All God's Creatures

by Carolyn McSparren

  "Cesarian?" I managed to enunciate.

  "Baby's right side up now," he said.

  Taisie said. "Didn't I say, child?"

  I've been told that some mothers take hours, days, even weeks to bond with their children. Some never do. I certainlyhad never expected to feel anything except exhaustion when they laid Sarah Elizabeth McLain on my belly thirty minutes later.

  My first thought was that I wouldn't have to teach a boy to stand up to pee.

  Then I felt a great rope of love as thick as a hawser holding her against my heart. I might not be the world's best mother to this little mite, but I intended to give it my best shot.

  Chapter 14

  In which Maggie has another Christmas baby

  Two years later, I was pregnant again and expecting another Christmas baby. This time we did an ultrasound, and it came up a boy.

  Nathan-to-be was two weeks from his due date. I could barely see past my belly. I had carried Sarah all over. Nathan sat in a tight ball right in front of my navel.

  Except when he heard music. I finally had to stop playing the radio in my track on my way to calls. The instant the radio came on, whether to PBS classical, jazz, rock or country, Nathan started doing the Conga. One, two, three kick!

  It's hard to keep a truck on the road when your belly keeps trying to knock the steering wheel out from under you.

  This would be the first Christmas Sarah would actually be a little girl instead of a baby, and all of us were looking forward to watching her face the first time she saw what Santa had left her under the tree.

  I should have known better than to count on anything where Christmas was concerned.

  I did not want another Christmas baby. This time, however, Dr. Wheelerwamed me that Nathan could come anytime. I had effaced, I was starting to dilate, and the baby was in position to be bom normally, unlike Sarah. Since Nathan was the second baby, I could expect labor to be much shorter. Much less time to get to the hospital. I planned to leave for the hospital at the first sign of labor.

  Christmas Eve is usually a dull time for vets. The pre-purchase exams on the new horses and ponies that will be Christmas presents for children and grandchildren have been completed. The Christmas puppies and kittens won't come in for their first shots until a couple of days after Christmas. Most cows aren't calving yet, and no foals are scheduled to be born for several weeks.

  Our traditional Christmas Eve dinner was a success, although we missed Morgan's dad, who had died of a massive stroke the previous September.

  Even little Sarah enjoyed the party. Morgan removed her the minute she started getting fussy, so the adults could have a pleasant evening, despite her grandmother Minnatrey's pleas that she be allowed to stay. My idea of a company dinner did not include a two-year-old who felt she must kill her roast beef before it was safe to eat and drew pictures with her mashed potatoes.

  I had been nesting for several days. This time I realized what was happening the minute I started scrubbing out the kitchen cabinets. Thus I wasn't completely surprised when I started labor as we were finishing our coffee and trifle. Not surprised, but really annoyed.

  My mother caught on immediately. She took one look at my grimace and asked, "Margaret? Is it the baby?"

  The woman still called me Margaret.

  I puffed for twenty seconds. 'It sure as shootin' something."

  "How close?" Eli asked.

  "Who the hell knows?" I snarled. Labor tended to have that effect on me.

  "Minatrey," Morgan asked my mother, "Could you and Will stay here with Sarah while I take Maggie to the hospital?"

  "Of course, dear. What are grandparents for? You go on. I'll call the doctor."

  "Want me to come?" Eli asked.

  "Absolutely," Morgan said before I could answer. "You sit in the middle and keep Maggie from clocking me on the jaw."

  I sniffled and wailed all the way to the hospital. "I don't want another Christmas baby. Send it back."

  "Maggie," Eli said. "Shut up unless you can say something sensible. You're not drugged yet."

  At that time a few doctors were beginning to let fathers and friends come into the labor area with the mother. My doctor wasn't one of them. I was wheeled off alone and left lying on a gurney in the corridor of the hospital and completely ignored.

  Finally, I lost it. I swung my legs over the side of the gurney and stood up. I wore only socks. My feet slid out from under me, the gurney starting sliding the other direction, and only the intercession of a massive orderly kept me from hitting my tailbone on the tile floor.

