Happy Birthday, Dear Puppies!

Happy Birthday, kids! You’re a week old today. You still don’t have names, because I am old fashioned and superstitious about naming puppies. I think it’s bad luck to give them call names before four weeks – a holdover from my Grandmother’s policy on naming dogs. So, for now you are ‘Boy’ and ‘Girl’, but it’s said with the utmost in affection and love.

Already, you show signs of individuality.

Girl, you’re a placid sleeper, preferring to be on your back, your fat little tummy basking in the glow of the heat lamp. Nursing, however, is a different story. You’re still restless and almost aggressive, insisting on finding your own nipple, dammit, without any help from me. So, I let you be, and you pick out the one you like, and latch on like a furious little leech. You get angry if the milk doesn’t flow quickly enough, rejecting at least two nipples before you find the one you like. You are growing by leaps and bounds, having gained a full 5.4 ounces in a week. Your coat is sleek and seal dark, with a few well spaced flecks of golden red. I love you for your determination, and your fighting nature.

My little Boy, you are sweet and steady and calm. You sleep curled in on yourself, preferring always to be tucked into your mother’s side. You nurse at whatever nipple I place you at, dropping off contentedly when you drift off to sleep. Your eyes are starting to open, just a tiny little bit, and you don’t complain when I pick you up to weigh you, unlike your screaming, furious sister. Your weight gain has been slower, although fairly steady. In a week, you’ve gained 3.5 ounces. You’re not just lighter than your sister, you’re smaller overall – shorter in body length, and more compact. You’re a lovely shade of silvery fawn, with a deep wide chest and adorable little white feet. Everytime I pick you up, I kiss you on the nose.

You’re both too young for cake, and I am, as I said, too superstitious to celebrate just one week of life, but I’ll drink a toast to you both this evening, and rub your little tummies before I tuck you in for bed. Logic might tell me not to get attached to you already, but hearts don’t always listen to logic, do they?

Pictures below the cut, or the full set is here.

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Michael Vick's jury trial began today and….

It doesn’t look good for the defense!


In Which I Realize I'm a *CRAZY* Dog Person

As Hope wrote in her GollyLog Blog a while back, there comes a day when you wake up and realize “I’m a dog person”. Me? I hit that point quite a while ago. In fact, I probably realized it the day in Grade Four when my teacher asked what I’d done on the weekend, and I replied “I helped my Gran get her bitch bred”. I still remember my discomfited teacher telling me “not to use that word”, and my puzzlement over just what word she meant. Bitch was never a dirty word in our house, and the statement “She’s a grand bitch, that one” was pretty much the highest compliment I could imagine my Grandmother giving.

Being a dog person doesn’t bother me – in fact, I’m rather proud of it. There still exists a fine line I’d prefer not to cross, and that’s the line seperating me from the crazy dog people of the world. Don’t make me define that for you, either – you all know what I’m talking about. The crazy-nutjob dog people – the ones who you look at, and think to yourself “Shoot me if I ever get that bad”.

This morning, I had an epiphany of sorts – the realization that I was treading dangerously close to no turning back, “gonna find me in a trailer with my corpse gnawed by the 47 dogs I owned”, “carry my dog in a purse under my arm like Paris Hilton” crazy. It was really, really that bad. Read more

And then there were three.. three puppies, that is

Not much to add, other than that all three pups are doing well – the boy, the girl, and Mr. Monkey.

Mr. Monkey is now an official part of her litter, taking ‘naps’ with his brother and sister, and getting nudged onto Sailor’s nipples to ‘nurse’. Last night, I screwed up and chucked him onto Sailor’s bed on the floor while I was changing the whelping box, and she looked at me with an expression of horror usually reserved for mass murderers and people who drive slowly in the left hand lane.

I quickly returned him to her side, where she cleaned him off tenderly and tucked him underneath her side, all while giving me looks that made me feel like something less than dirt.

I was thinking of chucking Mr. Monkey in the washing machine, but shudder to imagine Sailor’s expression at watching her ‘child’ swirling around in hot soapy water. She’d probably call animal control on me.

Below the cut are some new photos of the pups and their brown and orange big brother. Clicking on the thumbnails will take you to the full sized images. Alternately, you can go straight to the entire photos set here.

BTW, cam should be up by Monday morning!

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Sailor Goes a Little Bit Bonkers

It’s day three, and the puppies are all doing just fine. Everyone is eating well, gaining weight, and looking fat and glossy coated – just what you want in a litter. Sailor’s milk is in, and she’s finally huffing a little less as a result. Her appetite is good, and she’s drinking lots of water.

She has, however, gone a little bit nuts.

Today was the day Sailor woke up and realized she really, really, really loves her puppies. Loves them in an obsessive compulsive, ‘quick get a restraining order’ kind of way. She’s got that glazed over, googly eyed look on her face, and getting her to go outside to pee has become a chore.

“Think of all the things that could happen while I’m gone!” you can almost hear her thinking.

So, she sits in the whelping box, panting and looking worried, until I lift her up and carry outside, where she pees, spins around the yard checking for stray puppies she might have missed, then returns to the house to check for puppies in the sofa cushions. Reassured she hasn’t left any under there with the spare change, she finally returns to the whelping box in a state of mild panic. Shoving all of the blankets into a nest seems to calm her down a little, until the next mandatory pee break.

The last time Sailor went outside, she suddenly flew across the yard, intent on something she’d noticed in a holly bush. It was Mr. Monkey, Tula’s well chewed on stuffed squeaky toy. Sailor decided Mr. Monkey was obviously a missing puppy she’d somehow forgotten outside. Picking Mr Monkey up, she flew back to the whelping box, tucked him in with the puppies, and curled around all three of them with a defiant look that seemed to say “What? A girl can’t accidentally leave her stuffed puppy outside by accident?”. Hey, who am I to argue.

We’ve now worked out a compromise. When Sailor has to pee, I let her carry Mr. Monkey outside in her mouth. She then brings him back to the whelping box, where I leave him until it’s safe to tuck him away someplace until the next pee break. I just hope the pups won’t be traumatized by growing up in a litter that consists of two puppies, and one stuffed brown and orange gorilla.

Pix below the cut.

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