2. Faith, Hope and Survival

A Shocking Discovery

Every Tuesday, I pulled on a familiar blue shirt and headed off to Battersea Dogs & Cats Home in Old Windsor. I had lived in Greece for many years, working with street and rescue dogs, then moved to the UK with my husband. When we arrived, I missed my work so much that my husband said: ‘Helle, why don’t you do some volunteer work with Battersea Dogs & Cats Home?’

He’d planted the seed, and now my work as a volunteer at Battersea was my favourite time of the week. I was a dog walker and socializer at the Home, a dream come true: I loved working with particularly big or difficult dogs. I had completed my training, which enabled me to walk even the most challenging dogs, including those on behaviour programmes, and help them on their journey through the Home. I loved it.

A particular favourite was a girl named Foxy. She was a lovely Akita but, for some sad reason, she’d been waiting for a new family for more than ten months. I took her for a walk every week and got to know her well. She was a reserved dog, as Akitas often are by nature, and especially so around men. But when she got to know you, she was very playful and affectionate. Once she’d let you into her world, she was funny, sweet and quick to learn.

So, on Tuesdays, Foxy was usually the first I’d take for a long walk. We’d play with a ball in one of the off-lead areas in the compound to let off some steam, and then I’d snap on her lead, zip up my waterproof jacket and head out. We were lucky that the Old Windsor site was surrounded by rolling fields and beautiful walks along the Thames. The surrounding area was rural, with towpaths and meadows, plenty for dogs to sniff and see.

On one freezing cold day, we set off briskly out of the Battersea site, crossed the main road and went down the hill towards the river. Despite her strength, Foxy was lovely to walk. She never pulled you forward or tugged at her lead. We bounced along at a comfortable pace alongside the fields that stretched out to our left, and Foxy was enthralled by all the sights and smells. Usually, the fields were full of cows while the ditches were occupied by rabbits and other interesting little creatures.

Foxy was sniffing around as usual when suddenly she began investigating something seriously, pulling hard and trying to get under the barbed wire separating us from the dipped area that led into the field beyond. I resisted her for a while, thinking it was a dead rabbit or something else I’d rather not see. But when she continued tugging, I gave in and had a quick look.

What I saw made me gasp. There, in the ditch next to the barbed wire, was an emaciated dog.

She was so thin that I thought she must be dead. But then she moved her head. She was in the most appalling state and barely hanging on in the cold.

Foxy looked at me with eyes that said: What’s going on?

I reached into my pocket to grab my phone and dial Battersea for more hands to help, when I remembered I’d left it charging back in the staff room. It was Murphy’s Law. We had to keep our mobiles on us in case there was an emergency, and the one morning I really needed mine its battery had packed up as my shift had begun.

I knew that the dog needed immediate help, but I was worried she’d disappear if I went to fetch someone. There wasn’t any other choice though so I sprinted back to the Home with Foxy and we burst into Reception. I was gasping but managed to explain what we’d found, hoping and praying the dog wasn’t capable of running away because, if she disappeared, I was certain she’d die.

Her situation was upsetting but there was no time to dwell on that. I took Foxy back to her kennel and, with two other members of staff, headed out once more with blankets in hand to bring the dog in.

She was quite difficult to locate the second time, without Foxy’s exceptional sense of smell, but in the end we found the ditch and climbed carefully over the barbed-wire fence.

The dog was still there, curled up in a ball. Although I’d been running around and was wearing thick layers, my cheeks and fingers ached from the cold and I could only imagine how frozen that dog was without an ounce of fat on her to keep her warm.

I stood by as the two members of staff carefully wrapped her in a blanket and lifted her up. She screamed in fear.

We returned to Battersea and took her straight to the clinic where a vet and a nurse were waiting. As we took a good look at the dog, we were all horrified. The vet, Paul, said: ‘This is the worst state I’ve ever seen a dog in.’

Even for me, having spent years in Greece where that type of find was common, it was one of the most extreme cases of emaciation in a dog I’d ever seen. We reckoned she was a Great Dane and she should have weighed around forty kilos. On the scales, we saw she weighed just fifteen. ‘How is she still alive?’ I wondered.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Paul said.

