Doodle Doings

Here is the conclusion of the article I wrote that was originally published in 1988 Summer/Fall issue of Tradeswomen Journal. Please see the entry just previous to this one for the first installment.

The students were one of the roughest groups of men I had ever seen. Ten of the twelve were from inner city agencies. All of them were big, all were black, all were very street tough. Most had missing teeth. One had “The Kid” tattooed in blue across his knuckles.

The two white men were good ole boys. One was wearing a baseball cap reading “A man deserves one good dog and one good woman in his lifetime.” I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but I knew this wasn’t it.

The first lecture was given by Jack, a mellow hippie with an easy smile and quick wit. He was an excellent teacher and I was cruising right along taking notes on heat and moisture movement, until the slide show began. Jack was enumerating the sources of moisture production in a home, and I looked up to see a slide of a woman standing in a shower wearing a towel that barely covered her from nipples to crotch. Memories of medical school dermatology lectures where Playboy slides illustrated “normal″ skin momentarily obscured the present classroom. As I recalled the ensuing battles with the medical school instructors, the dean and my own classmates, tears filled my eyes. It was starting again. When I returned to the present, I realized my decision had been made. If I had taken on the entire medical school administration and a student body of 400, certainly I could talk to one man about his slide show.

As the students filed out of the class room, I began to have second thoughts. After all, I had only worked at the school three weeks, and was still in the probationary period. My mouth was dry as Jack turned around from the blackboard. As he saw me alone at the back of the room, the look on his face told me he knew why I had remained. Before I could say anything he apologized. “I’m really sorry about that slide It’s just that it helps to develop a rapport with the students. I know I should take it out. Besides, there are hardly ever women in our classes.” As I handed him the standard line about sexism being sexism whether it was in front of me or behind my back, I remembered something Lynn had told me. Jack was often the subject of rumors among the students. They sometimes thought him to be gay because of his easygoing manner and somewhat theatrical lecture style. Jack was using slides of near-naked women. to be “one of the boys.” He was having his own problems fitting into the world of blue-collar men, and sex seemed to be the lowest common denominator. Jack agreed to throw the slide away as I realized, for the first time, how really tough it would be to establish my own credibility among these students.

Over the next several months I studied hard, asked a lot of questions, butched-up even more than usual (a feat thought by some to be impossible) and began pulling a share of the teaching load. And credibility was hard to come by. A very small, very white woman was not these guys’ idea of an authority figure on house construction and roofing repair. Usually the students’ attitudes were condescending but not particularly threatening. “Now little lady don’t you think this would be a better way to do that?” On some days they all but patted me on the head.

But one morning was different. I was lecturing about the minimal effectiveness of storm windows, and why they are the last priority to be funded on every one of the houses we weatherize A man in the front row, who had been slouched in his seat behind crossed arms and mirrored shades all morning, said, “Nah, we put’m on all the time.” I pointed out that in order for an agency to continue being funded, they have to follow the priority system determined by the State. Before I knew what happened he was on his feet, shouting, “You don’t know what the hell you’ re talking about!” I understood now why they had asked the question in the interview about how I would handle a student calling me an asshole. This confrontation was rapidly progressing to that point. Though my knees were weak I replied, “We don’t have many rules here, but one of them is that you stay in that seat. And if you won’t do that I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’d rather continue the class and we can discuss this during a break.” He turned and left the classroom, much to my relief.

After the class was over I informed Jack (who had recently become the director of the school) what had happened. He said as long as the student behaved himself for the rest of the course we would let the incident slide I was satisfied with this, although I wasn’t sure how I would handle it if the student chose to escalate things further: The students were out in the garage working on a lab supervised by another instructor so I went back to my classroom to collect my notes. As I walked past the front table I had a sudden hunch. I picked up the irate student’s Coke can and smelled it. It contained beer. And this man was outside using power tools. I went back upstairs to Jack, showing him the pop can. Within an hour the student was on his way home, and I had earned the reputation as a C.B.— a cold bitch.

That was the first, although not the last, of students that tried to intimidate me. Months later I was outside supervising a lab session. I heard one student say to his team partner, “We better get a five (out of five) on this thing. I bet she never gives fives. She grades tough. Moments later he said to me, “We’re done And we better get a five or I’m going out to my truck and getting my shotgun.” This was coming from a man fully a foot and a half taller than me, no front teeth, and a nasty scar across his cheek. With as much of a smile as I could muster I returned, “You’1l get a zero for trying to intimidate an instructor.”

