03/07/2025
Sylvia's Diary 03-07-25
Some days it feels like the work is breeding in dark corners while we’re not looking. What people see when they walk around the rescue is so important, a clean, happy place that smells decent (or at least not like a kennel at high tide), where cheerful faces look after cheerful dogs. But what they don’t see? That’s the real magic. It’s like Disney World: sparkles on top, chaos in the tunnels underneath.
Bill has somehow become the backstage manager, ringmaster, and magician all at once. He’s training people, juggling admin, dashing out to collect local dogs and still trying to find time to breathe, which we’re starting to view as a luxury. As for me, I’ve taken on the maintenance team alongside my own ever growing jobs. which means a lot of walking about, clipboard in hand, trying to look like I know what I’m doing (spoiler: I don’t always).
Taking over maintenance has meant one thing: everything that’s broken is now suddenly my problem. Fences? Wonky. Gutters blocked. Tools? Vanished. Maintenance team? Buried in tasks. There’s enough to keep them busy until next Easter, and that’s just the jobs we’ve noticed. But luckily, help came in an unexpected and wonderfully coordinated form…
Today, it was like a scene from a low-budget musical, fifteen people in matching red tops appeared, marching in like a chorus line of toy soldiers. They were from Virgin Atlantic, released for the day to help us, and boy, can they work. They rolled up their sleeves, picked up tools, and threw themselves into maintenance like seasoned pros. We let them cuddle puppies and dogs in between (because we’re not monsters), and honestly, the amount they got done saved us at least two full days of graft. Angels in red polos.
Meanwhile, we’ve been blessed with someone coming to help finish off the cattery, just the final insulation bits. We want it to look TikTok-worthy, or at least less “under-construction” and more “cat luxury resort.” The site is huge, and the never-ending list of things that need streaming, scrubbing, hammering, and fixing could probably qualify as its own postcode. Still, there’s progress, and that’s the part I love, seeing the place transform, bit by bit, into something beautiful. Am I tired? Yes. Are my legs still attached to my body or have they walked off on their own? Unclear. But I’m not stressed, just knackered and slightly feral. Maintenance might not be glamorous, but it’s the invisible glue holding the rescue together. And some days, when you’re ankle-deep in tools, dogs, and random things that need fixing, all you can do is laugh and keep going. The laughing bits are almost impossible at the moment but along with my other jobs I am keeping going.
Days of Doom and Gloom.
The last few days have been almost unbearable. It’s been one thing after another, and then last night, just as we were saying goodbye to the last staff member, we found our little cat Leon, who’s been with us for over ten years, our semi-feral, quiet little soul, had been run over right outside our property.
It was the final sadness. It felt like the world was against me. At that moment, I questioned everything, even my faith. I think everyone does that when it all becomes too much, but last night it really cut deep. I can understand bad things happening to me, I’ve made mistakes, I’ve had to make awful decisions, like putting dogs to sleep back in North Carolina. That guilt sits with me. I hate myself for some of the things I’ve done, for the impossible choices I’ve had to make. But why must the animals suffer? The innocent, trusting ones who only ever give love or ask for help. Why them?
It’s been a very hard time. I got up early this morning to keep going, getting things ready for the show that’s just a week away. We need this show to go well. Our finances are in such a bad place right now, we’re down £100,000 from last month. It’s not that we “lost” it, but surgeries have been expensive, adoptions are slow, wages to cover, animals to feed and medicate, and now summer brings more wear and tear, more maintenance. It’s crushing.
The last agility show we do is looming and I cannot tell you how much I need it to work.
So, the show really matters. I need it to be a success. I’ve worked so hard, for so long saving and sorting things for a year, washing hundreds of beds, repairing the ones we can, cementing frames, stacking, labeling, checking. I’ve probably mended over a hundred beds myself. Everything has to be clean, working, worth something. This show isn’t just about raising money, it’s about survival for the rescue. I’ve written to manufacturers when we noticed we were getting multiples of donated goods, and some have kindly sent things to support the show. Every gesture helps, but everything takes time. On top of that, there are still the dogs who haunt me, the little Westie with skin in such poor condition, scared but sweet. A former breeding bitch. She’s now on raw food, having baths every other day, getting as much love and attention as we can spare. I pray she starts to feel better soon and finds the most perfect, gentle home. Then there are the others. So many calls about big dogs, each with big backstories, big reasons why they “have” to come in. It’s overwhelming. I’m not eating properly. Worry sits like a stone in my stomach. But somehow, I carry on.