It was frightening even to touch her because she was like a skeleton and we worried we’d hurt her. We gave her some dog biscuits, which she gobbled, then stood her up to examine her – she had no wounds or cuts. When we saw she was able to hold herself up, we tried walking her the few steps to the kennel in the block adjacent to the clinic for sick dogs. She took three steps and collapsed. She was too weak even to lift her legs and get into the bed we’d set up for her in the kennel – the edge was only three inches high – so we got rid of it and padded an area with soft warm duvets instead.

She was filthy but we couldn’t clean her up – she was too poorly for that – and as soon as we placed her on the duvets, she let out a big sigh and her eyes began to close. It was as if she knew she was finally safe.

As she settled in, the girls and I entered her details on to the database and set about picking a name for her. Around Christmas, it was quite normal for us to pick festive names but I said: ‘Can we name her something that isn’t so cheesy?’

We had a think and one of the girls said: ‘What about Faith?’

It was perfect, given how much hope we needed even to dream that she would survive.

I returned home that night, drained. Instead of waiting a week to go in for my usual Tuesday shift, I found myself back at Battersea two days later. I checked in on Faith: she’d been cleaned up and was tentatively on her feet, her tan fur visible, along with her ribcage, but I was relieved to see her up and about.

I spoke to Paul, who told me Faith was at the start of a long road to recovery. He explained that when a dog is as malnourished as Faith, the sudden introduction of a normal amount of food could overload her system: to begin with, she was to be fed little and often. Even though she was hungry and demolished anything remotely edible that came her way, she would have small meals, specially prepared, throughout the day. The clinic had arranged a tailored feeding plan to get Faith, who was eleven or twelve months old, back to health without sending her system into shock.

Every week, I saw Faith improve. She had a sparkle in her eyes and was proving to be a lovely, happy dog, in spite of her ordeal. It was amazing how quickly she was recovering emotionally from what she’d been through: she trusted the people around her at Battersea. Everybody loved her.

Her story had touched a lot of people, and I wasn’t surprised when I heard a friend of the Home – an experienced Great Dane rescuer – had stepped in to adopt her.

But, as we headed into early December, there was a delay. Faith’s new owner, Annie, had been rushed to hospital for emergency surgery. Faith was in need of special care and, although she was steadily gaining weight, she was still rather weak so I offered to foster her until Annie was better.

As is normal procedure, two of the foster co-ordinators from Battersea brought Faith to my home to check how she would interact with my dogs: Nelly, a Greek rescue, and Henry, a five-month-old Golden Retriever. Faith growled and lunged at them, and we were concerned that my home wasn’t right for her. Then, as I studied her body language, I saw that Faith wasn’t being aggressive, she was just an under-socialized dog.

I told the foster co-ordinators my plan and they agreed to leave Faith with me: I’d fostered many dogs in my time and was experienced at it.

I used a baby gate to separate Faith from Nelly and Henry so they could all see but not get at each other. Within a day, Faith had calmed down and I was able to let her mix with my dogs under supervision. She had no idea how to play with toys such as tennis balls, or even with other dogs, and was only interested in food.

Henry, though, as a young puppy, was determined to play with his new friend. He ran towards Faith, then ducked away at the last moment, gently yapping at her as if to say, Come on! until, eventually, she joined in. Thereafter they raced around the garden regularly, and the only time they weren’t together was when Faith caught a whiff of one of my fruit trees and ran to the back of the garden to eat the windfall apples. She was still constantly foraging, and though she was gaining weight, it was a continuous reminder that she had been starving for a long time before we found her.

Two weeks passed and, early in December, Annie was ready for Faith. I took her back to Battersea and had a bit of a hard time letting her go. She was a special girl and I had a real soft spot for her because she’d been so ill. I knelt down and said: ‘Good luck, Faith. Be a good girl. I love you.’ Then I handed her over to a rehomer and walked away, as the tears stinging my eyes threatened to spill over.