“Oh no, don’t give us a zero, I was only kidding.” Yeah, right.

Almost as difficult to handle were the students that were way too friendly On more than one occasion I wanted to just tell a student that was coming on to me to just fuck off, but as an instructor I had to maintain a certain degree of professionalism.

On this particular occasion I was outside shingling a couple of large doghouses on which the students practice cutting holes for roof vents. (This was typical procedure: we build, the students tear it up, we rebuild, the next class tears it up, etc). Another team of instructors was conducting a lab, so their students were milling around outside . A very young, very good-looking, very smooth-talking young man approached me.

“Hey baby….how ’bout coming to a pool party at the hotel later. I’d like to see you in a swim suit.”

“No thanks, I’m not interested.”

“Come on, baby It’ll be a good time.”

“I’m an instructor here and I never socialize with the students.” (The cold bitch rises again. I thought that would get him.)

“Yeah, but you’re not my instructor. Maybe you could instruct me after hours.”

I was mad now. “Lay off buddy. I’m not your instructor for this course, but I’ll have your grade in my hands for the next one. Buzz off.”

Really livid, I stomped off, leaving his jaw in the gravel. I raged up the three flights of stairs to the common office that all the six instructors shared. As I slammed the door to the office and kicked the nearest trash can I realized I was not alone in the office. The newest, and straightest instructor, Lou, was at his desk. In one long rush of words I outlined the scene which had just transpired, including quite a few more expletives than is usually my custom. He listened quietly until I finished, then suggested, “Maybe you should just stay out of his way.”

That was the last straw. I exploded. “Stay out of his way! Stay out of his way! I’m the instructor here! He better stay out of my way! Don’t try to take away what little power I have here! It’s not up to me to avoid him, it’s up to him to treat me with respect!” Poor Lou was shocked into silence.

The student didn’t say another word to me. Later in the day I told Lynn the whole story. Lynn, who is black, asked, “Was the student black?” Not sure of the connection, I replied that he was. Lynn, hooting with laughter, informed, me, “They like them small and they like them white!”

Our course load was often so heavy that a class of students would cut holes in the doghouse roof one week, and a new batch of students would arrive the very next week, there to do the same thing. I spent many Sundays at work, re-shingling those damn doghouses. One Sunday I was at the usual place, work belt on, hammering away enjoying working out in the sun after many days of dismal weather. I looked up to see Lynn pull in across the parking lot, undoubtedly picking up more paperwork to tackle at home. Sure enough, she came back out of the building with an armload of papers. As her baby blue pickup truck peeled past me she hung out the window hollering, “Hey baby…. want to go for a ride? Wheeee!” I waved my hammer at her and smiled as she peeled out, enjoying the ridiculous parody. The next day at work she told me, “I saw you out there in your tank top with your tool belt and hammer, enjoying working in the sun, and I knew the scene wouldn’t be complete without some sexist asshole trying to pick you up.’ I was glad for another woman to share the burden of breaking that blue collar ground. And I knew she was glad too.

It is lovely to see the heartfelt good wishes for Teddy on my blog, and on the sites I posted my blog link.  I also got emails privately requesting that I post updates on Teddy when they become available.

While I was still in New York, there were a couple of Teddy events that, unfortunately, portended a later one.  My friends had some visitors besides me that weekend, including a couple kids, ages about 3 and 6. I was not there to see it, but Teddy apparently lunged at them when they arrived.  Since I was not there, and didn’t know his level of socialization with kids, I couldn’t tell from the accounts whether he was making an attempt at play, or if it was something much more serious.  The decision was made to crate him upstairs when the kids were in the apartment.  At least twice when the kids were near his crate he became aggressive, throwing himself against the sides and snarling.  This was not exactly surprising, as some dogs feel very trapped and vulnerable when crated, and react in ways that they never would if they were free.

As mentioned in my previous post, it was discovered via the microchip registration that Teddy was either from Ohio, or one of his owners was, because his chip was registered in Ohio.  He had not been reported missing.  The rescue organization contacted the person to whom the chip was registered, and that person had two weeks from the date of contact to get back to the rescue and claim Teddy.

