by Natalie Cox
Once back inside Peggy declines breakfast, sniffing at her bowl listlessly, then waddling away. Malcolm and I eye her suspiciously, while Judd waits a moment, then sidles over and casually wolfs down her portion. For the next hour, Peggy refuses to settle, drifting about the kitchen restlessly, panting and glassy-eyed. Eventually I coax her over to the maternity corner and she burrows her nose repeatedly in the blankets I have laid down, deliberately (and perversely, it seems to me) messing them up. I think about ringing Cal, but he was so dismissive the last time, I decide to ring Valko instead. When he answers, I hear grunting in the background.
“Valko? Are you OK?”
“Yes. Am fine.”
“What’s that noise?”
“Is pigs.”
Ah. I can almost feel Valko blushing through the phone. “I am help Stella,” he adds awkwardly. Sure you are. With what, exactly?
“I’m worried about Peggy,” I tell him. “You couldn’t come over, could you?”
Ten minutes later I watch with relief as Stella’s truck pulls into the drive. As they climb out, I see that she’s carrying a large, dark green plastic toolbox. Once inside she deposits the box on the kitchen table with a flourish.
“Farrowing kit,” she announces.
“Which is . . . ?” I ask.
“Technically, for birthing piglets. But whelping puppies is much the same. They all have four legs and a tail,” she says with a shrug. She opens the lid and inside I see a bewildering array of equipment: rubber hoses, suction bulbs, scalpels, clippers, syringes. She rummages around for a moment and pulls out a long digital thermometer, holding it up. “First things first. If she’s about to whelp, her temperature will let us know.” She walks over to where Peggy lies panting in the corner and strokes her abdomen for a moment, before moving to her bottom and quickly lifting her tail, shoving the thermometer up her bum. I laugh a little nervously, hastily looking away so as to give Peggy some dignity.
“Hadn’t quite realized it would be rectal,” I joke. Stella gives me a look that suggests I am dim beyond measure.
“You can’t exactly ask a bitch to stick out her tongue,” she says.
Fair point. Though I know some bitches who would.
“If her temperature drops below thirty-seven degrees, you can expect labor to start within forty-eight hours.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. Merry Christmas!
The three of us wait anxiously for the thermometer to beep. Peggy’s eyes dart around worriedly, as if to say: Is this going to take long? Because it’s already kind of crowded down there.
When it finally does, Stella carefully withdraws it and squints down at the window. “Thirty-six point four.”
“Oh God,” I say, a volcano of panic rising up inside me. Stella stands, wiping the thermometer with a tissue (thank goodness) and returning it to the kit before placing a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Relax. Dogs have been giving birth for millennia.”
“Not in my kitchen.”
“Peggy’s an old pro.”
“Shouldn’t we ring Cal?” I say quickly to Valko, who shrugs in response.
“If I were you I’d lay in some snacks and a few box sets and put your feet up,” says Stella. “The litter might not appear for another few days. And you might never need the vet.”
“Really?” I feel a twist of disappointment. Surely we’ll need the vet? Or maybe it’s just me who will need the vet . . .
“With any luck they’ll pop out like poop,” says Stella with a broad smile.
Nice image. Thanks for that one.
“Cal said the litter was large,” I say. “How large would that be, exactly?”
Stella looks at Peggy and shrugs. “Eight? Ten?”
Ten little canines? Surely there can’t be that many little bodies inside her?
“They won’t all come at once. She’ll have contractions in between each one, so the whole thing could take several hours. And don’t worry about the afterbirth,” she adds, nodding toward Peggy. “Mum will take care of all that. Just keep her clean and comfortable.”
Doggy afterbirth? Please tell me that is not a thing.
I watch in desperation as Stella and Valko pull on their coats and move toward the door.
* * *
Generally speaking, I am not good with blood, guts, or unsavory matter; pain makes me extremely anxious, even when it is not my own. As they climb into the truck I must suppress the desire to fling myself out the door after them. Once they have gone, I experience a minor panic attack; black spots dance before my eyes. I lower myself into the recovery position, take deep breaths, and tell myself forcefully to get a grip. Eventually, my vision returns. I move over to Peggy and kneel down in front of her. She is panting steadily, her eyes bulging, as if she can’t quite believe she’s landed herself in such a tight spot. I place a hand gingerly on her abdomen, which feels like an overstuffed Christmas stocking, and she looks up at me balefully.
“Whoever he was,” I say. “I hope he was worth it.”
I ring Sian, who rallies appropriately. “Right,” she says with brisk efficiency. “First things first. You need to pack a birth bag.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Sian.”
“Fine. But you still need to stock up on supplies.”
I explain about the farrowing kit.
“No, I mean like snacks, extra cushions, rawhide, tennis balls.”
“She’s hardly going to want to play fetch during labor.”
“The tennis balls are for massaging her spine. Works a treat. Trust me.”
“Um. Right.” Sian has clearly been at the Coco Pops too long.
“So you think she’ll be hungry?” I ask.
“Ravenous. And thirsty. She’ll need lots of water. Straws are good.”
“Except she has no lips.”
“Fine. But make sure she stays hydrated.”