  "Get my doctor," I snapped without even thanking him. "Hell, get me somebody!"

  "It's all right, Mother," he said soothingly.

  "Damnation, I am not your mother, but I am one step away from throwing the mother of all hissy fits. Get me a nurse."

  He took one look at my face and backed off.

  Before the nurse could get down the hall to the crazy woman, my doctor finally showed up. It was now one-twenty on Christmas morning. I did not wish good will to all peoples. As a matter of fact, I couldn't think of one single person to whom I wished even an iota, a soupcon of good will.

  They hooked me up to monitors and left me again. Eventually, the nurse came in. "You're not in labor, Mother," she said in an accusing tone.

  "Well, what the hell am I in?"

  "You are having Braxton Hicks contractions. Not all that unusual in a second pregnancy. You may have them off and on until the onset of real labor."

  "And I tell the difference how?" They felt like labor to me.

  She smiled at me. "If they stop, they're Braxton Hicks. If the baby arrives, you'll know, won't you, Mother?"

  She turned to the door. "Oh, you can go home."

  "Where's my doctor?"

  "He left an hour ago."

  Damn.

  "Merry Christmas," she said, and pushed through the door.

  False dawn was lightening the east by the time we rolled into the driveway at the clinic and dropped Eli off at her house. I was still simmering. "Braxton Hicks, " I snapped. "Horses don't have Braxton Hicks. And it only takes them twenty minutes to have a foal."

  "Calm down, Maggie," Morgan said.

  "You can say that. Christmas or not, I've decided I want this baby out."

  My mother and father were waiting. Morgan had called them with updates, so they knew no baby was imminent. My mother put me to bed as tenderly as she had when I was Sarah's age and told me not to get up until I woke up on my own.

  That's when we heard Sarah from her crib. I staggered out of bed and followed her downstairs to see her Santa presents, but I don't think I was sufficiently joyful. She swears she still remembers how disappointed she was in me. I think that was the first time I disappointed her. I've been disappointing her ever since.

  Nathan was born without incident the day after Christmas. When I brought him home, Sarah took one look at him, said "Yuckie," and demanded to move in with her grandparents.

  Chapter 15

  In which a very small dog saves the day

  One afternoon in early March, however, Dr. Parmenter called me. "Maggie," he said, "I have a problem."

  To admit a problem must have cost him. To admit it to me must have cost him dearly. I glowed to think he trusted me to that extent.

  The glow faded quickly as he continued. "Elvira Sanderson's Irish Wolfhound Gladys is in the process of delivering a damned sight more pups than she has any business having."

  He didn't need to say anything else. I had helped one of Elvira's bitches deliver three pups several years earlier while I was still working with Dr. Parmenter. We nearly lost her that time, although we managed to save all the puppies.

  "Even if I can manage to get all eight of them to breathe," Dr. Parmenter said, "And even if I could manage to bottle feed some of them, they won't be socialized properly."

  "How can I help?"'

  "Find me a wet nurse and come get at least two of these pups tonight."

&nb
sp; Right. Just like that.

  "I don't..."

  "Doctor," he said. That meant he was dead serious. "You have two packs of foxhounds in your neck of the woods plus at least two packs of rabbit beagles. Somewhere in all that crowd you should be able to find a bitch to raise these puppies. Now do it."

  He hung up before I could say a word. I yelled at Eli to come into my office, and the minute she got there I unloaded. "What does the man think I am? A miracle worker? Even if I can find a bitch who's just whelped, she probably won't accept those puppies."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Besides, its too early in the year. The hound packs aren't whelping yet."

  "Better start calling. I'll handle Three Oaks Hunt-Jack Fosters the huntsman. I know him from the cattle sales. You call Pete Dimwitty. He's the whip for the Money Market Hunt."