Not knowing if the original owners would respond, my friends continued to try to find a new home for Teddy.  A friend of theirs expressed interest and a ‘play date’ was set for Teddy to meet the man and his dog at a dog park.  Teddy had a blast, getting along with all the dogs in the park……except the one belonging to the potential new owner! Darn.  No dice.

A couple days later my friends took both dogs for a walks separately.  One is a marathon runner, and their girl dog is her running partner, so off they went, while Teddy and my other friend took a more leisurely stroll towards the Eastern Parkway.

Without warning, Teddy turned on my friend, chewing through the leash and attacking her with repeated bites.  While aggressive enough to tear her clothes and bruise her, the bites were not ‘kill’ bites.  If Teddy had intended to break the skin he certainly would have done so. But it was enough to cause panic on the street.  Bystanders called animal control and the police.  Returning from her run, my friend discovered panicked messages on her phone, so she grabbed a leash and ran the two blocks to the Eastern Parkway.  Teddy was still jumping and biting, but she managed to leash him and get him back home.  When she crated him he became aggressive in the crate as well, snarling and lunging.

They called every non-kill shelter in the city.  There was no where for him to go.  They agonized.  They did not want to call animal control, but they were no longer comfortable caring for him.

Through the pit bull rescue they learned of a man who had previously worked in the city shelter system.  Frustrated by a system that killed dogs he felt simply needed rehabilitation from a rough start, he left it and started a kennel that takes in dogs that need a firm hand in overcoming their violent past.  He agreed to take on Teddy. By the time he arrived at my friends’ apartment with three huge African Mastiffs, Teddy was back to his sweet, lovable self.  Teddy left with the man and his pack.

I cry every time I think about this, every time I sit down to write about it.  I cry for my friends, bruised both physically and emotionally by their attempt to do a good deed. They always knew they would have to re-home him, but they had hoped for a sweeter goodbye. I cry for Teddy; what triggered that poor dog to break down?  Did they walk by someone on the street that had been one of his abusers? Teddy, for whom no call has come from anyone claiming to be his family.

In a way though, I have to say I am glad this happened when he was with my friends, because at this point he is with someone who accepts him for who he is now, someone who can help him overcome his past. If he had gone to a family who expected they would be getting a psychologically healthy pet, it could have been a disaster. He could have killed a child. I think the best possible chance for Teddy is the person he is with, and the only way that could have happened is if Teddy had a breakdown so they knew that setting was necessary for him.

All who work in the rescue system deserve way more recognition for their efforts than they get.  Most of them do not wish for recognition, though.  They would ask that you help the dogs.  If you find that Teddy’s story moves you, please donate to your local shelter.

The man, Dexter, who has taken in Teddy is an angel.  You can support his work by contacting him and donating through his website:

http://kaylaskennels.com/default.aspx

So it’s been a while since I posted to my blog, and I can trace back to the exact moment things turned upside down to the degree that I no longer had time to write.

5/17/09, 4PM.

I have this loft bed I built up above the whelping area, and on that Saturday I had been up there taking a nap knowing I was going to be up all night with a dog, Emma, who was in labor.  But I knocked my glasses down from the place I keep them near the loft.  I can’t see more than 2 inches without them (literally) and missed a step coming down out of the bed. I fell a distance of about 3 feet, and landed with the ball of my foot on the edge of the whelping platform, the rest of my foot and weight went 4 inches down to the ground. So I sort of ripped my foot between the first two toes. Truly amazing amount of blood at the time. Poor Gus, my nine year old,  was the only one around and he was pale seeing pools of blood and towels soaked with it.  To his credit, he did hold it together enough to help me clean my foot up a little.  But I couldn’t do anything about the injury at the time except patch it up and tough it out,  because Emma was in labor. Over the next couple days my entire foot swelled and bruised, but because I needed to stay with Emma I was not able to go to the emergency room until Monday afternoon.

I did go to the emergency room on Monday, and the doctor was pretty funny. He didn’t really examine it, it was so discolored and swollen, he just sort of touched it with his index finger, saying, “You’ve been walking on this??? Let’s just get her to xray”. He recommended staying off it for 2 weeks, which I did as much as I could and still care for 4 adult dogs, 2 kids, and a litter of puppies!

Emma’s puppies were lovely, as always, and, as always, she did a great job with them.

