I got the text from my dad at around 7:20 stating that the
first golden retriever puppy was born. Isaac and I had meandered around
Stanford Stadium to the student section, as we had just spent an hour seeing
our friend’s little brother warm-up for the Duke team. We had sat down and I
pulled out my phone wondering if I was even going to get reception. But there
was the message. The beers I had at the tailgate were finally wearing off, but
I fought off my buzz to call my dad to confirm that a puppy had been born.
“It’s time to go home, huh?” I asked. “It’s what you drove down here for,
right?” With that, I walked back to Isaac, gave him a hug, and sprinted to the
parking garage. So much for watching the game.
I drove back and played my summer pump up music, which has
mostly consisted of mid-90’s to early 2000’s rap and hip hop, grinning from
ear-to-ear that Belle was finally giving birth to her litter of puppies. Mom
texted me a picture of Belle with her first puppy at her side, nursing. I
couldn’t contain my excitement.
Our family had put the rest of our lives on hold,
essentially, as Belle increasingly gave us signs that she was about to give
birth. Mom had taken the day before, Friday, off, and I had left Oregon the day
before to drive home. Belle’s temperature had dropped below 99 degrees and had
remained consistently below that threshold. When I had left the house on Saturday
afternoon, she had began panting regularly, although the only exercise she
received consisted of her brining her favorite toys to people coming over. While
going to the game and the tailgate, I had apparently missed the part where she
wanders around the house, restlessly pawing at everything. It was about time
that Belle had gotten into action, since I had been restless, pondering the
craziness that was about to ensue.
I arrived at home around 8:15, as my dad asked me to pick up
a heating lamp for the whelping box. No puppies had been born in the time I had
been traveling back to the house, and I felt a sense of relief at not missing
anything. My mom held up the puppy (whom we were going to name ‘Beamer,’ after
my brother, as he was having difficulty nursing—despite my mother’s best
efforts to actually put on of Belle’s nipples’ into the mouth of the puppy, he
was refusing it and trying to find his “own” way to a nipple, but was still
failing to grasp one), and I nuzzled it, marveling at the life that had come
from our dog. Around 10 minutes later, our golden retriever expert, J, walked
in the door.
J has probably been working with golden retrievers for over
30 years, and we first came into contact with her when we were looking for the
grandmother to these new puppies, Saeby. J and Mom hit it off and have been
friends ever since, and she is now our go-to expert for everything golden
retrievers. She had been traveling back from Texas, visiting her ailing father,
and had been up since 4 am west coast time. As soon as she gave walked through
the door, Belle gave birth to another puppy. The surprising part about all of
it, of course, was that Belle didn’t give overt signs of contractions.
Essentially, the puppy slid right out of her, and we only knew because I had
picked up Belle’s tail.
J got right to work, as the newest puppy had caught us a bit
flat-footed. There are several procedures that are critical to ensuring a
smooth transition to the non-wombed world for a puppy. The first is that it
must be removed from the amniotic sac in which it comes from. The second is
that the umbilical cord must also be severed. These two steps the bitch (dog
terminology, not Kanye terminology) typically takes care of. Belle didn’t. J
got to work immediately, removing the sac. This ensures that the puppy can
breathe, as the sac is filled with liquid. The umbilical cord is removed by tying
dental floss around the cord and severing it with scissors. The placenta can be
fed to the bitch, as well, but that is more of an optional choice (we did it
twice, overall, and threw the others away). However, it is important the
placenta be removed so it does not block the birth canal for the other puppies.
I tried understanding all of those steps in a chapter my mom gave me to read,
as well as all of the procedures to “troubleshoot”—thank god I am not a vet. Needless
to say, it was overwhelming to read.
J got to work and cleaned the puppy very quickly. Another
puppy came almost immediately after that, approximately within 10 minutes. This
was the first time that I felt relieved about being around to help, as my
parents were busy finishing everything with the first puppy (cleaning,
weighing, setting up a heating box to contain puppies when they aren’t nursing
with their mother), as I could help J by giving her the needed materials to
clean up and present the pups to Belle.
I can honestly say that I don’t really remember the next
couple of hours, outside of me trying to update people like Allie and my
brother who had expressed interest in hearing everything that was happening.
