28th June 2025
If you’ve been keeping an eye on the news (or our social media) you’ll know that in April, 85 dogs, mostly Springer Spaniels, were found in a house in Doncaster, before being distributed nationally across many RSPCA branches for rehabilitation and rehoming. The months have ticked over into June, and we have some lovely news to share about the remarkable Spaniels who entered into our care: our few, our happy few.
We received 5 pups: Shelley, Brontë, Pushkin, Wordsworth and Melville; along with Rosie, an adult. They tumbled into our kennels, quivering and cowering, covered in filth so deep-set that it had opened sores over their bodies. They were too small, too frightened and more world-weary than 10-month-old dogs ever ought to be. Our staff immediately set to bathing the faeces that baubled from their ears, scrubbing the yellow stainage marbled through their coats and treating their wounds, and – perhaps most importantly – swaddling them in all the love they were so desperately catching up on.
We feared they would be shut-down, unresponsive, almost immovable in their new surroundings; we feared they would be – understandably – suspicious of humans and unwilling to interact. What we didn’t realise – or could’ve ever have expected – is that these springers were spring-loaded. Staff and volunteers alike watched in awe as they bounded, rather than crept, from their shells.
It started with a thwump. And then another. And another. A sound nobody expected to hear for days, weeks, longer. Melville, the confident one, with no reason to wag but for joy in the act, was jollyly thwump-ing his tail against the side of his bed at the sight of a visitor, happiness writ large across his face. While the others watched behind with caution, he trotted and skipped. He carried the torch for the others to follow, trailblazing towards their new lives without a second thought. Since his adoption, we have seen him cavort in rivers, canter with horses, hop and skip and jump through wildflower meadows – and fold himself fully into love-laden arms.
He was followed closely by Brontë, the flighty one, who shot out running a mile-a-minute, with a manic grin and a tongue trailing behind like a soft pink jet stream. While the others ambled and tripped over their puppy legs, she raced. Her confidence growing, she found delight in the space she occupied between open sky and soft grass, dipping and diving, throwing flowers in great confetti arcs above her head. She was the last to leave. For a free wandering spirit such as hers, adjusting to the kennel had been a little rocky. We gave her a taste of freedom and she became hook-line-and-sinkered, yearning for the horizon, for woodlands to crash through and wide open spaces to circle and for someone in whom she could match her invigorative energy. This she has – finally – found. She now lives a life of morning treats in bed, of swims with her new sister, of long walks through tall fields of wheat and wildflowers. Now she can race and chase in the undergrowth, the only inkling of her whereabouts a rustled trail of movement, like the calm surface ripples of a river hiding a frenzied undercurrent. She has found her freedom.
Pushkin, the baby, was a little slower off the mark. The scraggliest, the skinniest, the one with the worst sores. He had struggled to compete in the relentless competition that had, thus far, been his life. Stuck like velcro to ankles, cross-stitched into arms, he gazed upwards, longingly, wanting nothing more than to be cradled and kissed on that soft little spot between eyes. He took his time – being, as he was, a little overawed – but soon found happiness in his inclusion. When he did gain his footing, he happily pootled, padded, pottered after his ‘siblings’, giving chase but only for the joy of being along for the ride.
Wordsworth, the wally, bones imbued with enthusiasm but less – shall we say – with brains. His smile was the most handsome, wide and crinkled with his head inquisitively cocked. His comprehension of ‘fetch’ was a little slow, but where there was running to be had, he would partake. The ball being rather incidental. Pushkin and Wordsworth were adopted together, the perfect little duo, tooth-achingly sweet. Since their adoption, we have been blessed with images of them sprawled together, tummies skywards, the picture of comfort. We have seen them chasing together in their new garden, hanging on to the same stick like tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. They have been described as ‘pure joy’, which, of course, we already knew. We expect they will be puppies for their whole lives
Shelley, the nervous one, struggled the most. We suspected she was slightly older than her kennel-mates and, in being longer in the tooth, found it harder to adjust. For days she would sit hunched, head hung in despair, sad eyes under heavy lids, surveying. But even this didn’t last. In opening up, she settled down. Joy no longer withheld from her grasping paws, she held onto it doubly tight. Whereas she had previously displayed few of her ‘siblings’ puppyish tendencies, now they were on full show: her body a concertina, stretching out and contracting in, as she gamboled over the grass. She galloped freely and, with joyous vertigo, swept you off your dancing feet. Who we once assumed was the eldest now looked every bit the infant of the group. Her story has been shared on the news and social media, her new owners eager to share Shelley’s undeniable joy with the world. I foresee a life of long hikes, cuddles with her adopted brother, curling up in freshly laundered sheets, total out-and-out adoration. This is absolutely as she deserves, and we await every update with baited breath.
Rosie was supposed to be the elder stateswoman, the adult amongst a gaggle of children, but maturity was – let’s say – not her forte. Neither was decorum, etiquette or restraint. Her goal was to outdo the children in their childishness, to out-puppy the puppies, if they pounced and played, Rosie would pounce higher and play more earnestly. If they could be carried and cradled, then she would dive more whole-heartedly into any unoccupied arms. We don’t know how long she had endured life in the before-times, amongst the 85, but it had not shaped her – she would not allow it to. Her natural state was with a smile pinned to her face. To say she has now found happiness in her new home would be an understatement of cosmic proportions, we have seen her sprawled across laps and held in arms, we have seen her playing, smiling, laughing – and not necessarily in that order. Whatever it was she has been searching her whole life for, she has found. Of that there is no doubt.
It is rare – unheard of? – to receive such incredible updates for any group of dogs across the board. But this litter, being one of so many, has tugged on heartstrings internationally, their story reached as far as Sweden and Canada. They have been equal parts heartbreakingly pitiful and heart-soaringly joyous, wretched and effervescent, harrowed and positively cock-a-hoop, often at once. We had the pleasure of being their soft place to land, the warm embrace of care and healing; then their springboard, where they learned to run and hop and take delight. Now we have passed them over. Each one launching forwards, uninhibited by the unfortunate start they were given. Each to new homes and new lives, with families we are sure will make them no end of happy, a pleasure they will return tenfold, one-hundredfold, more. Each with another spaniel, coincidence or not, we start as we mean to go on. Now we are blessed with the joy of watching as our special six live wildly, luxuriously, freely, happily.
“It is extravagantly dark here, until it is light.
…like brave lilies on an open pond,
up and out.”
(Em Strang, Burning Coyotes)
Written by Sofia Zerboni
