pat - but move into a house? Ha! As if. They’re far too busy perfecting their life of freedom, which apparently includes nighttime recreational dog-tormenting.

The barking episodes continued in 30-minute intervals, just frequent enough to drive a person to madness. And, of course, today of all days, Bill and I had to be up at an ungodly hour because Apple Bee has a specialist appointment for - shall we say - some plumbing repairs. So, heart pounding, I took another investigative lap around the place.

First thing I saw? A horse lying outside his stable. Now, at 3 AM, seeing a large animal sprawled on the ground is enough to send one’s blood pressure skyrocketing. I rushed over in full panic mode, only for him to flick his forelock at me like a teenager who just got woken up for school. With an expression of pure “What’s your problem?” energy, he stood up, gave himself a dramatic shake, and casually strolled back into his stable as if this was all perfectly normal.

Onward I went, peering into the warm, cozy dog unit. And there, rising like a grumpy queen from her perfectly arranged blanket throne, was one of our little dogs, glaring at me with the unmistakable expression of “Excuse me, but do you MIND?” She had tucked herself in so snugly, I half-expected her to demand room service.

After all that, I never did solve the great 2 AM barking mystery, but if I had to place a bet? The feral cats were sitting just out of reach, smugly watching the chaos unfold, enjoying their role as nighttime troublemakers.

Decisions, Dogs, Cats and Dilemmas. 

Busy day. Too many decisions. Too many poor animals.

A ginger cat was found shivering at the edge of the lane, his fur matted with blood from a deep wound on his neck. He was too exhausted to resist, so we scooped him up and rushed him to the vet. As they cleaned him up, something about him seemed familiar. Our manager went up the road to check with a local homeowner - sure enough, they had been feeding him for ten years. But was he theirs? “Oh no, not ours,” they said.

Later, we got a call about another cat. A family had her for fifteen years, but now, with a baby on the way, she had to go. Apparently, love has an expiration date.

The calls and emails never stop. Every day, it’s another plea: Can you take this one? If not, it will die. Someone called over 200 rescues, sanctuaries, and helplines trying to find a home for his high-energy dog. No luck. So now, he’s booked in for euthanasia, unless we can help. And once again, I’m asked to play God.

I’ve done this before. I ran a humane society in North Carolina. More animals came in each day than we could rehome in six months. Animal lovers avoided coming to help because they knew the truth: anything that entered likely had three days before it was gone forever.

I took the job to make changes, but I also had to be the executioner. I made sure the last thing those animals saw was kindness, not cruelty. Before I was there, the dogs were gassed, or worse dropped into a pit and shot by one of the two dog catchers who felt nothing, and who had boasted to staff before me, of having to take many shots as the dogs tried to scramble out of the hole. I will never forget those days. And sometimes, here, when I’m forced to make the same impossible choices, it all comes rushing back.

If I ever win the lottery, I’d go back and transform that place. But maybe, just maybe, in the 20 years since, some humanity has found its way in.

For now, we focus on the ones we can save.

Pups that pee, poo and chew……

Today, we had a big adoption event for a litter of puppies. Their mother, a sweet and gentle Saluki mix, came in with them when they were just three days old. Their father? A wire-haired Dachshund look-alike. The result? The most ridiculous little low-riders you’ve ever seen - tiny legs, enormous personalities. They’re full of mischief and utterly clueless about personal space.

We’ve loved watching their antics, but I won’t miss the AM clean-ups. I have never seen so much poop come out of such small creatures. If Olympic synchronized pooping were a sport, they’d take gold.

The Ridiculous Rescue Life

Just one problem after another today. But that’s normal. Cats, dogs, horses—I can handle those. Bats? Well, that one needed a little outside expertise. Thankfully, last week we had a bat rescue who had wintered a bat for us and brought him back to return to the exact place found., people who actually know how to deal with tiny flying goblins.

But when it’s something out of the ordinary, I have to cram knowledge like I’m studying for a last-minute exam. My brain is now filled with emergency facts about eagle owls, goats, rabbits, guinea pigs, rats, mice, squirrels, and, as of today, turtles.