  Unlike hunts in Great Britain, American foxhunts never kill anything except by accident. The people and hounds chase either fox or coyote until the prey get tired of the game, then everybody goes back home to eat and drink and boast. The coyotes and fox seem to enjoy the sport nearly as much as the riders and hounds. The huntsman is the guy who handles hounds-not'the' hounds, by the way. A'whip' is one of the hunt staff who rides along with hounds to keep them in order. And hounds are counted not as individuals but as couples. If you have twenty hounds, you have ten couple of hounds. I have no idea why. If hounds should chase after anything other than a fox or coyote-a deer, for instance, then they are "running riot." Interesting the way hunting terms have made their way into general usage.

  Unfortunately, when Eli and I finally spoke to both huntsman and whip, they had no bitches that might foster a pair of newborns.

  Jack Foster, however, had a suggestion. "There's a woman named Helen Weatherbee out past LaGrange that raises beagles. I think she has a fair-sized kennel, although hers are mostly show dogs, not rabbit dogs. You might try her." He gave us her number.

  Although she was not a client of ours, and we had never met her, Eli and I both knew her by reputation. Small hunting breeds like beagles lend themselves to puppy mills, but Weatherbee's Kennel was noted for producing well-bred dogs that went only to a few carefully selected homes.

  Weatherbee's was just past LaGrange, twenty miles farther east into Fayette County from the McLain-Scheibler Clinic. It was at least fifty miles from Dr. Parmenter's clinic in Midtown Memphis.

  LaGrange, a charming old cotton town, escaped being burned by General Grant as he retreated from the battle of Shiloh. The story is that they bribed the soldiers in charge of the arson.

  Many of the mansions in the village were built before 1860, and until recently were falling into decay. Lately, however, a number of FedEx pilots had bought and restored them with fresh white paint and dark green shutters. Banks of azaleas ranging from bright orange to palest pink rioted in the spring gardens. The town was once more becoming an ante-bellum gem. I loved driving through it.

  After half a dozen tries, I finally got Mrs. Weatherbee on the telephone and explained Dr. Parmenter's problem. I didn't have much hope she could help us.

  "Honey," she said in a voice nearly as deep as Patsy Dalrymple's. "You have called at the pure-D perfect time. Champion Weatherbee's Jenny Lind delivered last night. Only had one pup."

  That was unusual. Beagles generally have large litters.

  "And that one faded. Lost him this morning. Poor little Jenny is just miserable. She keeps hunting for him and crying her little heart out. She's dripping with milk."

  "Thank you, Jesus," I whispered the minute I hung up. "Come on, Eli, get some towels and fill a hot water bottle. We're off to Memphis."

  "You think a beagle can foster Woofies?" Eli asked as we drove through the early evening toward Dr. Parmenter's. "She'll take one look at them and know darned well she couldn't have produced anything that big."

  "Newborn puppies don't look that much different breed to breed."

  "They sure won't stay the same long."

  She was right about that. Irish Wolfhounds, or IW's as their breeders like to call them, are the tallest domesticated dog, although some Mastiffs outweigh them and Great Danes are nearly as tall.

  Despite their giant size, they are kind, gentle, good-natured dogs who make wonderful pets except that they break your heart by refusing to stick around and let you love them for years and years. Your average Jack Russell terrier can live to fifteen or sixteen. Your average Irish Wolfhound will be lucky to see seven.

  They also present some unique problems as house pets. They can sweep a coffee table clean with one tail swish. Standing up to check the pots on the stove poses no problem. Neither does turning over a pot of boiling stew onto their heads.

  Even pet quality Irish Wolfhound puppies could cost over a thousand dollars. Show quality dogs jumped up sharply from there, but a prospective owner with all the money in the world might be turned down by a breeder. They were extremely picky about the homes and the human beings that took their pups.

  Waiting lists for puppies were common, so every healthy pup rep resented not only a great deal of money to Elvira, but a new puppy to a prospective owner who might have been on the list for a long time.

  When Eli and I walked into Dr. Parmenter's clinic, he stuck his head out of the whelping room, looked over his glasses at us, and said, "About time."

  I glanced at Eli. She merely grinned in return.

  "She's had all eight," Dr. Parmenter said. "These are the last two. Take them and make sure they live." He handed me the pups. I gave them to Eli who wrapped them in towels and snuggled them against the hot water bottle.

