“WHAT`S THAT, BOY? TIMMY`S FALLEN DOWN THE WELL?”...
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM…
Happy New Year
MAD AS A BOX OF FROGS
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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.
"IN DOG YEARS, I`M DEAD"
Saturday, September 13, 2014
She started at midnight. Why do they do that? Her own mother was always very civilised, and used to begin at dawn, but I have spent so many sleepless nights whelping, and wondering if I will be able to get help when needed.
Well, she soon produced one. And she sat there, looking at it in horror. Clearly she had done something very dirty – and in the house! Would Mum be angry? I rescued the newborn and spent some time reassuring her that she had done the right thing, and Mum was very pleased. It took her a little time to decide that it was hers, and she should probably clean it up a bit.
Hours till the next one, again a little girl. And that was that. She settled down with her two daughters, quite relaxed and happy with them.
|All lined up, 2 days old. The boy is in the middle|
I was not relaxed. She had been scanned for three. And clearly she was not about to produce number three. Cue a call to a friend, and one to my vet. And the result was a drive through the early morning mists of Ayrshire to the surgery.
Another scan. Yes, there was indeed a third in there, with a strong heartbeat. Two injections of oxytocin had no effect, (but a strong cup of coffee for me worked wonders!) Eventually poor Belle was carried off for a caesarian. Fingers crossed and more coffee….and back the vet came with a strong protesting little boy, who had been warm and comfortable and now was plunged into a strange world where it appeared he had two very pushy sisters. Belle was totally puzzled, but quite prepared to have an extra who wasn`t there when she unexpectedly went to sleep.
Back home, and all well. I got her settled and really, she has never looked back. She is an ideal mum. eating well, willing to go out (especially when she found out how much respect a mother gets from other bitches!) and quite happy. I am a little less worried than I usually am with new litters in the first few days.
But meanwhile I will not be far from home.
Monday, September 08, 2014
However, I have the habit, last thing at night, of checking the next day`s headlines on my phone, and last night was amazed to find that Milliband, a man who has as much authority in this matter as Donald Duck (and a lot less charisma) was threatening an independent Scotland with armed forces at the border. I thought little of it and fell asleep….
And then I dreamed I was wakened by a hammering on the door. There stood a soldier, who demanded to know if I had a gun, as I was registered as having one. I said that I had.
“Well, pack a small bag and come with me. We are organising a militia to defend the border against the English army.”
In vain I protested that I was ancient, and so was the gun. And I was about to be taken off to war…..when the dream was penetrated by a loud honking.
|"Honk, honk, honk!" - Florian|
I woke and recognised the sound. “Honk, honk honk!” Pause. “Honk, honk honk!”. Florian`s deep, resonant, desolate bark. Prudence is in season, and he was lamenting his sadly deficient sex life. I know he would go on for hours, telling the world about the unfairness and misery of it all.
I looked at the clock. 3am. You will gather that sympathy was the last thing on my mind. I got up and gave him a piece of the said mind, threatening to take him to the vet and sort out his problem for once and for all. He wisely shut up.
And I went back to bed and wondered how that border war would have gone, in the dream world I had left….
Maybe just as well Florian chose to honk.