Here is a little something I forgot about bitches that are getting ready to whelp. They have a secret society dedicated to making their owners as miserable and sleep deprived as possible prior to actually giving birth. Tuesday night, July 1, Millie was showing all signs of working her way into labor. Her temp was down and she was restless and uncomfortable, though not having visible contractions. I settled down to spend the night on the sofa with her, figuring she would advance into real labor sometime in the night.
Millie had other plans. She panted and walked up and down my body off and on all night, and neither of us got much sleep. Just as the sun rose on Wednesday morning, she collapsed in a heap on the floor beside the sofa and drifted off into a blissful four-hour nap. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to do the same thing. Score: Millie 1, Kathy 0 (night’s sleep, that is). First rule of the secret society of bitches about to whelp; keep them up as long as possible in retaliation for getting us pregnant and miserable.
I went on with my day and Millie acted like there was nothing special going on. Around 2 in the afternoon, she all of a sudden advanced and started having contractions, so off to the whelping box we went. (I preferred she not have them on the sofa, though that would have been her choice.) Now I remember the second thing I had forgotten about whelping puppies; sitting in the whelping box was never fun, and fourteen years after the last time I had been in one, the arthritis in my back violently objected to being subjected to being squished into a wooden box leaned up against a railing.
Millie decided to be a slow whelper. She wasn’t much into pain. The first puppy arrived about 4, breech of course; I had to pull it out by its back legs. A black girl! Oh boy, this was starting out good. The puppy was strong and healthy, and Millie took to it immediately. A short time later, I got another black girl, also breech, and then a liver girl. Girls, girls, girls, I was thrilled. Then Millie decided she was perfectly delighted with three, and quit having contractions and went to sleep. I let that go on for a while and then got out the oxytocin and said let’s get this show on the road. She begrudgingly gave up a fourth puppy, this time a beautiful black boy. And went back to sleep. I woke her up, fed her a bowl of Bil-Jac, and took her out for a brief walk, figuring all that would get her started again. I was wrong. More oxytocin and I got a second liver girl, and then a second black boy. And then she quit completely.
By now it was 11 p.m., this process was dragging out unbelievably, and according to Dr. Schultz, she still had three puppies in her. At 1 a.m., after yet more oxytocin, I got a smaller, covered in green goop black girl. I waited a while and Millie showed all signs of being finished. I had seven puppies, five girls and two boys, all strong and healthy, and I was thrilled (and exhausted). I poked and prodded on her and decided that Dr. Schultz can’t count, she was finished. At 3 a.m. I put Millie in the tub for a bath, blew her dry, and then cleaned up the box and put down a wall-to-wall fleece and gave her back to her puppies. She was the calmest, most serene new mother I have ever seen. She knew exactly what they were and how to deal with them. She cleaned them all from head to toe, lined them all up to nurse, stretched out on her side and hit the ozone.
Score: Millie 2, Kathy 0 (a second night’s lost sleep). I was a zombie, but I was over the moon to have seven fat, healthy, beautifully marked babies and a dam that was apparently going to make up for her lack of social skills at being bred by exhibiting great prowess as a mother. I turned on the baby monitor and hit the sofa. A short three hours later, John got up to go to work, and the other dogs needed breakfast and attention, so my day started again (but I admit to going back to the sofa when everybody got settled and cared for!).
Millie quickly proved that she was a candidate for mother of the year. Though I slept on the sofa for the first ten days so that I would be close by and not have to disturb John if I had to get up, she never made a misstep. She had those babies organized and she adored them. She also loved to show them off and would leap out of the whelping box grinning from ear to ear whenever visitors came. Neither she nor the puppies ever had a sick day, she had plenty of milk and she apparently relished her job as a mom.
By the time the puppies were four weeks old they were tottering out of the box and interacting with our other two Springers, two-year-old Reece and six-month-old Maverick. It became one big, happy family, and Millie easily shared the puppies while still being a caring and watchful dam. At five weeks, they learned to use the dog door to go out into the covered run, and they immediately figured out that potty breaks were supposed to be outside. They have been the cleanest puppies I have ever had, sleeping inside on blankets and dog beds, and spending most of their day playing outside in a 10 x 30 foot totally covered run. At six weeks we started taking them for walks in the woods every day; at seven weeks they all passed their CERF exams and their physicals, and then all too soon it was time to start sorting them and sending them off to their new homes.
As I sit here writing this, the puppies are eleven weeks old and I still have the two best girls. I love them both and can’t make up my mind which to keep, so I guess I’m in no hurry to part with one. They have integrated totally into the extended family here, and run and play with their mother, who still adores them, and their Aunt Reece and cousin Maverick. One of them will have to go eventually but for now John and I are totally enjoying them. Having these puppies was a wonderful experience, and I realized just how much I have missed the wonder of raising a litter. I can guarantee you that it won’t be fourteen years between litters again!
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