When I glanced back, Faith was standing to attention and watching me with an expression that could only have meant: Where are you going?

That was what I found so hard about fostering. The dog doesn’t know it’s a temporary arrangement so it gets attached to you, as it would to its loving owner. My only comfort was that I knew where Faith was going: she would live a comfortable and happy life.

I returned to my regular Tuesdays, and Foxy was still waiting for our walks. In time, a man and his son fell in love with her and, though she was still wary of men, they were determined to give her a good life. They returned to the Home every day for weeks to spend hours with Foxy, taking her for walks and playing with her until she trusted them and was ready to go home.

It was lovely to see an owner so dedicated to Foxy and I knew she was in safe hands.

Months later when she returned to Battersea with her new owners for a spot of filming for Battersea, she recognized me from afar. Instead of looking at the camera, as she had been, she was now staring intently at me and wagging her tail. It was heart-warming that she remembered me, and it’s moments like that and even the goodbyes, like the one with Faith, that make volunteering at Battersea so worthwhile.

From the Brink …

For as long as I could remember, our house was full of noise. My brother and I grew up on my parents’ farm where we had land and livestock to tend, plus a small army of working dogs and family pets, like Springer Spaniels and Jack Russell Terriers. Life was busy and our house was packed. It wasn’t unusual to find one of our lambs amid the dogs sleeping by the fire in the evenings. I adored our lifestyle, and when I was seven years old, I vowed to have dogs of my own when I grew up.

At nineteen, I moved into my own home and took in my first puppy, a Great Dane. In time, my family grew with twins, Joe and Betty, and later, when we moved to a twelve-acre smallholding, so did the number of pets. I was particularly fond of Great Danes, which I had learnt from experience were intelligent, sensitive and loved to relax. Later, I took in Maverick and Sky from a Great Dane rescue home, as well as two Terrier crosses, Kevin and Bertie, from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.

I made some firm friends at Battersea and stayed in touch with some of the staff.

One evening, I was checking my emails when one in particular caught my eye. I clicked into it and found a picture that made me gasp. It was of an emaciated dog called Faith. She was a Great Dane cross and, judging from how she looked, she was lucky to be alive.

Below that shocking picture, there was a message from my friend at Battersea, explaining that Faith had been found close to death in a ditch near Battersea Old Windsor. It was likely somebody had dumped her there, knowing she could die in the bitter cold.

As I read the details, I felt desperately sorry for the dog.

At the end of the email, the sender asked: Wouldn’t Faith be happy with you???????

I looked at my lovely dogs, snoozing beside the open fire in our cosy living room, all with full bellies, and I knew the answer. Yes, of course Faith would be happy with us. She thoroughly deserved a life like that of Bertie, Kevin, Maverick, Sky and Lola, a six-year-old rescued Great Dane. I typed back: Yes! I’d love Faith to come and live with us.

She’d come along at the right time. I’d been thinking of getting a playmate for Lola. While Bertie and Kevin were thick as thieves, and Maverick and Sky were older and happy to keep each other company, Lola was on her own. As a result, she’d lost her drive to play and run and was putting on weight. She’d actually become very lazy. If Battersea concluded that Faith was suitable for our household, she might turn out to be the perfect friend for her.

I knew from experience that Great Danes didn’t cope well in the kennel environment so when a rehomer from Battersea called to discuss things in more detail, I told her: ‘I can take Faith as soon as possible.’

‘She’s very underweight and is still under the care of our veterinary team, but she’s getting stronger. As soon as she’s well enough, hopefully in a week or so, we’ll bring her to your home to see how she gets on with your other dogs and we can take it from there.’

‘That sounds like a plan.’

Sometimes things don’t go as you hope they will. The week Faith was due to visit, I became seriously ill and was in hospital for two weeks. I emailed Battersea and told them what had happened. They were very understanding: they would place Faith in foster care until I was well enough to have her.