“OK. What is the rawhide for?”
“To bite down on. Helps you stay on top of the pain.”
“You chewed on rawhide during labor?”
“It was either that or the midwife’s arm.”
“Oh God. I’m not sure I can do this,” I say, suddenly feeling nauseous.
“You don’t have to. She does.”
Good point.
“But what if they get stuck?”
“Gravity. Works wonders. Just keep her on her feet.”
* * *
Eventually Peggy falls into a deep sleep, her massive belly looming in front of her like a zeppelin. Malcolm lies facing her, unblinking, his giant brow crinkled with concern. I channel surf for a while, unable to settle on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, and at half past eleven Hugo turns up, as arranged. He has promised to be here when his consignment arrives. He enters the kitchen clutching a large carton of eggnog and a bunch of lilies, which he thrusts in my direction a little awkwardly. “What are these for?” I say cautiously.
“To express my immense gratitude.”
“I don’t want your gratitude, Hugo. Immense or otherwise.”
“Nonetheless, you have it,” he insists.
I sigh and put the lilies in water, the eggnog in the fridge. “When are they coming?”
“Who?” he asks insouciantly.
“You know who. Your furry, four-footed friends.”
“Soon, I think,” he says, glancing at his watch.
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He fumbles for his keys and begins to sidle toward the door.
“Hugo, where are you going?” I ask with alarm.
“Just popping out on a quick errand. I’m afraid I’ve been tasked with fetching Constance’s grandmother from the station.”
“Why can’t Constance do it?”
“She and her mother are busy trimming the tree. They’ve g
one all Teutonic on me. You know, stringing cranberries, dried orange slices, wax candles. The lot.”
“Hugo, you are not leaving me here on my own to take delivery of the alpacas.”
“You’ll be fine. Just turn them loose in the paddock. I’ll be back later to check on them. I promise.”
I sigh. “Are they paid for?”
“Not entirely. I’ve paid a deposit. But the balance is cash on delivery.” He removes a bulging white envelope from inside his coat pocket and hands it to me.
I look at it askance.
“How much is in here?” I ask.
He hesitates. “I’d rather not say,” he says coyly.
“Hugo?”
“Enough to fund a small skirmish in Central America.”
“Good grief. They’d better be well behaved,” I say.
“I’ve been assured they’re the finest alpacas money can buy.”
* * *
As Hugo drives away, I finger the inch-thick packet of cash and wonder how far it would get me. Costa Rica is meant to be lovely at this time of year. I’ve always longed to see the cloud forest. I glance at my watch. If I left now, I could be at Heathrow in less than three hours.
Then I look over at Peggy, who has risen from her slumber and is now panting like an Olympic athlete. She needs me. And maybe I need her. For the first time I feel the stirrings of genuine fondness well up inside me and I am suddenly bathed in goodwill. Perhaps I am a failed human, after all, and perhaps it is time to redeem myself. I move over to where she lies and crouch down beside her, stroking her fondly, and as I do her enormous belly suddenly rises up and convulses like a massive boa constrictor, and in the next instant she gives a giant heave, and a small dark sac pokes through from her bottom.
Apart from the point of exit, it is just as Stella said.
A little poop of puppy.
chapter
20
I scream. And then I panic. Properly.
I have not readied the birthing bag.
I have not kept her hydrated.
I have not massaged her spine with a tennis ball.
I have not fed her snacks to keep her strength up.
I have done, quite literally, nothing.
But in spite of my ineptitude, Peggy has heroically produced a poop of puppy—all by herself. I stare at her in awe. She is a goddess, a woman warrior, a canine Valkyrie, and I am reduced to shell-shocked admiration. At a loss for how to help, I lean forward and place a limp hand of reassurance on her head.
“Come on, Peggy. You can do this,” I mutter.
I wait, my breath frozen in my chest, as her massive belly seizes up again with another contraction, and in the next instant the remainder of the gelatinous sac slithers out from the space between her legs. Without hesitation, Peggy curls around on herself and noses the sac, then nibbles it gently, breaking the membrane and releasing its tiny wet inhabitant. A spotty alien tumbles out—plump, covered in not-quite fur, eyes screwed shut, limbs like little nibs. Apart from the color, it looks like a tiny Moomin. It lies there unmoving, like a discarded soft toy, and an icy stillness settles on the room. Both Malcolm and I lean forward, horrified. For several seconds, nothing happens. Peggy merely stares at the Moomin, then turns away, and Malcolm whimpers anxiously. I am not a religious person; indeed, I cannot remember the last time I set foot in church, but right now I say a little prayer for the tiny inert form in front of me, promising God that I will never, ever cross the road again to avoid a devout young man clutching religious pamphlets on Oxford Street.
Just let the damn puppy survive.
Exhausted, Peggy lies back down again, as if she has forgotten that she has just shed another life-form. She lies there for a moment in a sort of daze, panting and blinking, and just when I think we might have to intervene, she startles up and turns back to the lumpen shape behind her. At once she begins to worry it diligently and repeatedly with her tongue, as if she can somehow lick it into being. And lo! Somewhat miraculously, it works! After thirty seconds or so of assiduous licking, at about the point where both Malcolm and I are practically witless with apprehension, the tiny puppy suddenly coughs and splutters into life, lifting its little quivering head. It shivers, then sneezes, and I laugh out loud with joy. Even Malcolm judders with surprise, then looks decidedly relieved.