The tiny, good things matter, scrunchies, rubber bands, people who are kind, people who care. Thank you to everyone who’s reached out, donated, helped. I’ll keep sharing what I can, though sometimes, I skip the worst moments because they still hurt too much to write down.
Rest in peace, dear Leon. We loved you.
And to the rest of you, I’m still trying. We all are.
The Rise of the Resource Guarding Royalty
This year, more than any year before, we’ve had a flood of dogs arriving with a rather… regal attitude. I’m talking about dogs who resource guard, not just their food or their toys, but everything. I mean it. These dogs don’t just guard their beds, they guard your bed. The sofa? Claimed. The kitchen? Now their private quarters. The bathroom? Guarded like a royal throne room. Drop a tissue? It’s theirs. Try to sneeze? They’ll take the tissue and the sympathy. Need the toilet? Good luck the dog now owns the loo roll, the bathroom mat, and possibly the entire plumbing system. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t start off that way. These behaviours creep in like dodgy wiring, a flicker here, a funny noise there, and before you know it, the lights go out. Except in this case, it’s not a car that stops working, it’s a heart that breaks. A family who can’t cope. A dog that can’t stay. And what happens next? Well, that beautiful dog with the sparkling eyes and the waggy tail ends up in a rescue, where people walk past and think: what a stunner. But inside, that dog might be having a Jekyll and Hyde moment, waiting for someone to understand what’s really going on. A responsible rescue will always tell you the truth, the good, the bad, and the chewed-up remote controls. But here’s a thought (brace yourself): maybe, just maybe, it’s not the dog that needs the test - maybe it’s us.
We’ve got checks for microchips, passports, home visits, collars with phone numbers, tags with GPS, apps to track poo (yes, really)… but still, no test to say, “Hey, do you actually know what you’re doing with a dog? “Because a dog can be a lovebug on the end of the lead or it can be a four-legged tornado with teeth. And guess what? You’re in charge of which one it becomes. Training, socialisation, understanding, time they all matter. You can’t expect your dog to ignore noises at night and then guard you like a Navy SEAL when there’s a burglar. You’ve got to decide what you want and how you want to live with your dog and if you don’t know, ask! Don’t wait until it all goes horribly wrong. Here’s a cheeky suggestion: instead of hiring a behaviourist after your dog has turned into a land shark, why not bring one in before you get the dog? Ask them to assess your home, your lifestyle, your family chaos level (yes, we’re all a bit chaotic), and help match you with a dog who suits you. Because if you end up with a dog who’s not right for your life, it’s not a shameful thing to admit it. But it is heartbreaking if the dog ends up being passed from home to home, or worse, put to sleep because no one was honest about the problem. So if you bring a dog to rescue, tell us the truth. If it guards, bites, chews, screams, spins, whatever, we need to know. We’re not here to judge. We’re here to help. They need understanding, patience, training… and a bit of humour never hurts either.
So next time you think about getting a dog, don’t just ask yourself if you’re ready. Ask yourself if you’re willing to learn. Because if you are, and you find the right rescue to help you, you and your dog could be the greatest love story ever written.
This is one of many dogs to arrive this week
Meet Robin - The Red Prince of Possession
Now listen… we’ve had dogs who’ve guarded their toys.
We’ve had dogs who’ve guarded their food.
We’ve even had a dog who once tried to guard a shadow. (His own, no less.)
But Robin?
Robin takes it to a whole new level. This boy guards vibes.
Robin is a stunning, ruby-red Cocker Spaniel x Cavalier, just 8 months old and recently castrated. He is, at first glance, the kind of dog who makes you coo, reach for your phone, and consider knitting matching jumpers. He’s waggy, kissy, floppy-eared and frankly adorable.
And then…
You pick up a sock.
Not his sock. Not your sock. Just a sock.
And suddenly Robin is channeling his inner dragon.
“That sock is mine.”
“That room? Mine too.”
“That tissue you sneezed into four hours ago that’s now under the sofa? MINE.”
