Our decision to breed Baci was arrived at after much discussion and more than one false start. We finally agreed that this heat cycle was it, and went about picking a stud dog. We chose Carol Phelp's dog Pfalcon and made all the arrangements. The game was afoot.
Baci came into heat in the middle of Ring 5 at the Big E in West Springfield. I remember trying to stack her and finding that out the hard way. I was as giddy as a school girl running around that ring, knowing that this whole dream of ours was becoming a reality. And so now the counting of days began; the every other day trips to the veterinarian's for hormonal assays; the visits to old Pfalcon for breeding (which included supporting his full weight with my weak arm for the entire 63 minute first tie); the anxious first 3 weeks wondering if she was indeed pregnant.
When she began to show we downloaded the pregnancy time line on the computer and printed it up. We avoided X-rays or palpation to confirm her condition. But we did spend hours with Mary Ellen's stethoscope listening for fetal heartbeats, and hours with a hand gently resting on Baci's abdomen waiting for movement, and at the end, hours watching those little puppies writhing around under her skin. She was getting close. We set up the whelping box and starting having her sleep there.
Ten days before her suspected due date of July 6th, we began taking her temperature, three times a day, every day, like good little soldiers. Baci's temperature started low and stayed low; always 99 point something, each time, every time. On the Fourth of July her appetite was gone. I tried doctoring her food to make it more appealing and help her keep her strength up for the impending whelp. It worked; she ate. Then she vomited and had diarrhea the whole evening and all the next day. Still, her temperature remained the same 99 point something. Finally, after the hundred and forty seventh trip outside, Mary Ellen took her into the whelping box and tried to relax her.
"Rick, you'd better get in here. This thing is happening!" was the call from the other room. Now I know this couldn't be happening because her temperature hasn't dropped. I try to calm my wife down. "Honey, don't be crazy! IT IS NOT!", I scream like a madman. Grabbing the thermometer roughly, I bark, "Look, I'll show you. Her temperature will be the same." I smear the bulb of the thermometer with the K-Y and lift up Baci's tail. Mary Ellen quietly points at Baci's rear end and asks, "Hey, genius, isn't that a foot?"
Now, every wife reading this knows how hard it is for a husband to admit when he is wrong. But presented with such overwhelming evidence, I had no choice what so ever. Swallowing my pride and apologizing profusely I pressed on.
Quickly, we opened the whelping supplies which we had at the ready. We phoned Carol, who was on call for the delivery. The first puppy was tail first and the sac had broken. We had to act fast. Receiving my instructions via the speaker phone, I gently lubed, pulled, and twisted. We had a puppy. Amid mass confusion, we clamped, cut, weighed, sexed, and put ribbon on the neck. Every detail was recorded:. Fendi, female, 5:20 PM, 14 ounces, green ribbon. The puppy was placed on Baci to be licked dry and nursed. She looked like a natural as a mother. She knew what to do even though we were clueless.
Before we had time to gather ourselves, she was contracting again. Another tail first presentation, another ruptured sac, another little bit of help, and voila; puppy number two. Same flurry of activity; clamp, cut, weigh, sex, record. All of this while giving Carol directions as she is driving to our house, on the speaker phone. Another girl: Prada, female, 5:55 PM, 12 ounces, yellow ribbon.
Eventually Carol arrives. She doesn't like the ribbons on the necks and neither does Mary Ellen. I'm outnumbered. We cut off the ribbons and start painting toes. Of course, now that someone is here who knows what they are doing, Baci decides to slow down. No puppy and no contractions for almost an hour. We run her around outside, flashlight in hand to watch for any puppy that may try to be born on the lawn. We go inside. It begins again. Perfect head first presentation. Open the sac, get the puppy squeaking, clamp and cut the cord, weigh it, paint the toes. Another girl: Versace, female, 6:57 PM. Then Chanel, another girl at 7:26. Finally, a boy, Calvin at 8:18. Then another girl Dolce-Gabana at 9:40.
We think we may be done. Baci is still contracting. Wait, no she's not. We go outside. We run her around. We come back inside. Hold it. "Wasn't that a contraction?" "I don't know, Carol, what do you think?" We ponder as we repeat this routine for almost 2 hours. At 11:45 we decide to call the veterinarian, Doctor Kim McClure. She says that she'll be right over.
You have to realize that Baci loves her vet. She once jumped from a moving car when she saw this woman at the grocery store. The vet rings the doorbell at 12:15 AM and comes in the house. A previously exhausted Baci springs out of the whelping box, puppies dripping from her undersides as they lose their suction cup grips on her. She is wagging her tail so hard that her whole body is shaking. She jumps on Dr. McClure who pets her for exactly 7 seconds before Baci sits down and reaches between her legs and pulls out the last placenta.
We are both embarrassed and relieved. Baci calms down and her contractions are over. She settles in with her puppies. An exhausted Carol Phelps goes home, again receiving directions via her cell phone while driving. Our vet stays and watches the puppies and Baci until 1 AM.
Everyone is gone now and we have cleaned up. Six plump puppies are nursing on their mother who is resting quietly. Our older vizsla Mia comes into the room. She lays across both our laps wondering what all the commotion was about. We sit as a family like we have for so many hours before, just watching Baci. And now Fendi, Prada, Versace, Chanel, Calvin, and Dolce-Gabana.
