Victory, too, seemed to be doing well. She was a little fussy in her eating habits, making me feel that I needed to tempt her to eat so that she'd consume enough calories to feed the babies, but she was bright and alert -- and right away, she was a wonderful mother. She isn't obsessive with the babies, but she is there as soon as they need her, tending to their toilet duties and feeding them (with what appears to be cream, given the way they've gained weight).
The morning of January 30th, I woke to find Victory standing in the whelping box. Just standing. Her head was low, and as I got closer, I realized she was trembling. I took her temperature, and it was 103.5: she was running a fever. I immediately called Jean (who was probably still asleep and who definitely did NOT need the drama that was about to unfold) to tell her. When a bitch develops a fever post-whelp, the immediate suspicion is that either a breast or her uterus is infected, but Victory's breasts looked fine, and the discharge she'd had since after the whelp seemed quite normal. I realized, though, that she had vomited by the back door earlier that morning.
She fed the babies, and off we went to the vet clinic. As my vets' practise is in a downtown area, they don't see many pregnant or nursing girls, so I had the vet there speak to Jean and to Dr. G. by telephone. Based on the exam at that time, the verdict was that Victory's pancreas was probably inflamed from the rich food I'd given her to tempt her to eat. Bloodwork was done, she was given subcutaneous fluids, and we were sent home with a very bland diet and instructions to wait a few hours before giving it to her.
Home, Victory seemed much brighter, even running and barking at squirrels in the yard. Her temperature went down a little, and I started to think that what we had faced was only a slight misstep in the dance.
At about 4 p.m., I offered Victory a little of the canned food, and she ate it happily. Forty-five minutes later, she vomited, and from then on, she got lower and lower. She lay flat on her side, allowing the pups to nurse but gradually taking less and less interest in what was going on around her.
At 9 p.m., she nursed the babies, and I took her, wrapped in a blanket, to the emergency vet clinic fifteen minutes from the house. Examination revealed a temperature of 40 C (104 degrees), and an obvious infection in her uterus. Victory was going nowhere -- except into the hospital for IV fluids and antibiotics. The admitting vet said I could bring the pups in to nurse or supplement them with bottles until Victory came home, and I said I wasn't comfortable bringing them in to the clinic and would supplement, so they gave me teeny tiny pet feeder bottles. Off I went, armed, ready to be mama to the puppies through the night and hoping against hope that the antibiotics would make Victory feel better quickly so she could come home.
Through the night, the pups, who had nursed a great deal during the day while Victory slept in the whelping box, slept soundly, and though we made attempts with the bottle, we were not successful at getting them to latch on. At 3:30 a.m. I called the hospital and asked if I could bring them in. "No," I was told. "Victory needs her rest."
By morning I was desperate. The pups still hadn't had any significant fluids, and both Jean and Margaret were warning me that they HAD to get fed, and soon. At the hospital, rounds were underway, and I was waiting for a call that could update me on Victory's progress. Jean told me that the tiny bottles were too small for the babies and that I needed bigger ones, so I called around to see if I could find human preemie bottles. Finally, I sent Ray to the hospital five minutes from home, where a kind nurse in the neonatology unit agreed to give us some bottles.
By 8:45 a.m. I had decided that I was waiting for the call but would wait only so long before just packing up the puppies and heading in with them. They needed her, and she needed them; I could only imagine the stress she was feeling being separated from them (only the illness would have kept her from being visibly upset, I felt sure). With the blessings of my vet, who said she would run interference for me with the emergency clinic, and at the urging of Margaret, I packed the puppies in a cooler with blankets, a hot water bottle, and a heated buckwheat pad, and we raced off to the clinic so Victory could nurse them.
When I was within minutes of the clinic, Margaret called. "Ask them to spay her, Kelly," she said. "You'll have her home within 24 hours. Otherwise, who knows how long it will take to get this under control?"
Jean had also said that Victory might need to be spayed, and for me the decision crystallized right then. If the spay was done, the site of the infection would disappear, Victory would be well quickly, and she could come home to her babies; we ALL needed that, desperately.
The vet now assigned to her case was an internist, by all accounts an excellent clinician, but a man lacking in imagination and bedside manner. He was not at all pleased that I had arrived, 400-sized crate bottom and cooler in tow, to have Victory come and feed her babies. He did NOT think it was a good idea. "I don't think she has any milk," he said, "And she has an infection. She is quite sick." As he was about to start explaining the treatment plan, Victory arrived at the door of the room (remember, my vet had run interference; the staff knew we were coming and went to get her immediately, not knowing the internist was going to object).