The next couple of puppies came out quite smoothly, approximately 40 minutes
apart. We were able to get them cleaned up and feeding almost immediately.
However, the trials and tribulations of the evening began
with puppy number six. I was around the whelping box with J and my mother, and
we were talking about how it had been awhile since another puppy had come out
of Belle. At this point, it had been approximately 50 minutes since puppy
number five had been born. I noticed that Belle’s tail had been pressed up
against the edge of her box, and my instinct was to lift it up and look for a
puppy. Sure enough, a puppy was there, lying in its amniotic sac. Belle had not
given any indication, again, that she was going through contractions. I had no
idea how long that puppy had been there.
J got to work again, doing everything to get the puppy
cleaned and breathing. This puppy wasn’t being cooperative. Despite the various
maneuvers J used to try to get the puppy breathing, we did not seem to be
having any luck. There are multiple options for trying to get a puppy to
breathe: wrap it in a towel and vigorously rub it’s back up and down while
pointing it’s head forward; keep the puppy wrapped in a towel and swing it up
and down in an almost violent motion; and sticking a suction sort of device
into the throat of the puppy to try to remove any liquid that remains in there.
J pulled out all the stops yet the puppy was still unresponsive. At about this
time, my mom, rather than freaking out (a commendable and unexpected on her
part), started becoming a huge cheerleader, asking J if she could do chest
compressions of sorts (actually more like tapping the chest of the puppy hard
with two fingers) or resuscitation to keep the puppy going. J gave it her best
effort, but we only heard minimal squeaks. (The minimal squeaks were very
worrisome but encouraging, because we wanted to hear squeals, but it suggested
that part of an airway was unclogged, which was positive). She said that we
needed to take the puppy to the vet immediately to try to ensure its life. (It
was at about this time that tears started welling up in my eyes and my ability
to feel useful diminished). J also said that we should bring the first puppy,
since it was having difficulty nursing. Mom and Dad left immediately, leaving
me alone with J to take care of any remaining puppies. We were expecting at
least three more.
(At this point, Peninsula Friend asked me how things were
going, if I was doing alright, and if I wanted her to come up to help out and
if friends—Isaac and Peninsula friend’s college friend—could come up). I
responded that I didn’t know what was up and that I couldn’t decide if I wanted
her or Isaac to be there as Mom and Dad had just left for the vet. I needed a
few minutes for my nerves to calm down, and I didn’t want friends to be walking
into such a terrible, stressful situation).
J and I were huddled around Belle for another good half
hour, and Belle did not give us any indications that she was going to be giving
us any puppies in the near future. We knew we had to get the puppies out, so J
suggested that we take Belle for a bit of a walk to the backyard and see if she
needed to go to the bathroom. J reasoned that this would prompt labor again. I
placed the puppies we had at the house (four of them) into a warming box, and
we convinced Belle to leave her whelping box and join us outside. As we
followed Belle out the backdoor, J suggested I bring a flashlight with me. With
flashlight in hand and turned on, I watched as Belle took a squat on the grass
almost immediately. A puppy came out.
J scooped up the puppy and Belle followed us inside. J,
again, started tearing at the amniotic sac, but didn’t even bother with the
umbilical cord. She recognized that this puppy was also going to have
difficulty breathing. The familiar, painful process began again. J spent even
more time on puppy number seven than she had on puppy number six trying to get
it to breathe. The same swings, the same rubs, and the same suction device were
used to (what seemed to be) little effect. The compressions and the breathing
resuscitations began again with urgency. I think I knew before J even had to
say it. “Michael, you have to get this puppy to the vet immediately. Send your
dad back here to help out.” I texted Peninsula friend that she needed to come
up and that Isaac should come to (the Duke-Stanford game was over at this
point) because I needed the help and our family needed the help. I needed the
help mentally—I couldn’t fathom having an unbreathing puppy on my hands. And my
family was now playing this crazy game shorthanded. We were all in need of some
reinforcement. I called my parents to tell them I was on my way with another
puppy that was going to need help.
The puppy had its’ umbilical cord removed by J. It was stuck
into the towel. My instructions were to drive as fast as possible, to “rub the
shit out of its back,” and keep its head pointed forwards. I got into the car
with a limp puppy in my hand, fighting off tears as I revved up my car. And I
forgot that my gas light turned on as I had been driving back from the football
game.
