The Dancers take the stage!

NOTE:  This post gives a pretty full account of the debut of the Tiny Dancers.  If you don't want to know details, please stop now.  It's long, and I expect it will capture how the whole thing felt from my perspective.  For some people, that will fall under the heading of "Too Much Information." But for me, it's a way to preserve the memories, which I know will fade with time.  I want -- I need -- to write it all down, but it won't be everyone's cup of tea.

I read the books.  I knew when Victory ovulated (all those progesterone tests!) and when she was bred and how long canine gestation is (on average).  So I knew that the babies were due between Sunday the 22nd (63 days after ovulation) and Tuesday the 24th (63 days after the first breeding).  It didn't matter:  I started watching anxiously on Friday or Saturday, hoping they might come on the weekend.  Poor Victory had her temperature taken three and four times a day; we were watching for a sudden temperature drop that would signal labour was imminent, and I didn't want to miss it -- or to see it at 11 p.m., when there was no way to get Margaret here until the next morning (I was not anxious to go it alone . . .).

The weekend passed with family and friends checking their email every hour or so, waiting in vain for news that things were underway.

Sunday, 5:30 p.m.: her temperature started to fall.  Then it rose.  Then it fell.  Monday morning it fell even further.  I sent word to Margaret, who had been checking in all weekend (but who believed it would be Tuesday when the babies came).  Her response:  "I'll come after breakfast."  I was hugely relieved, especially since freezing rain was in the forecast for later in the day.  (In fact, I'm not sure I've ever been much happier to see someone than I was to see her when she arrived that morning, ready to stay as long as she needed to.)

Monday, noon: we saw what we'd been waiting for:  98.7, meaning labour within 8-24 hours, though it feels like things will happen even sooner, and of course family and friends were immediately on red alert.  And so the waiting began once again -- only this time I was even more on edge, especially since Victory kept wanting to go outside and then, once out there, heading for a spot under the hedge (a spot that looked like a good place for a den).  I was determined that regardless of her intentions, I did not intend for her to have babies under the hedge during a bout of freezing rain.

Monday, 11 p.m.:  Ray had gone to bed, and Margaret and I had watched the Australian Open match while Victory wandered, lay down, got up . . . she just couldn't get comfortable.  Margaret headed off to bed, and I spent the next several hours going in and out with Victory, not sleeping because she couldn't sleep; clearly things were happening in her body, but pups were not quite on the way yet.

Tuesday, 4:40 a.m.: Victory, still very restless, is on the sofa, licking herself.  I suddenly realize that the towel on the sofa is very wet: a membrane has ruptured.  Telephone serves as intercom -- I page Ray, who goes to wake the midwife.  Once everyone gathers, we wait . . . .

5:35 a.m.: Hard labour begins, though contractions are not yet regular or spaced closely together.  New learning opportunity for me, since I had thought that when we saw fluid, we should expect to see a puppy soon after.  I checked the books, checked Margaret's face and general demeanour, and decided we were okay -- no reason to panic.

7:30 a.m.:  Victory is labouring in earnest, but there is no sign of a puppy, and Margaret is unable to feel one in the birth canal.  Both of us know it's time to start calling the vet, she because of all her experience in whelping puppies, I because I have been through unproductive labour myself and know what it looks like.  Victory is working hard, but she's already tired, and no pup is coming.

8 a.m.: I reach the clinic, tell them what's happening, and say that we're coming in.  We arrive at the clinic by 8:25, and they take Victory for an x-ray and examination.

9 a.m.: Dr. Morgan tells us that the pup is feet/tail first and stuck.  She can feel it in the birth canal but can't quite reach to help it out.  The decision is to give Victory a shot of oxytocin to see if stronger contractions can push the pup up and over, but the staff will be ready for a c-section if that becomes necessary.  Dr. Morgan also says, "The pup didn't feel very lively when I touched its feet."  She leaves, but as she does, I ask: "Is it even worth trying the oxytocin?"  She says, "Let me try one more thing" -- and then leaves Margaret and I waiting in the exam room. 

This was the lowest moment.  Convinced that the first puppy will not survive -- in fact is likely already dead -- I now begin to worry about the other three and about Victory herself.  I choke up and almost break down, but manage to get hold of myself.  We wait.  And wait.  

9:26 a.m.:  Two vet techs arrive, pushing a gurney with our "warming box" on it.  "Congratulations," one tells us, "Here's the first one!"