One very big complication regarding my injury was that I was scheduled to take my black belt test on 6/20.  The two day test is only given once a year, and I did not want to miss it.   I knew from previously blowing out the ACLs in both knees that my foot was seriously damaged.  I also know if I told anyone how badly I was injured they would not allow me to take the test.   It was nearly impossible for me to train those 6 weeks before the test….the absolutely most critical weeks of training.  But I used lots of athletic tape to hold my foot together and took the test anyway.  A week later I went for an MRI, which showed 4 torn ligaments: two full tears and two partial tears.  I was immediately put in a ‘boot cast’ for 6 weeks.  A guy I train with, who also took the black belt test during those 2 days, is an orthopedic radiologist, and he offered to give me a second opinion on the MRI.  He confirmed the findings.  He did add that there was no way I should have gotten though that black belt test.  “I’m looking at your foot, and this joint is completely unstable” was his comment. I laughed and said, ‘Well Matt, you know that sucking it up is one of the things I do best’.  And he said, ‘I have to say, this is as much sucking up as I have ever seen.  It’s unbelievable.’  REALLY scary to have a huge heavy boot around little puppies; I literally lived in fear of a misstep as it would have killed one!

So life was very complicated for a while, between trying to train for my black belt test while badly injured, and then hobbling around in a honking big boot.   EVERYTHING seemed to take forever and longer, especially to someone who mostly moves at light speed.  Summer passed into fall.

I will use this chat site when I am streaming whelpings online! Click on the link below, and then click on the orange ‘chat’ button. You will be automatically logged in as a ‘guest’ (no need to register or sign in!) and if I am there with puppies you can see!

Read the rest of this entry »

well, not really. But it did occur to me that was what happened when I awoke to this last week:

I have two litters of puppies right now. They are both in my puppy area, affectionately known as ‘Puppyland’, which consists of two rooms with a hallway in between. Each mom and litter has its own room, with dutch doors leading to the hallway from each room. I installed dutch doors so I can step over the lower halves to get in and out of the rooms, rather than opening the doors. This is much simpler than trying to slip through an open door faster than a litter of quicksilver puppies. And getting over those doors a hundred or so times every day helps keep me flexible for martial arts!

About a week ago Rouge started acting restless, and I thought maybe she was just getting ‘cabin fever’. She would act like she wanted to follow me around as I did my chores throughout the house and yard, but as soon as she was away from her puppies she would ask to go back to Puppyland. It seemed she just couldn’t make up her mind what she wanted.

One evening it occurred to me that maybe she just wanted more options, needed a little more ‘space’ from the puppies. So even though the puppies are in a whelping pen that Rouge hops in and out of, so she is not in contact with them unless she chooses it, I decided to leave both dutch doors from her room open to the hall. I closed both dutch doors leading to Reese and her puppies, as I never let dogs have access to another mom’s puppies. I know two breeders that have lost whole litters when moms fought over their puppies. So even though Rouge and Reese are good friends, and wander in and out of both rooms, checking on each other’s puppies when I am there, I would never risk having them near each other’s litters unsupervised.

I came down in the morning to the scene pictured above. Both of those dutch doors had been closed and latched; Rouge destroyed the lower door trying to get IN to Reese’s puppies. I realized at that moment why Rouge had been so restless. The sound of puppies triggered in her the need to care for them, and she couldn’t reach them. It didn’t matter that they were not her puppies, that they were being cared for by Reese, or that she had her own litter to care for. She could hear puppies and NEEDED to take care of them. Hormonal Destructodog.

It brought home for me once again how powerfully hormones will drive a dog. It is something new breeders usually find out the hard way. Female dogs are called ‘bitches’ for a reason, and the reason is how they can behave towards other intact females when they are in season. Even girls that have been raised as littermates and friends will fight bitterly when they are in season. Their hormones tell them that they need to drive away all other females to compete for the best mate, and they will do that. Intact males will do anything, and I do mean anything, to get to a female in season. I know one boy who went through a second story window, twice, to get out of the house to a female in season. And the window was closed both times.

So it is one of the wonders of breeding to see how much behavior is influenced by reproductive hormones. And it makes me wonder how much of human behavior is driven similarly without our realizing it!

To get to my house!

