Can dogs have their own Facebook page? Because mine are asking. Not that they want to know what any of their friends are doing: that’s what wet noses are for. They just notice me paying more attention some mornings to my computer than to them. Wiener curiosity and general alarm over possible competition prods them out of their usual languid repose on fluffy fur beds from high-end dog catalogs and they start paying attention to what I, their master, am doing, always a bad sign. Franny suggests that BUTTBOOK would be a lot more fun than FACEBOOK. She says this with a droll look over her shoulder. Izzy gets excited and lets Franny know he would LOVE to be her Buttbook friend. She tells him to kiss it. I would ignore her if I could but dogs looking droll always makes me laugh. Treats are then expected, of course.
Everyone is in a pretty good mood, which is why we’re having this little discussion about a Buttbook page. This is because we are relaxing after the arrival, finally, of Mokie’s 3rd litter, which was a singularly memorable and traumatic event for all of us, but mostly for my husband Doc, as he is quick to point out. It started out Saturday noon, when Mokie felt vague stirrings and just to be sure I was acutely aware of every little bump, grab and hold taking place in her abdomen, she started digging in my pillows. My $30 Target pillows. If I was in the living room, she dug there. If I was in the bedroom, she found me and dug on the bed. And if I was standing barefoot in the kitchen, she dug on my feet. Glen Close screaming “I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!” had nothing on Mokie.
So all night I didn’t ignore her and actually tried to sleep on the couch with her in her little box at my feet. And of course nothing happened, except when I got up I my back spasmed. Hobbling half bent over, I managed to drag her and myself upstairs to the loft, where I lay on the floor absolutely paralyzed next to her whelping box, and where Mokie, with a series of short, ear piercing barks, informed me she was now going into labour, so look sharp! The next 6 hours are a blur: Mokie barking and digging and groaning, the dogs below barking back at her, encouraging. Except Mercedes, sitting in her own little alcove with her own 1 week old puppies, looking murderous.
( to be continued)