By the close of the evening, there were nine newborn pups. They squeaked and moaned in mews, Olive’s orchestra, and my Ele in her blue birthing gloves bent over the blue whelping box. She delivered alone, with a confidence and gentle authority that eased the event’s urgency.
She brightened meeting my face, both of us confused in fatigue. Around five am, we thought the last was out. Olive had the first trumpeting of her quartet, oboe, cello, tuba and viola. The couch held us, and our faintest dreams peeked and ran by like inky drawings until MOM I think she’s pushing again.
Olive stood and flexed and contracted. We moved the newborns to give her space to push and release and leak and birthe. Number five. Ele suctioned fluid out through the aspirator, placing it in their throats without hesitation, and then furiously rubbing their wet fur with a warm dry cloth until they cried with clear clean release.
The next delivered easily, number six and latched on, and then seven and eight and nine by 9am. She fed Olive and cooed her accomplishments, and took her outside and cleaned the box and counted pups and I watched with fond amazement this doll of mine in her calm confident love hush her own pain to help.
She has struggled for two years, battling auto immune weakness, punched daily by abdominal pain, with weight loss and fatigue. But not that night. I was amazed by her frame conducting an orchestra.
We took them to the vet this morning, two days old, to have their little tails attended to, and on the way home, she cried for the love she’d found for just watching them. She was so sad to leave them.
How we love, how we love. Giving and caring and reaching out, how our heart stretches and births a new hope when the whole winded world has crashed in a heap around us. How beautiful she is, how sweet and wise and warm this loving life giving creature of mine.