I drove as fast as I ever have to our neighboring city, San
Mateo. This was the first time in my
life where I did not consciously care if I got pulled over for speeding. I
figured I could show up the puppy and have the cop follow me to the vet’s
office if need be. I spent the drive, one-handed, blasting through yellow
lights and onto the freeway, hoping that my car wouldn’t run out of fuel when I
needed it not to the most. All while rubbing the back of the puppy. When I had
gotten into the car, the puppy had been relatively limp. There would be a
random squeak here and there, but I didn’t know if that was from the puppy
itself or from the vigorous rubbing that had somehow pushed air out of it’s
lungs. My shock at the situation turned to resolve as I hit the freeway. I
started yelling at the puppy, trying to encourage it to live and that it was
not going to falter on me. By the time I had reached the freeway exit, the
puppy was squeaking more frequently. It was a positive feedback loop: as I kept
rubbing the puppy harder and it kept squeaking more so I kept rubbing even
harder. I could feel it respond more and more in my hand, as it began to
wriggle around, however faintly. By the time I reached the vet, I passed it off
to my dad, who rushed it inside. I hugged my mom and dad, dad left immediately,
and I left to get some gas for my car. I finally felt if I could collect myself
as I pumped the half-tank of gas into my car.
I made my way back home. Dad had called and said he had the
eighth and was also bringing it back to the vet hospital. I knew Peninsula
friend was about to be arriving, so I drove home quickly again since J was
going to be alone, too, with at least one more puppy on the way. I actually got
off the exit ramp at the same time as Peninsula and beckoned her to follow me
home. I hugged her as we got out of our cars and I told that she could be
walking into a shit-storm. At this point, I fully expected puppy number nine to
arrive the same way as numbers 6, 7, and 8. I opened the door, Peninsula followed,
and I made my way over to Belle and J. J talked about how she had to send Dad
off almost immediately after he arrived: she said she had worked harder on that
puppy than she had for the two previous puppies she had sent off to the vet.
She said that she didn’t expect that one to make it.
Isaac arrived about 20 minutes later. At that point in time,
Belle had settled in comfortably, we had given her the puppies to nurse, and we
were back to the waiting game. Peninsula and J hit it off immediately and I showed
off the puppies to Isaac. More and more time passed, and J had inspected Belle
to try to get an estimate on how many more puppies to expect. She said she felt
one in the birth canal and one very close to being born. Belle, it seemed, had
other ideas, as she had stopped panting and was lying on her side with her
puppies joining her. At around 12:30 (this is an estimate, because at this
point I have no idea about the time), J made the call. We needed to get Belle,
with all of her puppies, to the vet, because it was likely that we were going
to need a C-section to get the remaining puppies out and delivered healthy. My
parents came back, and our whole caravan packed in together. Peninsula and
Isaac trailed me as I drove J’s car to the vet. Mom, Dad, and J were with Belle
and the puppies, with J sitting in the back of the car to take care of puppy 9
if it came out.
We dropped the labor party (pun somewhat intended) off at
the vet, I gave the keys to J (who was improbably going drive home another hour
and half, because her fiancée was acting jealously, instead of her crashing at
our house). I rode back with Peninsula and Isaac, giving directions and needing
a drink. We got to the kitchen room table, I poured myself some rum, straight,
and offered some to Isaac (who took some) and Peninsula (who took some of the
remaining white wine, instead). It was about 2 or 2:30 in the morning at this
point. Dad had called at some point to say that the vets had induced labor for
Belle and that puppy number 9 would be on it’s way. He told me to get some
sleep and asked me to thank Isaac and Peninsula for there help. That was
unnecessary, as I had already done so. My frayed nerves probably couldn’t have
handled this crazy process without them to rely on.
***
In total, we had eight healthy puppies delivered. Five
males, three females. Number 8 and number 10, sadly, did not make it, as the
first was stillborn and the other never made it out of the birth canal.
However, by five in the afternoon the next day, we were able to welcome home 8
amazing and healthy puppies: Beamer, Bentley, Scooter, Bear, and Colby (with
Bear being the smallest puppy and the one that had been born outside) for the
boys and Emily, Sierra, and Cali for the girls.
And I get to go home in about four weeks to marvel at how
much they’ve grown since that Saturday night.
