Notes from the Potting Shed

 📜 A Little Country Salute to the Formerly-Terrible Animal Sanctuary

by Virgil Twobyfour

I’ve always believed a society can be measured by the way it treats those who can neither pay council tax nor explain themselves at parish meetings. By that standard, our little corner of the world does tolerably well, thanks in part to the marvellous folk at what was once known (unfortunately) as The Terrible Animal Hospital.

Now, I should clarify: it wasn’t terrible in function, but simply bore the surname of its original founder, the indomitable Edna Terrible. Despite her unfortunate moniker, was a woman of endless compassion and a heady fondness for TCP. A woman once bitten by a howler monkey, stung by a Portuguese Man O' War (on dry land), and gently headbutted by an over-affectionate shire horse called Little Desmond. Ah, Edna. A woman who could knit a splint out of pipe cleaners, bandage a ferret with one hand, and silence a rowdy badger just by humming the Shipping Forecast.

The Sanctuary has always been a refuge for the strange, the lost, and the peculiarly odorous. Over the years it’s housed stray dogs, cats, three-legged turtles, sulky cormorants, one very disoriented okapi, migratory haggises (who were simply meant to be passing through), and on one occasion an Axolotl named Kenneth-so named because of his eerie resemblance to the BBC newsreader (particularly around the gills).

I myself have done voluntary work there when the allotment has allowed. Although I must admit the time I was tasked with administering topical ointment to a bad-tempered capybara left me smelling of goose fat and deep regret for a week. I once attempted to wrangle a heron into a fleece-lined pet carrier, and still carry the faint outline of its disapproval on my forehead.

The sanctuary has had its share of minor incidents over the years. None so memorable as The Shetland Escapade of ‘94, when a paddock gate was left slightly ajar (thanks to a squirrel with an opposable grudge) and eight rescued Shetland ponies made a gentle, squeaky, and surprisingly musical break for freedom. They stampeded - and I use the word as generously as one might use “swan” for a flustered duck - through the churchyard at 2:17am, causing upwards of £1.73p in damage to a flower pot and some elderly moss.

Old Widow Crumble, who was out for her habitual Midnight Tutting, was mildly startled and reportedly exclaimed “Oh” before returning to her tut. I believe she still wears the same startled expression to this day, although that may be entirely unrelated.

Then there was the brief brush with fame, when the sanctuary featured in an episode of that slow-paced but oddly compelling documentary series Back to The Country, in which urban retirees are shown round bucolic locales and tested for their tolerance to cows, drizzle, and post office closures. One particular hedge fund chap from London had his heart set on moving here until he encountered a sanctuary goose named Barry who honked like a door slamming shut on a confession. The investor reconsidered, and his absence has been widely regarded as a blessing. Local donations to the sanctuary tripled overnight when word got out. Some were just pleased Barry had finally done something useful.

The sanctuary dogs once had to be temporarily rehomed while their original kennel block was rebuilt. The council, with their usual brisk efficiency, condemned the old one on the basis that it had a lean so severe it was technically pointing at Belgium. During the rebuild, the good villagers stepped in to provide temporary lodging.

When the time came to collect the dogs, however, more than half had mysteriously disappeared. The homes they had been placed in were either mysteriously vacant or filled with individuals who suddenly knew nothing about dogs and had never even heard the word “canine.” One woman, previously allergic to pet hair, was seen walking her washing machine on a lead. Others began pushing prams with suspiciously furry occupants, or had gained an alarming amount of midsection bulk that occasionally barked or licked things.

The sanctuary, to its eternal credit, did not press the matter. They simply built a few extra beds in the assumption that those who truly needed sanctuary would find it again in their own time.

But it's always worth it. Every muddy paw print across your jumper, every confused nibble, every suspicious stain on your best gardening trousers-it’s all a badge of honour. Because there is nothing quite like watching a creature-once frightened, wounded, or bewildered-rediscover the joy of wagging, fluttering, purring, or honking once more.

Animal cruelty is a bleak and baffling thing. I’ve never understood how anyone could look into the eyes of a creature and think it’s theirs to harm. The world has enough meanness without kicking at the ones already struggling to survive our messes. But this is not about sorrow. This is about hope. About kindness, and those small acts that ripple outwards.

And you know, for all the calamities, mysteries, and mild domestic oddness that have accompanied its long history, the animal sanctuary remains a place filled with such quiet goodness. Some of those creatures arrive broken in ways you can’t always see - frightened, betrayed, confused by a world that was cruel when it should have been kind. And then, slowly, gently, they come back to themselves. You see the light come back into their eyes. You hear a purr, or a bark, or a peculiar honking sound that means “thank you.”

I’ve always said that caring for animals teaches you something essential - not just about them, but about yourself. They remind us that love is a verb, not a sentiment. That kindness is measured in food bowls and warm bedding, not platitudes. And that forgiveness is possible even after the worst of wounds, if we just show up with gentle hands and patient hearts.

So if you’ve got time, or food, or just a cupboard full of old blankets and kind intentions, do consider dropping them off at your local animal sanctuary. Ask what they need. It might just be a bit of company for a lonely old tabby, or a lift to the vet for a limping ferret. Maybe you’ve got a knack for bottle-feeding piglets or mending aviaries or untangling knotted dog leads (it’s an art, not a science).

Or maybe you’re just good at sitting very still while a nervous animal decides whether or not to trust the shape of your heart. That, I’ve found, is often the greatest gift of all.

Give what you can. They’ll love you for it. So will I.

Yours in slightly chewed wellies, biscuit crumbs and paw prints,
Virgil Twobyfour
Volunteer Animal Whisperer (retired, reactivated, then slightly re-retired)