A Breeder's Christmas

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve attended and assisted in a whelping, each time one of my girls is expecting I become just as anxious as I ever was. In truth I am more so; the more I have learned and seen over the years regarding what can go wrong (and very badly wrong) the more nervous I am for each impending birth.

The day before Christmas Eve my most recent litter arrived. It was textbook…at first. Her temperature dropped 36 hours ahead, giving me fair warning to stay close at hand. She began nesting and fretting, clinging and whining on cue. I spent the night on the floor with her when I knew it was probably too early and I should get my rest in a real bed. So far, so good, everything seemed normal. But on the morning of her due date, though she was sleeping and seemed peaceful and alert, my own inner barometer was dropping. Something seemed amiss, though nothing overt that I could point to. Cymri’s expression had shifted from that “something really strange is happening and I’m terrified” to “ahhhh, I get it. I am capable, I am Mama Dog” and she appeared confident and strong, waiting for the progression of events she somehow knew would come next. Still, I stewed. My turn to pace and fret.

I called the clinic, put them on notice that I had a girl in first stage labor and anticipated I may need assistance at some point. Then, I grabbed Christmas cards, my address book, and tried to settle in to wait. Obligingly, Cymri’s contractions started almost immediately. Strong but intermittent at first, then increasing in frequency and intensity. Each time she bore down I was sure this was it, but as the hours stretched into the afternoon and there appeared to be no progress, my concern escalated. I could palpate the puppy, face first as it should be, yet she didn’t seem able to bring it over the pelvic rim in spite of vigorous contractions. I administered sub-Q calcium, which bolstered her efforts tremendously and still no change in the pup’s position. Since I couldn’t quite hook a finger around the pup, I wrangled with external manipulations to aid her contractions. No go. By now it was mid-afternoon and the clinic would be closing earlier than usual for the holiday. I pulled out the mini-sonogram that I had received the previous Christmas and was relieved to find a normal heartbeat…at least one pup wasn’t stressed yet. Couldn’t find any other heartbeats.

I called the clinic again, helped Cymri into the back of my Pilot, and tore out for town. As is usual in a vet clinic the day before (or after) a holiday, it was packed. Cymri and I hung out; she hunkering to the ground to push and strain every few minutes, me cranky and pushy with the employees who were only trying to show concern. Get my dog on the surgery table! Tell those other people this is a flippin’ emergency and get the doc in here with Cymri where he’s really needed! I wanted to shout at them.

Finally he came to check her, did another ultrasound, and miraculously enough located two heartbeats. Around the same time I noticed movement, so I knew at least some pups were still alive. With “the pups aren’t stressed, I’ll be back” he left to go back to the other patients. My pacing and fretting began again in earnest. I’d seen this scenario before, and immediately had myself convinced we were headed for a repeat performance…in years past I’ve had both a cat (I used to breed Abyssinians) and a dog at a crucial point in labor when I knew veterinary intervention was needed; in two cases I was told all was well, only to end up back at the clinic again a few hours later with a mother in distress and the babies already dead….the poor mother still has to go through a Caesarian but has no babies to show for all that pain and effort. I wasn’t about to let that happen a third time.

Eventually, hours later (ok, maybe it was thirty minutes or so) he began prepping Cymri for the Caesarian and the staff stood around like cheerleaders. With a towel drapped from arm-to-arm I waited for the first newborn. One of the technicians is a breeder and normally the two of us make a great tag-team in resuscitating limp babies (anesthesia depresses the central nervous system). But she wasn’t working that day and I had two new receptionists to help me – the sole technician was assisting the surgery itself. The first pup came out limp and blue; before I’d even dried her the next pup was extracted and passed on to a receptionist. I traded the one I’d gotten partially cleaned for the new one. Neither looked viable to me.

I am not a calm or accepting midwife. I grabbed Dopram, placed drops under the tongues of each of them. I demonstrated how to hold them head down along the thigh and thump their ribs to stimulate drainage of any amniotic fluid they may have inhaled. I shook the one I held. I did mouth to muzzle. A third pup was handed off with the announcement that was the last of t hem, so my “team” and I concentrated on passing the three limp, soggy, blue babies back and forth while I tried every trick in my thirty years of experience. The first gasp brought smiles to my helpers. I was just incredulous; I had given them up for goners. Gradually, periodically, each would gasp and I began to hold some hope. The girls, sure that this meant all was well, began discussing names.

That was last week, and this week I have three fat, squirmy babies and a wonderful, attentive, devoted mama. Life is good.