Puppies

I think I was 5 years old the first time I went rabbit hunting.  Rabbits, as you would assume, are abundant and make a great first animal to hunt, especially if you have a pack of beagles, which, without question, make the best first dogs to have.  Such was the case for yours truly.

Percy was a little male I had along with his sister Annie.  I raised them, cared for them, fed them, took them to the vet, (mom drove), and hunted them.  These two hounds were born under my watchful eyes in the dog room near the basement of our house back on Spruce St.  Tamer, their mother was of impeccable blood and shy as a hoot owl in daylight.  She would cower at the approach of any man.  She made exceptions for children like my brother and myself.  I remember the first time I saw her she sniffed my outstretched hand, licked it a little and generally proceeded to make over me with much tail-wagging and whining.  She was man-shy, made that way by her previous owner, who, as a friend of my dad’s, was kind enough to give Tamer and her pedigreed blood to me, the carrier of the beagling torch.  It was heady stuff for a 12 year-old.

Tamer took up residence in our kennel with no qualms.  She was bred but looking back, I cannot remember the stud.  Anyway, I started counting the days of the puppies’ gestation.  Puppies had been raised in our home before but this time was certainly a little more meaningful to me as plans had been arranged for me to retain two of the pups. They were going to be my lion hounds. Well, rabbit hounds actually, although at the time you couldn’t have told me any different.

Fall turned to the cold of winter and Tamer showed signs of impending labor.  It is always a curious and amazing thing the way a soon-to-be mama prepares.  In the world of dogs, she nests.  That is, she makes a whelping nest, using the know-how the Good Lord gave her to construct a cozy, sensible refuge for the miracle of puppy life.  We assisted her with the basic construction of a wooden box, newspapers for her to shred and arrange, and a roof over her head.  There was also, if I remember correctly, a thermostat-adjustable electric baseboard heater over on the wall.  This was January after all.

As the labor proceeded, the anticipation increased, culminating in the birthing process.  At a mere 12, I knew something of birth, and placentas, and amniotic fluid, but not much.  Needless to say, I was impressed.  Not only with the sheer amazement of the miracle playing out before me, but at the calmness with which Tamer took it all.  Not a whimper, not a whine.  Only the serenity of a saint, her big, brown eyes focused on whelping her children.  It was beautiful.

One after another, the slippery little things emerged.  I thought, “Okay, this is over,” and then another one would squirt out, eyes closed, nose pink.

Tamer made quick work of the afterbirth, and she snipped through the umbilical cords.  She licked her brood, cleaning and drying, and generally fussing over them much like the proverbial mother hen.  Never had there been a better mother.  Puppies latched on and drank colostrum and I sat back and blinked, stunned at what had happened before my unsullied eyes.  Dad, I remember, checked things over, but really there was no need.  Tamer had done what countless others before had done, unattended, off in a swamp somewhere.  God had prepared her and she executed with precision and aplomb.

They say that all children should witness the birth of an animal, be it dogs, or cows, or whatever.  I would wholeheartedly agree.  It opened my little mind up to the possibility that just maybe I wasn’t the only thing in this universe.  The responsibility of caring for something other than myself was a good fringe benefit.

Puppies, like children, require discipline and training.  Lordy, that’s a subject for another time.

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~ by dlpetrey on January 30, 2010.