And sure enough, there he was! Sable male, 10.37 ozs., lots of white, and -- after some vigorous rubbing and the clearing of fluids -- raring to go!  For the rest of the time we were at the clinic, whenever he wasn't with Victory, nursing, that puppy just kept trying to climb out of the warming box, necessitating our getting a bigger, deeper box just to keep him contained.  I felt like I was in the middle of the most incredible miracle -- and in the middle of a rapidly unfolding drama.  The staff moved quickly to warm the exam room, bringing heaters and blankets and warm towels and warmed buckwheat pads.  They brought Victory to us so that she could deliver the rest of the pups; clearly at this point, we were going nowhere.  She had been in labour for four hours and still had three pups to deliver.

9:45 a.m.:  Second pup arrives, head first.  Sable female, 8.5 ozs., almost no white, strong and healthy. With help, she nurses right away and makes the most wonderful mewing sounds.

10:48 a.m.: Third pup appears -- feet first.  My heart sinks, even though I know that 40% of pups arrive this way, generally without too much additional difficulty.  Dr. Morgan and Margaret help him, and suddenly there he is:  Tri male, 10.12 ozs, almost no white. He doesn't make any noise, even after aspiration, but he is vigorous and strong.  Dr. Morgan says, "He just doesn't want to make noise, but he's fine."  She muses whether this is telling us something about the pup's nature.

Time continues to pass. Victory, now having been in hard labour for five hours, is visibly exhausted.  She rests between contractions but has a hard time standing when they come.  I am worried: have we gone through all of this, only to have a c-section for the final puppy?  I am determined that won't happen.  As we wait, Margaret says, "Well, you have a sable boy and a sable girl, and you have a tri boy.  So now we're just waiting for your tri girl to arrive."

11:50 a.m.: Fourth puppy appears, head first.  But it seems to be taking FOREVER to be delivered.  The pup's head appears with each contraction but then disappears into the birth canal again.  I am having to hold Victory up for contractions, while Margaret tries to get hold of the puppy.  This is the other really difficult part of the entire experience for me, as I can tell Victory is really having a hard time.  After what seems like an eternity, Margaret is suddenly holding a puppy in towards Victory's belly.  

11:56 a.m.: Final puppy is born. Tri female, 9.5 ozs., lots of white.  Like the others, she is vigorous and strong.

So there they were, an incredibly well-balanced troupe: two boys, two girls, two sables, two tris, two with lots of white, two without . . . and we take that as a sign that they will be a well-balanced litter as they grow and develop, too.

Introducing the Tiny Dancers:

Twist, the first born
Sable Male, Day 1

Twist, Day 3

Jazz, the second born
Sable Female, Day 1

Jazz, Day 3

Disco, the third born
Tri male, Day 1

Disco, Day 3

Tango, the final performer to take the stage
Tri female, Day 1

Tango, Day 3

The whole experience was exciting, terrifying, and, ultimately, magical. It was terrible that friends and family knew that labour was coming but then had no news from us for so long.  Ray was finally able to get news to Jean to let her know that we'd gone to the vet and then that Twist had arrived safely.  But I know how stressful the day was for everyone who was waiting for news, and I feel bad about that.  If I had just kept quiet until it was all over, no one would have been worried.  However, if no one had known we were in the middle of it all, I wouldn't have felt all the incredible love and concern winging through the heavens towards us.  I am extremely grateful for the network of care that helped support and protect Victory through this incredible adventure.

Since coming home, the whole family has been doing just great.  Victory is a wonderful mom; we saw that even at the clinic, as she took care of each baby as soon as it was born.  Seeing that instinct kick in has been one of the most awe-inspiring experiences of my life.  She has continued to take excellent care of her babies and is not happy at all when we take one out to weigh it or when we move them all to change the bedding in the box.  Because she tends to be warm, she was finding the large crate bottom in which we were keeping them rather uncomfortable (it must have been like a sauna to her -- four babies plus her plus a heating pad!).  Today they got the run of the whole 4x4' whelping box, and she is much happier.

The pups are growing daily, putting on weight.  They're strong and active -- and I could watch them every minute of the day.

All of a sudden, Victory looks so tiny.  She put pregnancy bulk on so gradually that I didn't realize how much bigger she'd gotten.  Now, without the babies, she is her sleek self.  She's voracious -- and she is soon to lose all her hair.  But she's happy, and she is great with her babies.  She is also full of energy, and I can't help thinking of myself after the birth of my children.  I was not doing the human equivalent of running, barking, and sticking my head in the snow.