In mid-November, I returned home and arranged with two rehomers at Battersea to bring Faith to my house in the countryside. It was unusual for my first meeting with Faith to be at my home, and for her to be introduced to the other members of my family on our territory, but since I’d been so ill, I was unable to make the four-hour drive to the Home, and on that occasion the rehomers made an exception.

Days later, when Faith was due to arrive, the dogs started barking all at once. That meant only one thing in our home: somebody was nearing our front door. I moved the bigger dogs to another part of the house and brought Bertie and Kevin into the living room.

The bell rang, and when I opened the door, two rehomers from Battersea stepped inside with Faith, who was still underweight but much better than she had been in the pictures I’d seen of her. It was immediately clear to me that she had some German Shepherd in her: she had the longer muzzle and a pointy nose, rather than the square, jowly look of my other Great Danes. She also had one ear up, the other down – adorable.

Faith was on a lead, and as Bertie and Kevin barked their curious hellos at her, she seemed bewildered. But Faith was as interested in them as they were in her. My dogs settled down beside me, and now that Faith was off the lead, she came over to me. She was friendly, if a bit nervous, but as I stroked her, she visibly relaxed and her ears flopped down. She wasn’t on high alert any more. She pushed against my hand, begging to be stroked some more. Whenever I stopped or slowed, she nudged me.

‘It must have been the German Shepherd strong will that got her through that horrible time,’ I told the ladies from Battersea. ‘That’s how she survived.’

They nodded.

I’d been kept in the loop on Faith’s progress while she’d been at Battersea and was told she was now on four meals a day and steadily putting on weight. Nevertheless, her bones still jutted out, which was a stark reminder of the terrible condition she’d been found in.

‘What monster could leave a dog in that state?’ I wondered aloud.

There was no answer to that question so I continued: ‘Well, it doesn’t matter any more because, if she stays here, I will give her the life she deserves.’

I was handed a letter from Faith’s foster carer, Helle, which detailed what she’d been feeding her. She added that Faith was food-driven and would eat anything we left out, so I should be careful about that.

Afterwards, the rehomers and I introduced Faith to Lola in an enclosed area outside. They hit it off immediately. They ran around after each other and it was nice to see them playing so well together. Through the fence, Faith caught a whiff of Sky and Maverick, and there weren’t any problems there either.

It was clear to everyone that Faith was a good match for our home so I signed the relevant paperwork and the rehomers gave me a few days’ supply of food for Faith and wished me all the best.

That night, I kept Lola and Faith together in the kitchen and the other dogs in another part of the house. Faith slept well through the night and it seemed she was comforted by Lola’s presence. Next day she had a proper introduction to the other dogs and was excited by all the company and attention. Every now and then, though, she became overwhelmed and came to find me, hovering with a look that pleaded: Help!

I’d give her a cuddle and then she’d be off again with her new friends.

Whenever Lola went outside, Faith followed her and they’d play for a while before Faith ran out of energy and came in. She didn’t understand that her bed was hers alone and it was her special place to rest so she didn’t get into it. When she did, she wouldn’t stay in it for more than a few minutes. Joe, Betty and I took turns in the evening sitting beside her while she was in it, stroking her and giving her treats when she climbed in until, eventually, she’d grasped that it was hers.

Faith got on fine with Sky and Maverick, but Maverick suffered physical problems that left him uninterested in play. Lola was quick to show Faith the ropes, telling her: No, steer clear of him! The same went for Sky. I always joked she was an old dog in a young dog’s body and she showed no interest in Faith. She was much more interested in keeping Maverick company.

As Christmas was round the corner, I bought a tree, put it up in our lounge and Betty helped me decorate it. On Christmas Day, we had lots of friends over and everyone got up early to take the dogs for a walk. When we returned, we cracked open the champagne extra early and celebrated. With Faith in the house, everybody seemed more excited than usual.

We sat down to lunch at two o’clock and afterwards opened our presents. The dogs had stockings filled with chews and were treated to slices of turkey. I’d never seen so many wagging tails! After that, the house quietened as I got a fire going and we settled in to watch a film. Maverick took his place by the open fire, Sky curled up on the sofa directly next to him, while Lola basked in the warmth nearby. Faith was happier in her own bed next to my chair, but Bertie and Kevin took turns on my lap. It was the same scene as when I’d first received the email from Battersea, except now I was no longer imagining Faith as a part of our family – she was a part of it.

