Giving birth to puppies.

I worry. I text Jim. I call the Vet. Why has labor stalled? We review potential scenarios and solutions, and spell out exactly when to panic.

I have no idea what it’s like to give birth to puppies, or humans either, for that matter. But this is my sixth time around the block midwifing at puppy births. What’s it like? Exhilarating, exhausting, anxiety-producing, tiring, confusing, joyful.

My role is to reassure, read mama Jazz’s mind, and bring her things like a doting concierge on speed. Hurry. Clean. Congratulate. Weigh, write, move, name. Worry when the wait feels too long. Read her mind. What does she need?

Mama Jazz looks at me trying to send subliminal messages and speaking in low whines. She trusts me fully, and expects that I know just what she needs. Does she need some ice cream? (That’s not a joke; it’s really a thing when your dog is in labor, as it helps them replace energy quickly and induces contractions. They refuse solid food.) Is she thirsty? Does she want her pups, or want me to remove them to the warming bin while another is born? Is she contracting or not? Potty? Is that it? A chance to move? Is this normal? Shouldn’t she be contracting, panting more? Are we okay?

I worry. I text Jim. I call the Vet. Why has labor stalled? We review potential scenarios and solutions, and spell out exactly when to panic. “Maybe take her for a short walk to get things going again.”

Jazz wags her tail in agreement as I take her outside. She walks to her favorite spot. I relax. Then, surprise! A healthy black pup drops into the dirt. Shock—though not panic, as this has happened once before. Generally I like Jazz to do the cleaning of a new pup, as it’s the first bonding step, but this one looks like a dark chocolate jellyroll covered in pecan praline crumble. I whisk her under the kitchen faucet; she doesn’t like it much.

Relief; labor is on again, and two pups quickly follow the jellyroll, who was apparently holding up the line. We’re back in business. Catch, clean, cheer, watch, weigh, text, name. Watch again.

We’re weary, Jazz and I. She’s nursing and snoring as I write. I wonder how to unbend my aching back, and when to feed myself. I bring her more ice cream.

Are you pushing?

She is. Snatch the pups. Climb in. Encourage, monitor, count placentas. Name. Weigh.

“Please?” She asks, boring holes into my eyes with her own. Please what? Water? Another push? Take the pup? This time she wants all six back in with her. Relaxing, she is happy.

I wait. Watch her sides for panting, pushing. Count pups—3 black, 3 yellow—all present and accounted for.

It’s getting noisy in here! Chirping and clucking like a hen house.

Where’s tiny Uji? Has she latched on lately? Vancouver is practically barking, noisy guy. Noisy often means smart.

Mama moves position. We count to six again. Wait—was that a push? Snatch the six, back to the warming bin, focus. Cheer her on...

Seven! A black male. Oh-oh... what’s a name starting with X? We mop up water and fluids of many colors not generally found in the rainbow. Colors can be significant, so I clean quickly and watch carefully. It’s a messy business, this whelping. There’s a reason you don’t see many birth pictures.

Is she licking him? Are they bonding? What does she want? Those eyes again! Another “Please?”

Water? Ice cream? Pushing again? Good thing she can’t say, “No, idiot-woman.” She climbs out of the whelping box and hovers over the dry pups. Oh! She wants her pups! Back they go, into the whelping box, while I keep a sharp eye on her abdomen for contractions, ready to snatch them again.

More ice cream. Tiny Uji chirps indignantly while Xander pushes her off the nipple. “Here, Xander. There are others.” Am I helping too much?

For a moment, all chirping ceases, and Jazz’s eyes roll back and close for a quick nap. Would she be offended if I called it a cat nap? I rest my hand on her relaxed sides. And as she sleeps, the whines and chirps and squawks from the Littles begin again. A buzzing beehive. It begins to sound like an experienced family, a loving brood.

And I hear tired Jazz snore.

Happy.