Gabby: The Little Dog That Had to Learn to Bark
By Barby Keel
4.5/5
()
About this ebook
Baby seagulls, mischievous ferrets, strutting peacocks…in the decades that Barby Keel has run her animal sanctuary in the English countryside, she has seen all manner of creatures. Thousands of cats and dogs have come through her doors and, with the aid of Barby and her dedicated staff, found loving forever homes. But Gabby, a small terrier with solemn, terrified eyes, is like no case Barby has ever encountered before.
Gabby has spent all eight years of her life indoors. She has no idea how to play with a toy or chew a treat. She has never dug in the dirt or rolled happily in the grass. Strangest of all, Gabby does not know how to bark. Barby can tell that the little golden-haired dog is bright and curious beneath her paralyzing fear, but coaxing out Gabby’s true spirit will be a daunting task.
Yet sometimes, a dog and a human fit together like two puzzle pieces, and so it is with Gabby and Barby. And Barby, who believes passionately in animals’ ability to help and heal those they love, will find her faith in Gabby repaid just when she, and her sanctuary, need it most . . .
Related to Gabby
Titles in the series (2)
Gabby: The Little Dog That Had to Learn to Bark Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Will You Love Me?: The Rescue Dog That Rescued Me Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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Reviews for Gabby
3 ratings1 review
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I received this interesting book about Barby Keel and a little dog she bonded with, for free and I voluntarily chose to review it. I've given it a 4* rating. Her love and respect for animals are a large part of her little kingdom where she and her many volunteers care and heal many animals. She seems to have an instinctive knowledge of what many of these poor animals need. This is just a later chapter in her life with these animals. I think animal lovers will enjoy this.
Book preview
Gabby - Barby Keel
AFTERWORD
I
NTRODUCTION
The first dog I was ever able to call my own was a handsome mongrel called Rex. At least, I thought he was gorgeous-looking. In reality he was a rather mangy mixture of breeds, with a lopsided grin and cream-colored fur, patches of it missing in places.
It was 1945, and I was ten years old. It wasn’t long after VE Day, which marked the end of the Second World War in Europe, and everyone, including us children, was still giddy with the sense of victory and freedom. One day I arrived home from school to find a dog in the kitchen lapping at a bowl of water. It was love at first sight.
From the moment I set eyes on Rex, he was my dog, even though it was my father who had found this stray hound and had taken him in off the streets. Dad was soppy when it came to animals—and I inherited his love for them. Many times during my formative years he would come home from his work as a chef at a small hotel carrying an animal he’d rescued
from one of the shabby pet shops that used to exist in those days. He came home with cats, dogs, and even a monkey and a bush baby! I grew up watching him devote his tenderness to any stray or sick creature within our neighborhood in Eastbourne, Sussex, and I vowed to do the same when I was grown up.
To this day, I remember seeing Rex peering out of the front room window, waiting for my return from school. As I opened the front door, I could hear the scratch of his paws scrabbling to gain purchase on the wooden floors, and he would bound up to me, covering me in doggie kisses and rendering me helpless with giggles. We were inseparable. Every night he slept on my bed, and every day he pined as I left for school, just as I pined being away from him as the school day dragged on. I longed for the bell that heralded the end of lessons, and I would skip all the way home to be reunited with him.
I didn’t have the easiest of childhoods, and perhaps that’s why animals became my focus, as a way of dealing with that. But mostly I think I was born with a passion for them that has surpassed everything else. As a child, my relationship with my mother was fraught, to say the least. I was never her favorite child. She made it very clear that she preferred my older brother Peter to me, and then our (much) younger sister Pam, who appeared ten years after I was born. It was Mum who made the decision to put Rex to sleep one day when I was at school. Rex was old, and he hadn’t been himself for the weeks leading up to that day. Even so, it was a huge shock to come home from class and find the house empty, my beloved dog taken from me without a word to me. Never again would I hear him rushing to greet me. Never again would I feel his cold wet nose against my face as he showed me the kind of devotion only a dog can. Never again would I curl up in bed with him, feeling his heart beating and the warmth of his rangy body against mine as we drifted off to sleep. It was an unforgiveable act, in my eyes, and I don’t think I ever truly forgave her. That night, and for many nights after, I cried myself to sleep. My heart was completely broken at the loss of my first-ever pet, and I can still recall his dear face today, so many years later.