Victory's presence complicated his stance a little, and I proceeded to take his feet out from under him: "Can we just spay her? Can it be done today? The goal here is to get Victory home to her babies, healthy, as quickly as possible. Isn't that the best way of achieving that?" He was nonplussed but recovered quickly (and was probably glad to hand us over to the surgical department, given that my sick dog with no milk was about to nurse her babies!).
As soon as Victory entered the room and saw the babies in the cooler, she started cleaning them. We got her into the crate (I wasn't having her lie on the floor of the clinic with the babies!), and right away she started nursing them. They were so happy! Their little tails were going a mile a minute. And the emergency vet who had come in to talk me through bottle feeding said, "Well they're certainly making SOMEthing happen!" Note to self: never judge the contents of a breast by its willingness to be expressed.
Things happened quickly after that. We were transferred to the surgeon, who understood my priorities and agreed with them; it was determined that the surgery could be done at noon that day, I got more information and encouragement about bottle feeding, and I took the puppies home to await the results of the surgery and -- we hoped -- Victory's speedy return.
The surgery was done and over with by 12:30; the surgeon's report was favourable, and we settled in to wait for Victory to recover enough to come home. We had to wait to be sure she wasn't still running a temperature, and we had to let her sleep off the anaesthetic.
During the course of the afternoon, with Jean talking me through it on the phone from Tennessee and some moments of panic over a nipple that allowed the milk to come out too quickly and caused pups to sputter, the babies all finally took to the bottle to one degree or another, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't what they'd have gotten from Victory, but it was something, and together with what they'd gotten from her in the morning, it would do. The one really bright light in that terrible, awful, chaotic, frightening 36 hours was that I spent some very special moments snuggling those puppies, fighting with all my heart and soul to stem any rising terror and remain calm and tranquil as I insisted that they accept the yucky rubber nipple and the formula that was no match for the milk they'd been getting from their mama.
At 5:30 we got the news we'd been waiting for: Victory was up and, although still sleepy, would soon ready to come home. The fever was gone -- because the infected uterus was gone -- and my baby girl was soon to be back with her babies.
I picked her up at 7 p.m., and the minute we walked into the house, she trotted right past Ray and into the whelping box to see her babies. You could tell that mama and pups were very, very happy to see each other.
Now, three days later, I am almost ready to exhale and to believe that the latest crisis is behind us. I have asked God, very respectfully, to hear my plea: Please, no more drama. If anyone who reads this is so inclined, I'd appreciate your adding your respectful request to mine.
As I think I mentioned in an earlier post, I have always said that breeding is not for the faint of heart. I know that complications can arise -- I saw them first-hand with the birth of these wonderful babies. What I didn't realize is that the experience could just keep on being scary. I didn't realize the number of different ways experience would be invaluable -- experience that I don't have (and didn't really intend to gain in quite this way). Yes, I know what a healthy puppy looks like. I know what I'm supposed to do for them (not much just yet). I read how to help them urinate and defecate; I read how to bottle feed them. But the books couldn't find me the right nipples for the bottles. The books couldn't tell me that I'd need to be quiet and calm and just insist that the baby take the nipple (even the YouTube videos didn't help me there). While I struggled here, in contact with the vets, with Jean, and with Margaret, they struggled with feelings of helplessness -- had they been here, they could have helped. As it was, all they could do was advise, encourage -- and pray.
What worked in our favour was that the puppies were robust -- and so able to withstand those 36 hours without their mama -- and that Victory is such a natural mama. She hasn't missed a beat since coming home to them, and I have a whole new appreciation of what she is doing in caring for these babies.
And so, more special to me than ever, the Tiny Dancers are thriving -- and they're not even all that Tiny any more. I am so grateful and so delighted to watch them growing into recognizable little dogs day by day (almost hour by hour).
Next step in the choreographed dance: the appearance of the lights of their souls. Eyes should open any day now!
I sure do love these babies, and I look forward to watching them develop and thrive over the next several weeks. What a precious charge has been given to me!
Through the night, the pups, who had nursed a great deal during the day while Victory slept in the whelping box, slept soundly, and though we made attempts with the bottle, we were not successful at getting them to latch on. At 3:30 a.m. I called the hospital and asked if I could bring them in. "No," I was told. "Victory needs her rest."