Yes. Turtles, or should I say terrapins.

Two little terrapins arrived in what can only be described as a minimalist studio apartment—a white bucket. No heating, no proper food, no rock to sunbathe on. Just a bucket. If they had tiny turtle protest signs, they would have been waving them.

So, naturally, we upgraded them. They now have a larger accommodation, a heat lamp, a climbing rock, and food that isn’t just an afterthought. They look much happier—well, as happy as turtles can look. It’s hard to tell. They might be planning our downfall.

No, we are not a turtle rescue. We are just a rescue that wants to see the best for all animals and save lives wherever we can.

A few years ago, Bill and I decided we desperately needed a holiday, just a week away to relax. My daughter had a contact who could source great deals on trips, and before we knew it, we were offered a holiday in Antigua. Sun, sea, and cocktails, what could be better?

However, being me, I had one very specific (and, admittedly, unusual) question: “Are there any suffering animals there?” The lady assured me, “Oh no, nothing like that!” So, reassured, I agreed.

Of course, just to be on the safe side, I did a little research before we left. I discovered there were indeed some animal rescues on the island, so instead of filling my suitcase with holiday clothes like a normal person, I packed it full of collars, leads, treats, and toys. Priorities, right?

We landed in Antigua, and the hotel shuttle bus picked us up. As we drove through the streets, my heart sank. I counted over 30 stray dogs - thin, scratching, shaking their ears, clearly in poor health. Some, heartbreakingly, were lying lifeless at the side of the road. So much for “no suffering animals.”

The next morning, I decided to go for a swim in the sea to clear my head. The sea had other ideas and promptly introduced me to a jellyfish. Now covered in painful red stings, Bill and I hobbled off to the local shop for ointment. Outside the shop, I spotted a black dog - skin and bone, standing miserably on the pavement. When I approached, he bolted. So, I went in, bought my ointment and some chicken, because, well, obviously.

I found him again, put the food down, stepped back, and watched as he devoured it. He was in a terrible state, starved, timid, his spirit broken. The shop owner and some kind locals had been feeding him scraps, but he had clearly been struggling for a long time. He was just a black dog, unremarkable to many, but to me, he was suddenly everything.

Later that day, we went into town and found the island’s only vet. But before we even got there, we came across another stray - this one had been hit by a car. So, instead of sightseeing, we ended up at the vet with the injured street dog. The vet explained that the island had very few resources, only one spay-and-neuter clinic, and a handful of people trying their best to help.

That was it. Holiday mode: off. Rescue mode: fully activated. The next few days were spent running between the vet clinic and the streets, trying to win the black dog’s trust. We made a deal: if we caught him, we would bring him, and the injured black-and-tan stray home to England. We asked the vet if they could board the dogs if we managed to catch them, and thankfully, they agreed.

One night, exhausted and weak, the black dog finally lay down in a car park. A small group of animal lovers helped me form a quiet circle around him. Slowly, carefully, I walked up, slipped a lead around him, and scooped him into my arms. He didn’t resist. He was too tired to fight anymore.

Our “relaxing” holiday had turned into five days of dog-catching and vet visits. Bill, who, let’s be honest, had signed up for cocktails, not canines, took it all in stride. We left Antigua with no dogs, but with a promise: they would come to us as soon as they were well enough to travel.

Back home, I couldn’t shake the heartbreak of what I’d seen. Then I had an idea. I knew that banana boats (yes, really) shipped goods from the UK to Antigua, and I found out their shipping company was based in Southampton. So, I wrote them a letter, explaining the situation and my desperate wish to help. Miraculously, they agreed to give me an entire shipping container for supplies. I put out an appeal, and the response was overwhelming. People donated wire crates, paint, paddling pools, spay-and-neuter instruments, medicine, food, everything the rescues had wished for and more.

Meanwhile, our two rescues finally made the journey from Antigua to Heathrow - thank you, Bill, for footing that rather hefty bill. They recovered, thrived, and eventually found loving homes. The “cheap holiday” had turned into the most expensive two-dog rescue mission ever.