Yesterday was one of those glorious spring days. Temperature near 70, sunny, and, while rain was in the near future, it wasn’t here yet so my yard was not a mud pit. Time to get some of the gardening done! Marley and Daisy were in the yard (outside the garden fence…GOOD GIRLS!) playing with a plastic horseshoe they had dug from the trash. In a very un-Marley like moment, Marley burst through the garden fence and charged the back fence at the easement, roaring furiously. She is generally very laidback, I looked up to see what could possibly have set her off. A chicken.

Now, this is not the first time we have seen chickens in the area, despite the fact that we are smack dab in the middle of a major urban center. A neighbor about a block down has a flock. About once a year a small cadre escapes and I see them on the street in the front of my house. I usually herd them back down the street with a broom. It does seem like an awfully long walk for a chicken.

But this was the first time I had seen one in the back. I trapped her in the corner of a fence, and she actually was pretty tame, much more than I had remembered from previous encounters. This should have been my first clue. As I tucked her under my arm I catch a flash of white from the corner of my eye. Oh my. Two more chickens….a white one and a black one. No way I could catch them, I only had one hand free because the other had a chicken in it! I told my younger son, who was working outside with me, to stand and make sure renegade chickens did not get past him as they were basically trapped unless they wanted to fight their way past him. I walked the block down the easement to Ann’s place. Although she was not home, a bunch of chickens were, in a coop with a sign on it that said, “When chickens are outlawed, only outlaws will have chickens.” I checked all around the coop and couldn’t determine an illicit exit point for a chicken. It occurred to me this was not THIS chicken’s home. What would happen if I put a chicken in with a bunch of strange chickens? I didn’t know, and didn’t want to find out. I headed to the front of the house, still carrying the chicken, when someone pulled into the driveway. A woman got out of her truck and said, “Oh man….did my mom’s chickens get out again?” “I don’t know. I couldn’t find how this one would have gotten out.” We walked back, Jenny counted the chickens and said, “Nope, all seven are here, that one is not ours. And besides, ours would never let you hold them like that!” Great. A homeless….but friendly…….. chicken.

We went back to my house to find my son in tears. Marley and Daisy, excited at the prospect of dinner on the fly, had jumped our fence into the easement. Gus, using remarkably good judgment for a nine year old, realized he was more responsible for the dogs than for the chickens, and managed to lift both dogs (25 and 40 lbs!) back up and over our fence. While his back was turned, the two chickens had disappeared.

I put the captive chicken in the bathroom, sent Gus back to walk along the easement in back, while I decided to walk along the street in front. I had barely gotten to the end of my driveway when a police car pulled up. I hardly ever see police cars on our street, and I must have a guilty conscience because having him pull in my driveway really set off some anxiety. He says, “Did you call us?” “Uhhhhhh….no. Should I have called you?” “Someone called us. Is there something going on around here?” “Well, there are some lost chickens loose, but I’m thinking you’re not asking about chickens.” This brought a roar of laughter, and was clearly the high point of his day. ” No, not chickens. Someone called and said someone in a silver Milano was driving up and down hitting people up for drug money. Call us if you see anything.” “Yes, sir.”

A half hour of searching revealed that a neighbor on the other side of the easement, a few houses down, had gotten chickens a several months earlier. They were still getting the hang of it. I returned their chicken from my bathroom, the other two were found hiding behind a pile of mulch. A happy ending this time!

A discussion of factors involved in balancing the risk of parvo virus infection in young puppies versus the need for socialization.

See more at http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1533933/balancing_parvo_risk_and_the_need_for.html

I answer questions every day from people considering buying my puppies. Getting to know people virtually is great fun, and it is then almost like a reunion if I get to meet them in real life when they pick up their puppy. We often stay in contact for years, with pictures as the puppy grows, holiday cards and updates.

It is a particular joy to work with first-time dog owners. Of course, getting a puppy is a big event in anyone’s life, but especially so for someone who has never had a dog because they are allergic to dogs and thought it would never be possible. Or for someone who grew up with dogs but then had a child who is allergic to dogs and they have avoided getting a dog for that reason. So the fact that I can bring the joy of a non-allergenic puppy into the life of someone who thought they could never experience that is an experience I treasure.