In the New Year, I increased Faith’s portion sizes and her weight gradually went up. Her ribs were no longer protruding, and her hip bones didn’t jut out. She had bags of energy and couldn’t sit still for long. Luckily, our smallholding was the perfect place for her. Our land was fenced in so the dogs had the run of it whenever they wanted and nosed around our horses and pigs.

Whenever Joe got the quad bike out, Lola loved to run after him. It was a favourite of the Great Danes in our household to chase after and outrun it. At first, Faith was terrified but Lola circled back and nudged her forward, then set off after Joe once more. It didn’t take Faith long to catch on and join in.

Lola was five years older than Faith and, as I watched the two together, I developed a theory. I reckoned Faith had been weaned early from her mother and hadn’t received a lot of attention from her, apart from being told off. She didn’t understand that she had to observe the other dogs’ boundaries and, as Helle had warned in her letter, had a habit of gobbling the others’ food. Lola didn’t let her get away with it. If Faith went for her food, Lola told her in no uncertain terms: Hey, it’s not OK to nick mine!

In time, Faith learnt to behave and her confidence grew. She realized that if Lola went somewhere it was safe for her to go there too.

I worked from home so every morning I took the two of them for a long walk into the fields down the lane from our home and again in the evening. By now Faith was 20 kilos, up six from when she’d been found by Battersea but she was still underweight, which meant she felt the cold. On our walks in the winter air, she wore a special quilted coat to keep her warm.

Faith and Lola were together all the time and Faith took her cues from her friend. She learnt to play and run, and her energy rubbed off on Lola. She was no longer the lazy, snoozing dog I’d come to know. Instead of sticking beside me on long walks, she was chasing after Faith, who loved running ahead. Lola shed the extra weight she’d been carrying and was only in her bed when she was sleeping.

By spring, Faith no longer needed the coat and had blossomed into a lovely, bouncy, energetic dog. Last time we weighed her, she was forty-two kilos, which is just about where she should be. She’s no longer the skeletal dog I first saw in that picture: she’s muscular and healthy and does everything with passion. She has a real survivor’s attitude and has moved onwards and upwards, not letting her sad past hold her back.

It is seeing her now, healthy, happy and with an amazing quality of life, that makes the rescue process so worthwhile. She’s so loving and, of all my dogs, she’s up there with Kevin as the rescue dog that has changed most.

He was young when we got him and he was quite the devil dog. He’d bite you as soon as you’d look at him because he was so scared and stressed out. Now he’s the soppiest thing.

In my years rescuing Great Danes and terriers, I’ve realized that, no matter what their breed or history, all they need is time, routine and love. It’s amazing how quickly a rescue dog, like the ones you find at Battersea, learns to trust you. Of course, there’s always a bit of a concern when you’re taking on a new dog that she or he will get on with the existing household, but experience has taught me to give them time to settle in.

If you are thinking about getting a dog, everything will be fine, as long as you have the time and patience to help the animal get into your routine. The work Battersea does is phenomenal and they need owners like you and me to help them keep doing what they do. It takes time and effort but it’s worth it.

When Faith arrived, she hadn’t had a chance to learn the basics of living with a family or other dogs. She had had limited interaction and play with her mum and siblings but it was obvious that she wanted to be a good dog and simply didn’t know how to go about it. Now she’s got the picture. She’s still got some growing up to do but she’s getting more relaxed and secure in herself as time goes on. She is the sweetest dog.

Betty and Joe are animal mad and, like me, grew up in a house filled with them. They’re nineteen now, but they learnt to walk by hanging on to one of our Great Danes, who would stand perfectly still until the twins had pulled themselves upright and taken a step forward.

Memories like that make up our family’s history, and without our dogs, life simply wouldn’t be the same. Faith was the missing member of our family and I didn’t know it till she was here. Now we feel complete.