Luckily, I had Dad. He was the kindest, gentlest man in the world, and he was my refuge during my mother’s storms, which broke over my head all too frequently. It wasn’t just my immediate family life that was difficult. I was four when war broke out and can remember bombing raids by the Luftwaffe, and I was once almost gunned down in a field while being evacuated. My love of animals got me through. I even had a pet in our air-raid shelter, a frog I nicknamed Prince Charming, and those nights when we were all huddled inside, wondering if we would survive, I would croon over that small, green frog.
Animals, unlike humans, generally have simple needs; to be loved, to be cared for, to be fed and watered and given a soft bed to sleep on. During my life, animals, and especially my pet dogs, have soothed the parts of me left wounded by my childhood, have healed me in ways that are profound.
At the Animal Sanctuary that I run in Bexhill, Sussex, we recognize that it isn’t just the animals that are saved by our care. I believe passionately in the power of animals to heal us. The connection between beasts and mankind is as old as time itself. When an animal comes to the sanctuary and is nurtured back to health, we are all changed in meaningful ways. We are all made a little better by the experience.
The animals who come to us are often victims of neglect or downright cruelty. They are abandoned, unwanted, possibly ill and in pain. We make no judgment about the humans responsible, as far as we are able, as the animal is always at the center of our thinking. Love is the core of everything we do day by day, hour by hour. It is love that drives us forward, it is the reason we keep going. Every day there are new animals who come in needing our love and care, and every day we make sure we give it to them. It is rare that an animal doesn’t respond, but always in their own way and in their own time.
I never intended to set up an animal sanctuary. In fact, I almost became a model in London when I was a young woman in my twenties. It was 1958 and the age of glamour had arrived after the years of post-war austerity. Suddenly Hollywood film stars were aspired to, and the newspapers and magazines were full of beautiful actresses and handsome actors. At the time, I had a slim figure with blonde hair styled in a fashionable updo on my head. I was offered the chance to model for Coca-Cola. A photographer, who was scouting the Sussex coast for models, spotted me in the line of a fish and chip shop. He stopped me as I left, two big bundles of chips wrapped in newspaper in my arms, and offered me the chance to go to London, all expenses paid.
I realize now that it was probably the pivotal moment in my life, though I didn’t know it then. I stood there, gawping at the man holding out his business card, and without a second’s thought I turned it down. He was holding out the prospect of fame and fortune, of glamour and possibly wealth, but I knew even at that formative age that it just wasn’t me. I didn’t want to leave my dad and go off with a stranger to a big city. I liked it where I was and I couldn’t have cared less about following fashion or big brands, though I liked to make myself look nice as any young woman did back then. I was—and still am—a country girl, happier in a muddy field shifting a bale of straw than posing for pictures.
It was the right decision. It took another thirteen years, but eventually I saw some land on Freezeland Lane, Bexhill, Sussex, put up for sale. It cost £1,500 for four acres, and this time I knew it was what I wanted. I had been saving up for years with the intention of buying a plot, and this was my opportunity. I was with my former partner Les at the time. I drove him out there, parked, and stepped outside. It was a warm spring day, the kind that holds the magic of possibility. The trees were bursting with life. The grass was lush like the rolling countryside that surrounded us. I breathed in the smell of the soil beneath our feet, and I knew I had to buy the land. I felt instantly at home. Even though we were only a couple of miles from Bexhill town center, it felt like we were deep in the country with fields and farmland for miles around.
My father had separated from my mother by then, so, in 1971, I gathered up my few possessions, my bush baby and two dogs, and started a new life, with Dad in tow. United in our love for the outdoors and caring for our four-legged friends, we decided to take in a few strays, just a few, to look after on the land. I put two trailers on the site, one for me and Les, the other for my father. I’ll always remember the smile on Les’s handsome face that day, reflecting back my happiness. I was thirty-six at the time, and I had no career plan. I don’t think such a thing existed back then. They were simpler times; you grew up, got a job, and settled down with someone. I hadn’t quite done things in that order, but it was the right time for me to put down roots at last.
I named the land Pipzedene
after the three animals that started it all: Pip was a golden spaniel with an infectious, exuberant personality; Zede was a black-and-tan German shepherd, extremely loyal but quite reserved, while Deana was my gray bush baby. I built up the site brick by brick, fence by fence, over the years. Very soon after moving in, I started taking in animals. As time went on, I had to create enclosures, then pens, then pathways and more fencing, as the variety of animals under my wing increased. From those small humble beginnings, the Animal Sanctuary was born.
It grew organically. I knew that for many people, my shelter was a last resort, the final place they could come before an animal was put down or heartlessly dumped. My soft heart and inability to say no to a suffering creature have meant that over the years, I have fostered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of animals of all descriptions. We’ve had donkeys, horses, ponies, goats, sheep, cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, guinea fowl, pigeons, peacocks, seagulls, gerbils, guinea pigs, mice, chinchilla, rabbits, and ferrets come to us, alongside the cats and dogs for rehoming. We usually have two hundred cats at any one time.
