Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Thursday, August 09, 2007


So there I was yet again sitting in the deserted waiting room of the Vet Hospital in the small hours with the helpful relative who had brought me, counting the time since the last oxytocin injection and encouraging the prospective mother to "push". And wondering why they always do it at night?

Tamara had been trying since evening, when she produced one dead puppy. By midnight I had to summon help, and by half past we were yet again on the winding road south with her panting heavily in a box on the back seat. (no, my vet doesn`t do call out - just huge bills...they do those really well.)

And now here we were, making cheerful conversation and trying to stay awake and willing Tamara to get on with it. But poor Tamara was making heavy weather of it, not eased by frequent encouraging inspections involving a rubber glove. At last the dreaded word "caesarian" was passed around, and at 2am Tamara was carried off.

I expected the worst and was amazed when the vet returned with two large fat protesting puppies. Tamara, woozy from the anaesthetic, stitched up and sore and exhausted, took one look at them and the tail began to wag. And once home in her snug bed, they were cuddled and washed and washed - I think she was trying to wash off the smell of the vet - and she was the happiest small person in the world.

You`re wondering what all this cost?

Don`t even go there.
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