Everyone is a novice at some time, in something. I tell people all the time that there is no shame at starting at the beginning, and I encourage people to ask any and all questions that occur to them. I believe that the more questions they ask and the more answers they get, the more prepared they will be when their new addition arrives. Of course everyone has heard stories about things puppies or dogs might do. “My Dog Marley” has been a great asset in terms of starting the conversation about what you might experience when you have a dog. One of my favorite questions is, “Will s/he chew?” I always send this picture in answer to that question:

Yes, your puppy will chew! And they will grow out of it. This little devil is Rouge, who has grown up to be a perfect companion, and spends her days schmoozing at a tennis club with her guardian.

The other picture I send to give them a dose of reality with these:

I am afraid I have occasionally scared off buyers with my graphic honesty about the realities of having a puppy in one’s life. That might not be an altogether bad thing. Although it might cost me a sale in the short run, I think it is worth it in the long run if it prevents a family from taking on a puppy when they are not ready. Timing, and preparation, means mean the difference between failure and success!

And success is sweet:

Westood Labradoodles, Goldendoodles, and North American Retrievers : my website!

The Doodle Zoo: The Ultimate Online, Offleash Dogpark:  A wonderful, friendly, informative discussion forum comprised of Doodle Owners, Doodle Breeders, and Doodle afficienados.  Surf over and introduce yourself!

International Doodle Owners Group (IDOG):  The first, last and every word in between Doodle Information Source.  Information about Doodle Rescue, selecting a Doodle breeder, Doodle Growth and training and more.

Like to read Blogs? Here’s a catalog!

Some days it seems like 24 is not nearly enough, and then some days seem like they go on forever. And if you don’t sleep, sometimes they all run together and it really doesn’t matter! This past week was like that.

Reese’s due date was March 7, but as I do with all my expecting moms, I had been taking her temperature 3 times a day for a week before that. This was her first pregnancy, and I really didn’t know if she would follow the common pattern of having a drop in her body temperature 12-24 hours before her labor begins, but I could always hope! About a week before her due date I also started having her spend time in the whelping (birthing) area, so she would be comfortable there when the time came for her to give birth. Reese is very attached to me, spending most of her time laying on my feet when I am not moving, and sometimes even when I am! This meant I needed to spend time out in the whelping area with her. So for the last few days I had been spending any computer time at the laptop out in ‘Puppyland’.

My intuition was that Reese was going to deliver early. Although she was settling in OK in Puppyland for short periods, I decided that she really needed to become comfortable spending the night out there too. So on Tuesday night I said goodnight to my family and headed to Puppyland with Reese to spend the night out there.

A couple years ago I built a loft bed up over the whelping pen so I am able to catch a few winks when a mom is in labor or there are new puppies. Reese did not like having me up over head! She would pace, pace, pace as soon as I got into the bed. I was hopeful that if I just gave her some time she would settle in, but my hopes were seriously misplaced. She was panting and pacing as though she was in labor! I checked her temperature, and it was normal, but she did not stop pacing even if I got out of bed and sat with her. Not all dogs have a temperature drop, or sometimes it is so brief that I can miss it. I began to think that maybe she really was in labor. So Tuesday night passed alternating between sitting up with Reese, and trying to rest in the bed with Reese pacing and panting.

Wednesday came and went, getting Shane to school, doing schoolwork with Gus, seeing clients, doing laundry, just a usual day except for the fact that the only sleep I had in 24 hours was the one hour nap I took at lunchtime on Wednesday. Reese, however, napped very well during the day and seemed none the worse for wear.

Wednesday night I took Reese out to the whelping area and again I climbed into the loft. And again Reese started pacing. I took her temperature and it was 98.5! 99 is the magic number; when it drops below that is when I know almost for certain that pups are on the way! More pacing, more panting. A very long night I spent sitting with Reese and playing Scrabble online, although by 3AM there is not even anyone to play Scrabble with! I wondered where all the Australian Scrabble players were….it’s daytime in OZ when it’s 3AM EST, right?

I got Shane off to school and got Gus started on his school work, but was too tired, distracted and anxious to really be effective at much of anything. I puttered, updating the website, organizing things out in Puppyland. I managed to make and have dinner with my family, got the kids to bed, and headed out to Puppyland to make coffee. Again, the only sleep I had that day was the one hour nap I took at lunch!