I reach a tentative hand out to finger the baby-soft, warm pelt. At once the puppy senses me, moves its tiny nose toward my hand, nuzzling blindly and instinctively, seeking sustenance, or maybe just connection. Suddenly Peggy’s rear end gives another massive heave and a fistful of membrane and fluid spews out, together with a tangled line of cord. Oh dear Lord. Malcolm and I recoil involuntarily, as if we are watching a scene from a horror film. All at once the room fills with a slightly rank smell that is both sweet and sickly, and my stomach heaves uneasily.
And then, with nary a thought, with not even the slightest ounce of hesitation, Peggy the beagle dispatches with the afterbirth in the most efficient way possible. Just as Stella said she would.
And I nearly lose my breakfast. Just as Peggy wolfs down hers. As Malcolm and I watch her swallow the last bit of cord, an internal gong of relief sounds somewhere deep inside me. Because I know with utter certainty that I will never, ever, have to do the same. In that moment I decide that I’ve never appreciated being Homo sapiens more. I may well be a dog person.
But thank God I’m not a dog.
* * *
Afterward, we are exhausted. Malcolm and Peggy and I lie on the floor, wrapped in a postnatal stupor that is bizarrely reminiscent of after-sex fatigue. The only one who is lively is the puppy, who has somehow managed to blindly feel its way to Peggy’s tummy and is valiantly struggling to suckle, making tiny squeaks and adorable grunts as it bashes its nose against one teat after another. Peggy occasionally sniffs at it, but mostly leaves it to do as it pleases. I admire her mindless approach to parenting.
The afternoon passes in a long miasma of labor. We rest, we wake, Peggy squeezes out another puppy, we worry it into life, then we collapse; after which, we repeat the entire process again. Over the course of several hours I lose all sense of time. The only thing I keep track of is the puppies, who burst forth from Peggy’s bottom at regular intervals in a seemingly endless stream. I do my best to keep her hydrated and feed her treats between births, which she wolfs down eagerly. But when I try to run a tennis ball down her spine, she almost snaps at me. Fair dues.
By half past four, there are seven little black-and-white Moomins lined up along her belly, jostling blindly for milk. Peggy’s teats have become engorged over the course of the afternoon and are now practically bursting with milk. She lies back and lets the puppies do as they will. She no longer pants and seems much calmer, as if her work is finished, and I peer down at her belly. It has definitely lost most of its bulk.
Are we done here?
I have not eaten all day, nor have I taken the other dogs out. Miraculously, Judd, Hulk, and Slab have lain quietly on their beds by the door all afternoon, their eyes averted, as if they know that birth is a very private affair. Malcolm is asleep, exhausted from his vigil. I rise and put the kettle on, and as I do I hear a knock at the door. I turn and see an old man with a snow-white beard and bright red cheeks peering in at me through the glass. He wears a scarlet cloche-style wool hat. For a split second I cannot help myself: Santa Claus! Then I gather my wits and open the door, taking in the battered wool blazer, faded olive corduroys, and knee-high Wellington boots. On top of that he has the largest hands I have ever seen, with fingers like enormous chafed sausages.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Guid evenin’,” he says in a broad Scottish accent.
“Um. Hello,” I say tentatively.
“We had a wee holdup, or we would’ve been here oors ago.”
I stare at him blankly. We? The Scottish Santa senses my confusio
n. He beams at me, then jerks his giant thumb over his shoulder, where I can just make out an old, dark green Land Rover parked out by the paddock, with a small, white horse trailer attached.
“Ye ordered two alpacas?” he says.
* * *
Where, oh where is Hugo? In the course of the afternoon I have completely forgotten about him, not to mention his four-footed friends. I follow Scottish Santa out to the horse trailer and he unlatches the back and flings open the door. Inside, two enormous nut-brown creatures peer down at me, their small, round heads perched atop elegant, elongated necks. Their eyes are dark and large, framed by ridiculously long lashes, and their coats are shaggy and luxurious. They shift around uneasily when they see me, bumping off each other like giant marbles, their hooves scrabbling noisily on the metal base of the trailer.
“Easy does it, lads,” cautions the bearded man, reaching inside for some harnesses coiled on the floor.
Lads? Couldn’t Hugo at least have bought females?
“They’re going to need a wee drink and some supper. I’ve brought some hay to start ye off.” He waves at the paddock.
I nod mutely as he pulls out a long metal ramp, then clips the harnesses onto each of the animals. They are surprisingly light on their feet, skipping daintily down the ramp and into the paddock, where he turns them out. They both trot a few feet, then wheel around to stare at us, blinking. One of them works its mouth anxiously in a sort of circular rotation. I watch as Scottish Santa unloads a large bale of hay and deposits it in a corner of the paddock, then looks around. “Have ye sorted out some water?” he asks.
“Um . . . not yet.”