TearDrop, one day before he died

No matter how many litters anyone ever breeds, every puppy is still a small miracle. Tiny toes, a little nose, soft pink bellies, that sweet puppy smell that brings a smile to the face of every breeder. Every litter is special, but this one was more so than most.

It was Tara's last litter - our foundation bitch who taught us so much about the very best things in French Bulldogs. All three boys had eager homes awaiting them since before they were born.

We didn't know when we called him "Teardrop" on his birth chart how sadly appropriate that name was going to be. We called him that for the tear drop shaped mark over his left eye, since we never name our babies before they are four weeks old. An old time breeder told me that a long time ago - never name them too young - it makes it harder if you lose them.

It doesn't matter that our little boy was only eight days old when we lost him - it doesn't matter that he didn't have a name. He was our little miracle for eight short days, and we loved him and mourn him just the same. I blame myself for his loss, for not knowing more about what I was feeding my bitch, and what repercussions it could have on her health, and the health of her puppies.

I wrote this a long time ago, when we lost an entire litter. Losing Teardrop reminded me of it.

The Ones Not Meant to Stay


You came and went so quick, my loves
No chance to run or play,
a brief sad hour of life, my loves
and then you went away.

I turn for knowledge to my friends
seeking comfort in what they say
Not sad, they tell, to lose the ones
that were not meant to stay.
Better quick and clean and over fast
than to linger on in pain.
It's best to lose them now, dear friend
than to nurse them on in vain.

In my head I know they are right,
though my heart aches every day,
I wish for what could not have been
I wish they could have stayed.

My sorrow is not for ribbons lost
or for shows they may have won
I grieve for lives that I helped create
that were over before they'd begun.
For when humans choose to be as gods,
and to make lives for our play,
We forget that part of being a god
is to watch life slip away.

You came and went so quick, my loves
and I grieved you did not stay,
but soft laps awaited in heaven, my loves
aand we'll meet at the bridge someday.

In Memory Of Honey's First Litter

Carol Taylor, May 1992