Bless him, Robin doesn’t just resource guard, he lifeguards. Toys, treats, chairs, corridors, memories, if you’ve seen it, touched it, or thought about it, Robin believes it now belongs to him. Even the children he loved… he couldn’t bear them having anything of their own. So much love, so much confusion. His old family, who adored him, tried their best. They even reached out for help, but were told it was a lost cause because they had kids, and kids are basically walking item-dropping machines. Eventually, when no one could help and no rescues would say yes, Robin made his way to us. And now here he is, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, looking like butter wouldn’t melt… right before he claims the butter, the knife, and the toast rack. But here’s the truth: Robin isn’t bad. He isn’t broken. He’s just wired wrong in all the wrong places, a young dog with old habits. Habits that have been unknowingly reinforced over time, and now sit deep in his little cocker brain like a goblin whispering, “Take it. It’s yours. That banana peel? Yours.”
What does Robin need?
He needs a home that knows dogs. Really knows them. A busy, active, working Cocker-type home with people who understand resource guarding, who know the difference between cute and concerning, and who don’t mind a long road if it leads somewhere beautiful. Robin LOVES other dogs and would do brilliantly in a home with confident, well-balanced dogs who can show him how to behave like a canine citizen instead of a tiny despot. He needs rules, structure, exercise, and firm boundaries, not cuddles on the couch (yet), not sleepy bed-sharing (not for a long while), and certainly not a home where he’ll be allowed to rule the roost. He’s not a dog for children, now or ever. He will always need to be watched, managed, understood. He may never be perfect but he could be phenomenal in the right hands. To the lovely family who had him: thank you for being honest. For trying. For letting him go when you knew you couldn’t meet his needs. That is love, too. To his future people, wherever you are: this little red whirlwind is waiting. He’s got potential, charm, fire, and fluff, and somewhere underneath the sock-thieving habits is a very good dog trying very hard to come out. We’ll give him all the time, stimulation, and structure we can. But he deserves a life, not a holding cell. Could that life be with you? Apply only if you’re brave, experienced, and ideally own nothing you’re not willing to share with a spaniel. Including your soul.
Most people know us as the place that takes in dogs, cats, and the occasional noble horse. But when it comes to the smaller crew – guinea pigs, rabbits, and other pint-sized companions – we’re not exactly top of the adoption charts. At the moment, we’ve got two utterly charming guinea pigs who, frankly, have been here longer than some of our staff’s packed lunches. Now, let me be clear: I refuse to see them shoved into those sad little cages people call “homes.” You know the ones, tiny wire boxes with nothing but a food bowl, a water bottle, and a faint whiff of despair. Why should they live in a shoebox when they deserve a palace? A garden retreat! A guinea pig spa, even These delightful little fuzzballs want adventure! Enrichment! Entertainment! They’re not paperweights – they’re mini mammals with ambitions. People don’t adopt them because I won’t let them go to homes where they’re just going to sit bored stiff all day waiting for a carrot like it’s a monthly paycheck.
No, no, no. They need a varied buffet – veggies, herbs, a surprise slice of melon on a Tuesday. They need hidey-huts, tunnels, things to chew on, places to dash dramatically from one end of the run to the other. And most of all, they need humans who don’t just shove them a lettuce leaf at 4 p.m. and say, “Job done. “Honestly, these aren’t “after school” pets. They’re a full-time comedy act if you give them the space to shine. Pop them under a shady tree in a secure run, move it around, shake things up! They’ll reward you with the kind of low-stakes drama that’s far better than reality TV. Am I being picky? Probably. Pedantic? Almost certainly. But do they deserve any less than the cats or the dogs or the great big horses? Absolutely not.
Speaking of which, let’s talk about cats. Our park cattery is home to some of the loveliest feline characters I’ve ever met, charming little chaps who want company, mischief, and at least one sunbeam to nap in. Some are elderly, some are friendly, some are both, which means they’ll chat to you for five minutes then fall asleep on your feet. Perfect. I built this cattery so people could come, fall in love, and help them move on. Not so they could sit around twiddling their whiskers, waiting for someone to notice how brilliant they are. So yes, I might be a bit over the top. But in my book, every life, big, small, furry, or squeaky deserves a shot at joy.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have two guinea pigs to relocate into a five-star luxury cattery with freshly picked dandelions and a mint sprig garnish.
Living on Adrenaline
Just when I think I’m spent, when I’m bone-tired and I’ve nothing left in the tank, boom! Something hits. The adrenaline spikes. The rescue life doesn’t wait. And neither do we.