Over time, people started contacting me asking to volunteer, and so my staff grew. Then, as the bills began pouring in, and the makeshift sanctuary looked on the verge of collapse, we were saved many times by supporters bequeathing money to the shelter in their wills. Donations started trickling in, and so we set up an animal sponsorship scheme and asked for donations from those rehoming cats or dogs, largely toward the cost of spaying or neutering the animals. Against all the odds, we kept growing, and we soon had roughly four hundred animals in our care. In the same year we became a registered charity.
On some days, we’d have as many as six cats, two dogs, and several sheep given to us; on others we’d have a crateful of hens that had escaped the chop at the end of their laying lives, an injured pheasant, a pig that had been seen by a member of the public abandoned in a farmer’s field. It was an endless roll of variety—with many sad stories woven into the menagerie. Every day I see animals that have been neglected, and often worse—dumped over our gate, beaten, starved, or sometimes even dying. I am a tough bird, but the horrors I’ve witnessed, inflicted on blameless animals, have broken my heart time and time again over the years. Yet I also see the best of human kindness with my motley crew, as I call my staff of volunteers, giving these poor creatures the love, care, and shelter they need. Many require medical treatment when they arrive here. Many just need to live out their last days in peace and comfort, though we try to rehome as many animals as possible but only to loving and permanent families. Any animal that cannot be found a place to live is given a place here at the sanctuary. No creature is turned away.
Fostering animals is a privilege, and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else with my life. My house is permanently filled with volunteers, dogs, and visitors, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To protect the identities of those involved, I have changed some names and identifying features of both animals and humans, but the facts of each case are true, and offer a revealing insight into the world of caring for unwanted animals.
I wanted to write this book to give people an honest account of my life as an animal fosterer, to show the struggles and challenges I face on a daily basis, and to show that with love and care, many animals can be saved and healed at my sanctuary, and at many other good sanctuaries around the country, and how, in turn, we, too, are healed in ways that are beyond words.
Chapter 1
N
EW
A
RRIVALS
The day dawned with bright summer light that glowed across the fields, the enclosures, and the landscape that surrounded us. Though we were only a short distance from the town center, it felt like we were a million miles away on mornings like this. Apart from the electricity transmission lines that sliced through the land, it was a rural idyll, and it felt like we were somehow apart from civilization. The backdrop to my life was the rolling, undulating Sussex countryside, and, of course, the sanctuary land that sheltered and housed animals of every description. I breathed in the smell of summer, that indefinable scent of flowers and grass, which mixed with the familiar sanctuary aroma of fresh straw, dry fur, and mud.
I yawned. The residents of the sanctuary had started their waking rituals at 4
A.M
.: the roosters crowed as they struck their funny poses around the yard, the pigs grunted, the horses brayed in the back fields, the goats and sheep bleated for their breakfast. Then there were the dogs barking in the kennels, desperate for a walk, and the noise from the assorted ducks, geese, chickens, and seagulls that also resided here. Their squawks, clucks, honks, and screeches joined the cacophony, making me smile. It was just another day at the Animal Sanctuary.
I’d better get up and make Dan some beans on toast. He’ll be in for his breakfast soon,
I muttered to myself as I hastily got dressed. My mind was already whirring from the list of jobs I had to get on with that morning. I need to check with Diane about the cat who may be deaf. He’s due to be rehomed soon, and so we must get him to the vet to check. The pigs need new straw, so I’ll do that first. Those bundles are blimmin’ heavy for an old lady like myself!
I chuckled.
I laughed because even though I was sixty-eight years old, I was fighting fit. Every morning at daybreak I’d get up, pull on a top and some trousers, and head out to clean out the animals, dragging huge sacks of goat or sheep feed, pulling a bale of hay onto my back or striding over the fields in search of a missing goat. I never felt my age. I’d spent my life working hard, and it didn’t occur to me for a minute that I might retire one day. Why would I want to sit around with nothing to do? That would kill me faster than any hard labor, or so I thought.
I’d bought this land thirty-one years ago with a view to taking in a few unwanted or abandoned animals or strays. Within a few months of setting up in my leaky RV on the site, the trickle of strays had turned into a deluge, with the horses, goats, dogs, and donkeys all roaming free, as animals should be, on my land. All I had to contain them was a fence that ran around the perimeter of the site, which I’d sold my car as well as canceled my life insurance to help pay for. I figured that without children, I