Reese started pushing at about 9:15 PM. She was clearly miserable, not really knowing what was going on! I sat in the whelping pen with her entire upper body in my lap, the side of her face pressed into my hands, both of us with eyes mostly closed. At first the contractions were mild, but by about 10 PM they were rippling strongly from her chest to her tail. I was starting to get concerned that she was not making progress, and inserted a finger into her vagina to see if I could feel a pup. Nothing.

At about 10:15 I saw a few drops of very dark blood, and my heart went first to my mouth, and then hit rock bottom. This was a very bad sign. It almost always means a placenta has separated from the wall of the uterus, leaving the puppy supplied by that placenta without any oxygen supply from mom. Reese was pushing hard, and I again inserted a finger. I could feel a pup! It was about an inch from making its appearance in the outside world. But it wasn’t getting any closer. I checked again; I could feel the head but there was nothing to grab on to in order to pull it out, and it was wedged too tight to push it back in to try to shift it to a better angle for delivery. Minutes passed, with Reese pushing and me trying to get my finger in around the pup to stretch the tissues enough to allow the pup to progress further. I was sure the puppy was dead, my concern at this point was Reese, and the other pups trapped inside. Millimeter by millimeter with each contraction the pup was moving towards me. At the height of one contraction I actually saw a tiny tongue, smaller than my smallest fingernail, and heard the smallest of gasps. Then the contraction ended and and the pup’s nose disappeared back inside. The puppy was alive. Oh my God the puppy was alive. Reese was getting tired, and her contractions were weakening just when we needed them to be getting stronger. I popped a Tums in her mouth, hoping that the calcium would increase the strength of the contractions. I was talking in a low, continuous stream, trying to calm both Reese and myself, saying anything that came into my mind. “Come on Reese, you can do it. This puppy wants to live, please push. Hang in there….please push, this puppy wants to live!” With each contraction the puppy’s nose would appear and I would hear another tiny gasp, only to see the puppy’s air cut off when the contraction ended and the pup would be sucked back inside. One strong contraction revealed delicate toenails, and I realized why the puppy was stuck. It had started its descent into the birth canal with one front leg laying up along side its head, which hugely increased the diameter of its should girdle. But that paw was just what I needed. At the next contraction I grasped the paw and tried to extract the puppy, but it was too slippery, and again the puppy was again sucked back inside. Another contraction, another attempt to pull it out, another failure. The third time I pinched that little paw as hard as I could, knowing that I could break the puppy’s leg or dislocate its shoulder. I didn’t have a choice, I had to get the puppy out. At the end of that contraction I did manage to hang on to the paw, and with the next contraction I applied a steady traction and the puppy popped out. It had been an hour since I saw those first drops of dark blood.

I cut the cord and rubbed the puppy, a beautiful apricot-colored little girl who was so exhausted she was barely moving. But with some help she did manage to latch on and within a few minutes of getting a little nourishment she was nursing vigorously. I, on the other hand, was shaking so badly I couldn’t stand, and was laying in the whelping box. Reese and I were both panting, and covered in blood and meconium.

Over the next few hours Reese easily delivered another girl and two boys, all apricot and caramel colored. I was very surprised at this, as Reese is a chocolate, as is Scooter, the daddy, and statistically I was expecting 50% of the pups to be chocolate! So much for statistics. At 4AM, out popped a white puppy with chocolate markings, looking like a tiny holstein. I could not have been more surprised, except that 15 seconds later, before I could even cut the cord on the one pup, out popped another one with the same markings. Two partis! Parti coloration, meaning predominantly white with dark markings, is recessive. This means both parents must carry the gene, and while I knew Scooter carried it, I had no idea Reese did! Whoo hoo PARTI TIME!

As is typical with breeding, nothing matches the highs except the lows. I few minutes after those two healthy, beautiful parti girls were born, the last pup, a lovely, fleece-coated boy was still born. I performed chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth for a long time, but could not revive him. His placenta had likely been the one that separated and resulted in the dark blood I had seen hours before, and he never really had a chance.

So the final count was 6 live puppies, 4 girls and 2 boys. I got Reese settled in with her breakfast and some water, showered, and slept from 5:30 AM to 6:30 AM, and then started another day with my family by getting the kids out of bed. Friday was my third day in a row with one hour of sleep in a 24 hour period. I think my kids are getting used to me stumbling around like a zombie!