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!