  "Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked. "Shoo. Go. Call me tomorrow morning."

  We shooed. I settled Eli with the pups warm in her lap with the hot water bottle, and started the fifty-mile trip to the far side of LaGrange. I didn't even bother to grumble. I ought to be used to the man by now.

  Eli ran her index finger over one of the small gray heads. "I hope Champion Weatherbee's Jenny Lind is near-sighted."

  "I hope she's maternal. Those two can't fight back if she snaps at them."

  Eli knew how I rescued Mother's Bear. "We could only save one of the pups that night," I said. "With luck, maybe this time we can save them both."

  "Has Dr. Parmenter always been that grumpy?" Eli asked.

  "He's not grumpy. He's like Dr. Wheeler. Gruff, but a sweety at heart. Look what all he's done for me. I'll never be able to pay him back."

  "Can't you drive this thing any faster?" Eli asked. "Shoot! I don't need you in my armpit, you little squirmer."

  "I'm breaking the speed limit now."

  "You always break the speed limit. This hot water bottle is barely tepid. We should have refilled it at Dr. Parmenter's."

  "Who had time? Put the pups inside your shirt."

  "That's where they've wound up anyway." She looked up. "Maggie, I think that was the turn."

  It was. By the time I'd found a driveway to turn around in to retrace our steps, we'd wasted ten minutes. By now the night was dark and moonless. I turned the heater up to high while Eli snuggled those pups inside her shirt and close to her heart.

  We nearly drove past the small sign for Weatherbee Kennels. I backed up and drove up the rutted driveway in the pitch black dark until we turned a ninety-degree comer and saw the long, low house ablaze with light.

  The moment we stepped out of the truck we heard a chorus of barks and yips from half a dozen beagles in the kennels beside the house.

  Instantly the front door of the house opened and a lean shape stood silhouetted in the light. She looked to be taller than I am and a darned sight thinner.

  "Come on in here with those babies," she said in a husky voice. "Y'all made good time." We could barely hear her over the beagles.

  She stepped aside and led us down a narrow hall to her kitchen. "Don't need an alarm system," she laughed. "Got my own and then some." She stood over a badly scarred but obviously antique butcherblock table in the middle of her kitchen. "Now,
let me have those babies."

  Eli shot a glance at me. We were about to lose control of this situation. Not unusual. Breeders frequently think they know more than the vets. When it comes to whelping problems, they often do.

  At that moment I felt my hair stand on end. The wail that came from the den sounded human.

  "That's Jenny. She's so full of milk. I'm sure she's in a lot of pain. Nowy'all just leave this to me," she said. "When you called, I went and got the dead puppy." She took a shoebox off the kitchen counter and tenderly unwrapped the dead pup from its towel. "I figured if we rub this pup all over these babies, maybe we can convince Jenny. She ate the afterbirth, so I don't have that to use." She turned to her refrigerator. "I did get some milk from her to rub all over them as well."

  We worked with both puppies until we had them covered with scent and their little faces white with jenny's milk. They were obviously ravenous.

  "Keep your fingers crossed," Helen said as she took the two pups into the den and knelt beside Jenny's whelping box.

  Beagles come in twelve and fourteen inch sizes. Jenny was fourteen inches tall and obviously deserved her championship in the show ring. She was a perfectly marked tri-color with eyes that would melt your heart.

  We let Helen manipulate the pups for Jenny to see and sniff. After only five minutes we felt safe in putting them down into the nest Jenny had made for the baby that had not survived.

  For a long moment, I thought we'd failed. She stood over them with the hair raised along her spine. We held our breath, and Eli and I shifted back on our bottoms so that Helen's face was the only one Jenny could see.

  A moment later we heard a small thud. A moment after that Helen gave us a thumbs-up sign. Eli and I slid back to peer over the rim of the box. jenny lay with her spine pressed against the side of her box and her tummy exposed. The babies were working away at her teats with their little paws kneading in time to their slurps.

  I called Dr. Parmenter at once. "Mission accomplished. Although God knows what mother and pups will make of one another in two months."