Even now, the work continues. The vet recently told me they’re short on suture material for their spay clinic, so we sent a package. It cost £25 to send a tiny parcel - not sustainable. So, I reached out again, asking if anyone traveling to Antigua could take supplies in their luggage. Once again, kindness poured in

For all the cruelty and suffering in the world, there are also so many good people. And that gives me hope. Tomorrow, I’ll be rummaging through our rescue supplies, finding things to send, raising funds, and doing whatever I can. Because once you’ve seen suffering like that, you can’t unsee it. And you have to do something about it.

March 18, 2025

I woke up today at 3:30 PM, completely lost in the clutches of a deep sleep that took me on quite the wild ride. Now, I’m not one to analyze my dreams, but this one was just too out there to ignore. Picture this: I’m galloping away, chased by… well, many (I never got a good count) on the back of a tri-colored beagle. Yes, you read that right, a beagle. And for whatever reason, at that moment, it all made perfect sense. I was perfectly calm, thinking “this is totally normal, no big deal.” But as the morning light filtered in, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I’m usually so sleep-deprived that I don’t even remember my dreams, but this one felt like it had a plot. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling me to stop running from things? Who knows. But I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself over a beagle chase – I’m just glad I remembered it, to be honest.

Speaking of running away from things, I’m starting to realize how tough it’s becoming to say or do the right thing. It’s like I’m living in a world where everyone wants to throw their emotional baggage at me. Take, for example, the dog situation. People call me up saying, “If you don’t take my dog, we’ll put it to sleep.” I take the dog, and what do I get? A screaming phone call about how I’m heartless for putting “saved from being put to sleep” on the dog’s profile. Like, excuse me, I thought I was helping here!

Am I supposed to be a psychic? A counselor? A CEO of empathy? The balance is so delicate. There are the people who need saving, and then there are the ones who don’t care about the impact of their words on me, as long as their emotional needs are met. It’s exhausting. It feels like I’m walking on eggshells while carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I just wish there was a manual for how to manage other people’s emotions while trying to stay sane myself.

I remember when I was little, I used to fantasize about being a dog. Or a horse. Back then, happiness meant living in simple bliss - chasing after a ball or galloping through fields. Now, as an adult, I realize that being either of those animals would only bring more suffering, thanks to us humans. Funny how things change.

Now, as I sit on this boat heading to Ireland, the gentle sway of the cabin offering some comfort, I can’t help but think about the last few days. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a sadness that refuses to fully go away, but I have to push it down. I need to be sharp, collected. There’s no room for distraction. The mission ahead is too important.

I’m the planner, the organizer, the human compass leading this whole rescue effort. We’ve got over 15 stops between two vans, covering vast distances to save these dogs. My van will return in a few days, the other one tonight. The planning behind it all? Mind-boggling. Hours and hours of paperwork, tracking, scheduling. It’s a puzzle with lives hanging in the balance. And yet, every single one of these dogs is precious. They wouldn’t be here without the amazing staff, the volunteers, the people who care. It’s worth it, every bit of it.

And as I think about it, I’m reminded: I might not have all the answers or know exactly what I’m doing, but I’m doing something. I’m making a difference, one dog at a time.

March 19th - The Great Doggie Pick-Up Adventure

The day began bright and early, and with a van full of optimism (and a few snacks) I was ready to conquer the world of dog transport. My mental van plan was in place – I had a rough idea of the dog sizes I’d be picking up. You know, in the North, no passports are needed, everything’s simple. But in the South, where a mere stone’s throw away is a whole different universe, it’s passport-central, and let me tell you, it makes transporting dogs feel like I’m smuggling rare spices or something. And with passport requirements, I know roughly the sizes, but for the North I don’t have that luxury - so, naturally, I had the sizes figured out in advance for the South. The North, though? It’s a mystery box of canine proportions until I actually see them.

