Deaf collie Anwyn's remarkable journey from Irish stray to loving home

The Quiet Heart of Anwyn
The Story of a Deaf Collie's Journey from Stray to Home

In the soft, grey light of a winter's morning in 2021, the mist clung low over the hills of rural Ireland. In a quiet field edged by trees and the faint shimmer of frost, a lone figure moved with the careful caution of a dog used to silence — and solitude. She was slim and alert, her tri-coloured coat clean despite her uncertain surroundings. No collar, no chip, no one waiting. Just a dog with bright, intelligent eyes, listening to a world she couldn't hear.

Anwyn — though she didn't have a name yet — had been found as a stray. A passer-by had spotted her in the hedgerows and coaxed her with half a sausage roll and a kind voice. She followed, trusting, as if waiting for someone — anyone — to tell her what to do. There was no panic in her movements, no fear, only curiosity and a gentle wariness. She was taken to a local rescue, where she sat in the kennels for a few days while they waited to see if someone might come forward.

No one did.

She was in good health and well-fed, not the kind of dog who had been fending for herself for long. The staff suspected she must have been from working stock, perhaps a young collie who hadn't taken to the sheep or had slipped through a gate one night and kept walking. She didn't flinch at handling, let people touch her paws, look at her teeth. She didn't growl, didn't snap. But she also didn't react to the usual noises of a kennels — the loud barks, the clatter of metal bowls, the shouts from the yard. It didn't take long to confirm what the rescue team suspected. Anwyn was deaf.

No chip. No reclaim. A dog without a past, it seemed. But as is so often the case, that was where her story began.

In late January 2022 she was transferred across the Irish Sea to the Border Collie Trust GB in Staffordshire. The team there had worked with dogs like Anwyn before — deaf dogs, scared dogs, dogs that didn't slot into the ordinary mould. When she stepped off the transport, she walked with quiet purpose, her ears alert, her eyes scanning the new world around her. She sniffed the breeze, wagged her tail at the first staff member who knelt to greet her, and bounded inside with a playfulness that surprised everyone.

Despite the disruption of travel, she arrived in good condition. A glossy coat. Bright teeth. A clear gaze. She wasn't your usual long-term stray. There was a sharpness to her — a focus. The staff watched as she chased a ball in outdoor areas, weaving in zigzags with a speed and accuracy that spoke of working heritage. And yet, she wasn't just a machine for motion — she wanted people. She leaned into a hand under her chin, rested a paw gently against a knee, wagged her tail in response to a treat.

She played with toys, gently mouthing a rubber ring or tossing a plush pheasant in the air with joy. She liked treats, especially cheese. She was curious about the centre's resident cat in reception — not in a predatory way, but more like a confused sibling trying to figure out what game was being played. She gazed intently, head tilted, eyes wide.

Anwyn, they named her — after a Welsh name meaning "very beautiful" — and it suited her. A dog with a quiet elegance, a softness behind the sharp eyes.

But though she was affectionate with people, her relationship with other dogs took more time. In the kennels, she didn't bark back when the others shouted through the bars, but she stood alert and stiff, watching. On walks, she was (and still is) focused more on staring at any passing pooch. She wasn't aggressive — just cautious, as if dog language had never quite made sense to her. Perhaps in her old life, she'd been a solo worker, never needing to share space or resource. Whatever the reason, she preferred calm and space.

For a while, Anwyn stayed in the centre, drawing interest but never quite finding the right match. Her deafness didn't deter people as much as her reserved nature with other dogs. She wasn't a dog park regular. She didn't light up around every stranger. She was affectionate, clever, willing — but sensitive. A dog who needed more than a quick hello and a brisk walk.

In February 2022, Anwyn found her match — and her home — with two of the charity's trustees, Ben and Sue Wilkes who reside at the centre. They'd known her, of course. Had watched her develop. Seen how she responded to routines, to calm voices and kind hands. They had room in their hearts and their home for a dog like her.

From the moment she walked through the door, it was clear Anwyn had landed somewhere different. She sniffed everything. Every skirting board, every rug. She paced the house for a good hour, checking doorways and window sills, learning the layout with quiet intensity.

There was just one problem.

The television.

For a deaf dog, the TV might not seem like an issue. But it wasn't the sound — it was the movement. The sudden flashes of colour, the frantic cuts between scenes, the unnatural flickering light. The first time Ben flicked it on, Anwyn bolted. Hackles raised, tail between her legs, she screamed — a sound not often heard from her — and fled to the kitchen. Her whole body trembling.

So, the TV went off.

For three months, the living room stayed still. No dramas, no news, no flickering game shows. Instead, there were puzzles and dog toys, quiet music and window watching. Ben and Sue worked patiently, day by day, slowly reintroducing the glowing screen. They started with still images. Then five-minute clips. A calm documentary with slow panning shots. Nature shows with flowing rivers and wide skies.

It took time, but Anwyn adjusted. Her trust, hard-won and freely given, was stronger than her fears. She has developed a love of black and white films and surprisingly enough one of her favourite programmes, All Creatures Great And Small is a real treat. It's calm, gentle storyline perfect for her senses.

And through it all, she learned something extraordinary — a new language. Training a deaf dog is both an art and a science. With Anwyn, it began with eye contact. Rewarded every time. Then came basic signs — a flat hand for "sit", open arms for "come", a wagging finger for "no". Anwyn learned fast. Her eyes rarely left her handler. Her focus was intense, not because she was afraid, but because she wanted to know what was being asked.

She thrived on structure, clarity, and kindness. She learned the sign for "good girl", the thumbs up and even grasped a sign for "bedtime". In the garden, she watched the wind with curiosity. In the kitchen, she'd sit politely for a slice of banana. In the evenings, she'd curl up on the rug beneath Sue's chair, eyes half-closed, one ear twitching, ever alert.

And more than anything, she brought a stillness with her.

She didn't demand attention. She didn't crash through doors or race upstairs (well, not all the time). She moved with a calm dignity, always aware, always watching. When guests arrived, she'd study them carefully before deciding to approach with a toy. When other dogs barked on walks, she just stared at them. Her world was quieter, more focused, and in many ways, richer for it.

Ben often says that Anwyn had taught them as much as they had taught her. Patience. Time. Observation. The value of slowing down. The beauty of non-verbal connection.

It's now summer 2025, and Anwyn is curled in a patch of sunlight in the living room. Her coat gleams in the afternoon light, her paws twitching slightly as she dreams. She's come a long way from that Irish field. No longer a stray, no longer uncertain. She's a dog with a home, a language, a history — and a family.

And in the stillness of her world, there's a quiet joy that speaks louder than words ever could.

Epilogue: A Note from Ben & Sue

"Anwyn reminds us daily that communication doesn't require sound — it needs trust, time, and respect. She watches with a depth that's hard to describe, understands with her whole being. To anyone considering adopting a deaf dog: don't be afraid. You won't be giving a home to a dog with limitations — you'll be welcoming a soul who listens with their heart."

www.bordercollietrustgb.org.uk