Puppy Daze

If your story isn’t good, it’s because you haven’t arrived at the ending yet.

I awoke in a daze, wondering about the odd, rhythmic, whiney noise in my dark bedroom.

Snoring?

I reached for Jim, then remembered he was away.

A whistle? An alarm? The sound was surprisingly loud, and near.

With a surge of adrenaline my brain connected the dots and my feet hit the floor. A puppy!

Just four hours before, Mama Oakley had been chasing a ball, leaping in the air. “Well, those puppies aren’t coming anytime soon,” I said to myself. None of the usual signs of labor, except noting her milk had come in.

Oakley had been nesting for a couple of weeks, squeezing her bulging body under the bed or the porch, feeling the comfort of those tight spaces, a good place to protect her puppies. So I knew right where to look, and as Oakley squeezed out from under the bed, my hand reached in and found the little, wet squeaker. I rubbed her quickly to warm her and check her responsiveness. She lifted her wobbly head and complained of the cold.

“Good girl, Oakley! It’s your puppy!” I held the tiny version of herself to her nose. She responded with mama-like obsession and excited curiosity. Her first pup!

“Good girl! Good girl!” I said as I slipped my feet into slippers, and moved with haste toward the whelping room.

There are two obsessive mamas in the birthing process, the dog version and the human one.

There are two obsessive mamas in the birthing process, the dog version and the human one. I instantly flip from “It’s going to be great!” to worrying about every possible thing that could go wrong once the darlings begin to arrive. Is it warm enough in here? Clean enough? Is the next one coming? Where is the tiny scale? Will Oakley know what to do? I was eighteen places at once, my own frantic version of nesting, watching to see how they were bonding, if puppy was latching properly, if another was coming, if Mama needed anything.

“First pup!” I text Jim, who is finishing a late swing shift. “Ava!”

A couple of days before, we had finished our list of boy/girl puppy names, beginning with “A” for Oakley’s first litter. It’s a tradition at Gallagher kennels. We surrender to getting really bonded with our little lovelies, and like associating their personalities with a name.

Ava, still wet, was warming up and scooting around the whelping box, squeaking. Mama Oakley was licking her obsessively, and wondering what this nursing thing was all about. I climbed into the whelping box with the two of them, and settled in for a long night, watching Oakley’s sides for signs of more contractions.

I worried about a lot of things, but I especially worried that her sides were so slack. Had contractions stopped? Oakley didn’t seem to be in any distress. I had a warming box ready for Ava; at the first signs of pushing I would move her there so Oakley could focus on #2. But where was the next pup?

I few litters ago we stopped doing ultrasounds, because for us they were notoriously inaccurate. Many breeders like to have a count, to know when birthing is done, but if the count is inaccurate, your trust in the numbers becomes a dangerous thing. We had learned instead to read the mama, watch her behavior, to palpate and feel for puppies until we were sure labor was done. That’s what worried me. Mama Oakley showed no signs of contractions at all, her sides relaxed.

We had expected a smaller litter, judging from her size, but surely there was more than one! I watched her for signs of distress. I palpated, feeling for the little round heads. I felt none.

Waited. Worried. Hoped.

But as the night wore on and Oakley comfortably settled into mothering her little black ink blot, I slowly began absorbing the truth. There was only going to be one puppy.

The night was peaceful. But I was in shock.

All was calm, all was bright. And I felt guilty feeling sad, but I was sad! I was ready for the buzzing hen-house of chirps and squeaks, the weighing, the ribbons to tell them apart. The mayhem, the photos, shuttling armloads of sleeping puppies back from the play area to their sleeping box. I looked forward to the puppy play stage, the training, the outdoor expeditions as the little pig-rats grew into darling puppies and then into gleaming mini dogs. I relished the pride of handing off gorgeous, smart pups to their new, excited families.

The whelping box is just right for a litter of puppies, but quite small for humans. I slept there anyway, making sure mom and baby got this right and everyone was safe.

Mama’s nose kept neurotically chasing her little puppy from here to there, licking, flipping, moving the puppy the way all mamas do. Her eyes were getting heavy and she shoved Ava close to me and snuggled in close herself. Afraid the tiny thing would be squished if we fell asleep, I lifted Ava to my chest.

Ava scootched and squeaked herself into the warm crook of my neck where she fell contentedly asleep, twitching one foot. Oakley lay her head next to Ava on my chest and slept at last. I breathed in deeply that wonderful puppy smell, stroking the black velvet fur of Mama and Baby and melting inside, surrendering to a new and different kind of beauty.

Sadness and beauty can, apparently, occupy the same space. They each demand your attention, nudging you persistently until you acknowledge them.

Life has been teaching me—as you all know—that you can lament a loss and embrace your blessings all at the same time. It’s weird, like oil and water mixing, but sadness and beauty can, apparently, occupy the same space. They each demand your attention, nudging you persistently until you acknowledge them. And then acceptance moves in, unpacks, and makes the place beautiful.

Life doesn’t always turn out the way you intended. If your story isn’t good, it’s because you haven’t arrived at the ending yet.

What sadness do you need to acknowledge?

What beauty do you need to surrender to?