The day after their births, I let Victory out in the backyard.  She was really happy to be out, but she was anxious about her babies; I guess "conflicted" would describe her attitude.  She ran around in the snow, barking and whining, and then RAN back in to check on her babies.  It has been amazing to watch her assume this new role with all the sense and sensibility I have seen in her from the beginning.

So there you have it:  we made it!  Not without its scary and upsetting moments, and I was terribly worried about my girl, but in the end the venture was successful.  Some have asked if I would do it again.  Let's just say I have lots of time to think about that since I won't be looking for another puppy for some time.  

Now the really fun part:  watching the Tiny Dancers develop their individual talents!

Pre-performance, nerves of steel . . . .

I was out shopping this afternoon, and all of a sudden it hit me:  this must be exactly what "the calm before the storm" feels like.  Ray and I have been pretty much just hanging out with Victory at home, working on our class prep or arranging things in anticipation of the arrival of the pups, and the entire atmosphere is one of peace and tranquility.  But it's a deceptive atmosphere because right below the surface are our excitement and our anxiety about the debut of the tiny dancers.  If there were a way of seeing my nerve endings right now, I bet they'd all be jingling and jangling, even though I'm moving through my day very calmly.

The fact is, those little dancers are due to take the stage any time now, but of course we don't know exactly when the curtain will go up, and that uncertainty is difficult -- not only for us but for all those who are with us in spirit, waiting for news that the debut is underway.  

Perhaps the best indicator that labour is imminent is that the mama's temperature drops dramatically.  So three times a day we take her temperature, holding our breath until the Pavlovian beep-beep-beep of the digital thermometer tells me that our suspense is over for another few hours -- and tells Victory that she is about to get a reward for being such an incredibly good sport about all of this.

Unlike us, Victory is calm through and through (except when she's barking at intruders passing by on the sidewalk, that is!).

Serene, but watchful.

And as we wait, we are reminded that the circle of life is at times an almost unbearable reality.  Last night,  Victory's breeder, Jean Lavalley, lost her incredible girl Taz -- her almost-16-year-old heart dog, her partner, a source of inspiration to her friends and to the agility community around the world.  Jean and her husband Joel have broken hearts, and the whole extended Taylormade family is mourning the loss of this amazing girl.  Yet at the same time, we wait, excited for these new lives to begin.  Certainly part of the mission for these babies is to heal hearts -- we knew that already after the losses in our own family.  But perhaps they can help with healing Jean and the rest of the family, too.

I will pray for that.  And of course we continue to pray for the dancers to have a wonderfully successful debut.

The troupe, waiting in the wings . . . .

As I mentioned in my last post, tomorrow (Tuesday the 17th) is the day for which we scheduled Victory's x-ray.  This morning every Canadian's favourite TV station, The Weather Network, was forecasting that a winter storm would start tonight and continue all through the day tomorrow.  I didn't think taking a chance and driving across the city for our appointment with Dr. G. in the middle of a winter storm was a particularly good idea, so I called the clinic first thing this morning to see if it might be possible for us to come today.  There was an opening at 1 p.m., which meant I had to wait only about five more hours before getting further proof that my beautiful girl is, in fact, pregnant.  (Yes, I know . . . ultrasound, big belly, breast development, movement . . . you'd think I'd have relaxed by now.  But I haven't . . . not really.)  I called Margaret so that she could join us there (she wanted to meet Victory's obstetrician), and we headed off.

My heart was pounding as we waited our turn.  Sound familiar?  I think there are likely some more heart-pounding moments ahead.

Victory decided she was not inclined to go into the treatment area with the clinic staff (she remembers all those progesterone tests, I'm afraid -- though I did tell her we were only taking pictures today), so I carried her back and into the x-ray room.  Tracy offered her a liver treat, but Victory is very intelligent -- and she's a Sheltie (with that Sheltie sense of superiority) -- so she will not be distracted by mere offerings of food when she senses something unpleasant is about to happen.  Once it's over, she is more than happy to accept them, of course.

I stayed with her until Sarah arrived to take the x-ray and then retired to the waiting room with Ray and Margaret, where I made nervous conversation while we waited.  A few minutes passed, and Tracy brought Victory back to me.  "Is she pregnant?" I asked.  Tracy smiled.  "She's pregnant."  "Is there more than one?" "There's more than one . . . and that's all I'm going to say."