First stop was for two Cockapoos. Ah, the good old Cockapoos. The image of cuddly, manageable little fluff balls danced in my head. But then out came David, staggering under the weight of a dog that could have been mistaken for a small bear. My heart sank. These were not the toy-sized fluff nuggets I’d imagined. No, these were hefty 25-kilo-plus Cockapoos with the enthusiasm of a gym class after a five-shot espresso. David’s face turned redder with every step as he tried, and failed, to maintain his balance under the dog’s weight. The crates? Way too small. So, we upgraded to bigger accommodations, which meant the van plan, which had just started, was already a mess.

Onward we went. Next stop, a German Shepherd who looked like she was in her “Don’t even think about it” phase. No wagging tail, no happy vibes, just a “you-better-keep-your-distance” stare. Thankfully, her owner swooped in and whisked her away before we became her afternoon snack. Phew.

Then, hallelujah! The next two dogs were exactly the size I had envisioned. But wait - one of them was loose! Cue a game of “Catch the Dog Who Won’t Sit Still,” while the other pup was happily crated. And who was the object of this bouncy dog’s affection? None other than David, who, in a twist of fate, became the human jungle gym of the day. She was all over him, kissing, cuddling, climbing… I think David might have a new best friend. And yes, I could practically hear him saying, “Why me?” as we loaded her up.

And then came the big, bad GSD. Another one who looked like he was about to tear through the van. But, no! As I stepped out, he gave me a friendly “paw,” rolled over, and demanded belly rubs. Really? A belly rub? What happened to the tough-guy persona? Guess he was just in it for the cuddles.

After a quick pit stop for fuel and doggie water, we continued our mission, slowly but surely, picking up more dogs from homes and breeders as we inched our way toward the port.

As we hit the road, it was time to navigate the infamous Irish lanes. Some were passable, others felt like riding roller coasters, and a few were basically craters disguised as roads. Northern Ireland isn’t huge, but the distances between pick-ups felt like driving across an entire continent. But at least the last pick-up would be at a friendly farmer’s place, so I knew we could stop, let the dogs stretch their legs, and, let’s be honest, let us stretch our legs too.

Who knew dog transport could be such a wild ride? But, hey, at least the dogs are happy and so are we… most of the time.

We arrived at customs, something you must do before booking in to board the boat. This is done even though Northern Ireland is part of the UK for the animals' safety and to ensure that dogs are not being smuggled from the South to go over the sea to mainland England or Scotland.

Well, today’s adventure involved a deep dive into the world of customs – and let me tell you, it’s a whole other universe. First off, they have this incredible electronic scanner that’s like a dog’s personal assistant. If it scans the same dog twice, it just knows and eliminates the second scan. It’s like the scanner says, “Yeah, I’ve got this, don’t worry about it.” And if you really want to get fancy, you can plug it in and print out every single number. So, if you’re into that level of detail, customs have you covered!

 Now, the customs team here? Thorough doesn’t even begin to describe it. Two officers come around to every van or lorry carrying horses or dogs. And no, they don’t just look from a distance – they climb up onto the boards and scan every single animal. It’s like they’re looking for the next big thing in animal scanning tech. Sometimes a vet or animal welfare officer tags along for the fun. They check your paperwork like they’re preparing for a top-secret mission, asking about routes, addresses, and times. It’s like playing detective, but with less mystery and more paperwork.

It does take a while, but honestly, I appreciate their attention to detail. And the best part? When they complimented the dogs for being so chill on their duvets. I guess nothing says “relaxed” like a dog living its best life on a soft, fluffy duvet while customs does its thing. Who knew customs could be a compliment generator for dogs?

At last we are home, the dogs are off the van soaking up the sunshine, David's gone home for a well-earned rest, Joyce too. Vets are busy checking dogs, and I sit here finishing this diary.

 All your support has been amazing, and I am so glad you are interested in the truth of what our rescue really does, but sad too. Still some horrid rumours and words are spread, even though I am happy to show any one around and also we have audited accounts that people can see.

 I guess my only thoughts are that of Abraham Lincoln, a great dog and cat lover who once said these very wise words

“Better to remain silent and be thought a fool. Than to speak out and remove all doubt."

Thank you again for your time reading this and your very kind support. Sylvia x