We’ve just been called out on an emergency, a long, demanding route to save between 20 and 30 dogs. They need out now. They need us. They need a home. A life they’ve never known. And Joyce, absolute hero, has stepped up. She volunteered to take the journey, knowing full well that on Thursday, we’re back on the road again for the big Ardingly show. It’s our lifeline to keep these mad, wonderful missions going, but it can’t be a wasted trip. It has to count.
So we put the call out, urgent appeal to our fosterers. And wow, did they answer. Every single one of them who could help has jumped. Approved fosters only, of course, those who’ve been through our relentless vetting, and they get it. They know what’s at stake.
And then, this made me cry, a brand new fosterer steps forward. Imagine that. Not even settled in yet, and she offers to take Volly. Sweet Volly our blind and deaf golden retriever, our warrior. Now he’s got a foster home where he’ll be loved, touched, cherished, everything he needs. With another dog for company. That kind of love? It’s gold dust.
Then another fosterer steps up, willing to take in a German Shepherd or a Husky. Just like that. Just so they’re safe, until we find them forever homes. People are going above and beyond. It’s humbling. It’s exhilarating.
I need to be up at 3 a.m. tomorrow. By 4, we should have loaded the van. Joyce will be hitting the road on this epic trek, overnight stay, dog collection, and then the drive back to prep for another huge journey down to Ardingly. Three vans loaded with everything we can sell to raise funds. This show has to work, it’s not just about stalls and leaflets, it’s survival.
Everyone at the rescue is flat out. Matching dogs to fosters. Packing kits. Sorting food. Making sure every single detail is nailed down. It’s a military operation. And yet, it’s full of love. Full of heart. You should see it, every single person pouring everything they’ve got into this.
Honestly? My heart’s racing. I’m running on fumes and fire. But it’s all worth it, for the dogs. For the lives we’re about to change.
And now, as the evening creeps in, I try to plan ahead, though planning in this life is always a bit of a gamble.
First thing: Joyce deserves something special. She’s doing the impossible for us, so I’m going to make her a proper sandwich, not just a quick one, but something hearty, homemade, and wrapped with love. I’ll tuck a few treats on the seat for her too. A little care package. Something to make the long hours behind the wheel just a bit easier, a bit brighter. She won’t ask for it, but she deserves every bite.
In between that, I’ll be back to washing and sewing beds for Ardingly. We get gifted so many, most of them with problems. Ripped, lumpy, stuffing falling out. But I see the potential in every one. Some have good cushions, some strong outer shells, rarely both. But I’ve been hustling them into shape.
Honestly, I know each bed like an old friend now. I’ve pulled them apart, re stuffed them with duvets, stitched them up, and washed them clean. I’ve brushed them to make them soft again. There’s pride in that. They’re not just beds anymore, they’re future comfort for dogs who’ve known the cold too long. And they’ll bring in money, every one of them. They’ll help us go on.
Later, I’ll fall into bed, but I won’t sleep much. I never do the night before a big move. My mind will race with alarms, whispering, Don’t be late. You can’t be late. I’ll wake a hundred times before I rise in the dark, slip into boots, and head out.
Then it’s time. We load the dogs, each one a bundle of nerves and hope. I’ll whisper goodbye, give a stroke, a quiet wish. It’s the first step to their new lives.
And the next timeline I see that van, if all goes to plan, it’ll be rolling back toward me with new faces inside. New dogs. New stories. New souls to love. To heal. To cherish.
What a life. What a crazy, wonderful, exhausting life.
All went ok-ish last night/ morning. I could not sleep and was loading dogs at 2.45 am, tip toeing about so as not to wake the inmates. Joyce was here by 3 am and away on the road by 4 am. We realized I had neglected to give her the dog's paperwork. In my 18 years I never made a mistake, but today I blew it. Office staff posted the paperwork this morning, thank goodness! I went to bed, worried myself sick, got up, did my chores and a lot of catch-up stuff and worried a bit more. It’s a super long trip and it's so hot. Luckily, the van is very well fitted with fans and air conditioning.
The list is through, I know who is coming home, and kennels are being prepared for tomorrow evening. It's a fast pace here, but lots of lives are saved, and that’s what matters.
Joyce is on her way back now. All is well 21 lives coming home, and everything is ready for them.
Me, well I hope to get a few hours of sleep before leaving at 3 to drive a truck and horsebox laden with goods to sell at the show.
Thank you for your support, reading my diary , and for caring.
Sylvia x
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