Last Monday, when Victory and I visited her, Margaret put her experienced breeder's hands on Victory and said, "I think there's four.  She feels like four."  So today, when Tracy declined to spill the beans, Margaret said, "I think there's four . . . we should have had a pool!"  Clearly a missed opportunity there.

We waited for Dr. Gumley to come and get us; it seemed to take a very long time (time during which I made further nervous conversation and -- as Margaret pointed out -- played musical chairs . . . I just couldn't sit still!).

At long last it was time for the unveiling of the film, and here it is:

The tiny dancers, waiting to take the stage

So there they are!  If you count the skulls and spines, you'll see that it looks like we've got a four-dancer troupe, resting up for their debut.  How incredibly exciting!

Meanwhile, as her command performance draws nearer, Victory is taking every opportunity she can to cool herself off.  Apparently the tiny dancers have turned her into a virtual furnace, so the snowfall late last week was a welcome site to their mama:

Sticking her face all the way in

Snacking

Cooling off

I can still hardly believe it:  coming soon, to a whelping stage near me . . . .

The stage is set . . . .

When I wake up tomorrow, there will be one week until Victory's "63 days after ovulation" due date.  I can hardly believe it!  It has seemed as though whelping day would never come, and I've watched and worried and watched and felt and second-guessed myself and worried . . . well, you get the picture.  And yet now, here it is -- almost upon us!

In the middle of the night (a bitterly cold night after a day of solid snowfall) I lay awake for over an hour imagining ways to ensure the puppies will be warm enough in their whelping box.  I even considered setting up my tent in the living room but abandoned the idea when I concluded that the ceiling wasn't high enough.  (Darn . . . seemed like such a great plan at first!)  All this despite the fact that I have a lovely whelping box with solid sides and an insulated bottom, a furnace, a heating pad . . . .  My point is only that when you're waiting for a litter to hit the stage, there never seems to be any shortage of things to worry about.  And I know that I won't stop worrying when they arrive; the worry will just change shape a little.

I was watching some TV in bed last night, and Victory was lying on the end of the bed, on her back (her preferred position).  The belly was very obvious, so I laid my hand gently on it and just waited.  And suddenly there they were:  the dancers, practicing their high kicks!  It was amazing -- like feeling a pregnant woman's baby kicking in her belly, only a lot smaller.  I'd seen her belly move a few days before, and that was really exciting, too.  This has been an incredible part of her pregnancy, in much the same way as it was an incredible part of my own pregnancies:  the moment when the babies assert themselves as individual little beings. 

Today was a great day -- very cold outside, so the perfect day to spend time putting a nursery together.  Victory and I are fortunate enough to have been loaned a beautiful Jonart whelping box, and today I assembled it.  What a wonderful design, and so easy to put together.  As you might imagine, Victory (who believes she is entitled to the very best in everything) has given it her seal of approval:

The nursery, ready for the tiny dancers.

The day was also devoted to the washing of many, many towels, ready to be tucked away until they're needed on whelping day.

So now things are almost ready.  Tomorrow I will start taking her temperature, watching for the drop that signals that her command performance is imminent.  And later this week, we'll learn by means of an X-ray just how large the company will be.  I can hardly believe it.

Waiting for the entrance cue . . .

Into the home stretch here . . . deep into our rehearsal time, T-minus three weeks-ish until the debut. Victory is hungry, feeling the needs of the tiny dancers (even if she doesn't quite know that they're there . . . I wonder what she does know, don't you?).

Funny thing I noticed:  she has developed dark pigment on her ever-expanding belly (reminds me of the linea nigra that some pregnant women develop); I suppose that will remain after the pregnancy, a mark of her new womanhood.

Pigmented patches and awe-inspiring nipples!

As we continue to prepare for this grand event, I am incredibly thankful for all the support I have received so far and will continue to receive.  Jean is tolerant of my never-ending questions, Margaret Pratt (Sharrow Shelties) has agreed to be our midwife, my friends send their best "uneventful whelp" vibes, my family is happy and excited, and my sweet husband says things like, "Maybe we'll just have to keep them all . . . ."

So, for the next three weeks, keep all the vibes coming for us.  For someone who never imagined that she would ever be brave enough to be a breeder, this is all pretty amazing.  I'm getting excited . . . .  :-)