By morning I was desperate. The pups still hadn't had any significant fluids, and both Jean and Margaret were warning me that they HAD to get fed, and soon. At the hospital, rounds were underway, and I was waiting for a call that could update me on Victory's progress. Jean told me that the tiny bottles were too small for the babies and that I needed bigger ones, so I called around to see if I could find human preemie bottles. Finally, I sent Ray to the hospital five minutes from home, where a kind nurse in the neonatology unit agreed to give us some bottles.
By 8:45 a.m. I had decided that I was waiting for the call but would wait only so long before just packing up the puppies and heading in with them. They needed her, and she needed them; I could only imagine the stress she was feeling being separated from them (only the illness would have kept her from being visibly upset, I felt sure). With the blessings of my vet, who said she would run interference for me with the emergency clinic, and at the urging of Margaret, I packed the puppies in a cooler with blankets, a hot water bottle, and a heated buckwheat pad, and we raced off to the clinic so Victory could nurse them.
When I was within minutes of the clinic, Margaret called. "Ask them to spay her, Kelly," she said. "You'll have her home within 24 hours. Otherwise, who knows how long it will take to get this under control?"
Jean had also said that Victory might need to be spayed, and for me the decision crystallized right then. If the spay was done, the site of the infection would disappear, Victory would be well quickly, and she could come home to her babies; we ALL needed that, desperately.
The vet now assigned to her case was an internist, by all accounts an excellent clinician, but a man lacking in imagination and bedside manner. He was not at all pleased that I had arrived, 400-sized crate bottom and cooler in tow, to have Victory come and feed her babies. He did NOT think it was a good idea. "I don't think she has any milk," he said, "And she has an infection. She is quite sick." As he was about to start explaining the treatment plan, Victory arrived at the door of the room (remember, my vet had run interference; the staff knew we were coming and went to get her immediately, not knowing the internist was going to object).
Victory's presence complicated his stance a little, and I proceeded to take his feet out from under him: "Can we just spay her? Can it be done today? The goal here is to get Victory home to her babies, healthy, as quickly as possible. Isn't that the best way of achieving that?" He was nonplussed but recovered quickly (and was probably glad to hand us over to the surgical department, given that my sick dog with no milk was about to nurse her babies!).
As soon as Victory entered the room and saw the babies in the cooler, she started cleaning them. We got her into the crate (I wasn't having her lie on the floor of the clinic with the babies!), and right away she started nursing them. They were so happy! Their little tails were going a mile a minute. And the emergency vet who had come in to talk me through bottle feeding said, "Well they're certainly making SOMEthing happen!" Note to self: never judge the contents of a breast by its willingness to be expressed.
Things happened quickly after that. We were transferred to the surgeon, who understood my priorities and agreed with them; it was determined that the surgery could be done at noon that day, I got more information and encouragement about bottle feeding, and I took the puppies home to await the results of the surgery and -- we hoped -- Victory's speedy return.
The surgery was done and over with by 12:30; the surgeon's report was favourable, and we settled in to wait for Victory to recover enough to come home. We had to wait to be sure she wasn't still running a temperature, and we had to let her sleep off the anaesthetic.
During the course of the afternoon, with Jean talking me through it on the phone from Tennessee and some moments of panic over a nipple that allowed the milk to come out too quickly and caused pups to sputter, the babies all finally took to the bottle to one degree or another, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't what they'd have gotten from Victory, but it was something, and together with what they'd gotten from her in the morning, it would do. The one really bright light in that terrible, awful, chaotic, frightening 36 hours was that I spent some very special moments snuggling those puppies, fighting with all my heart and soul to stem any rising terror and remain calm and tranquil as I insisted that they accept the yucky rubber nipple and the formula that was no match for the milk they'd been getting from their mama.
At 5:30 we got the news we'd been waiting for: Victory was up and, although still sleepy, would soon ready to come home. The fever was gone -- because the infected uterus was gone -- and my baby girl was soon to be back with her babies.
I picked her up at 7 p.m., and the minute we walked into the house, she trotted right past Ray and into the whelping box to see her babies. You could tell that mama and pups were very, very happy to see each other.
 |
| Mama, home from the hospital, sleeping with her babies after nursing |
Now, three days later, I am almost ready to exhale and to believe that the latest crisis is behind us. I have asked God, very respectfully, to hear my plea: Please, no more drama. If anyone who reads this is so inclined, I'd appreciate your adding your respectful request to mine.
As I think I mentioned in an earlier post, I have always said that breeding is not for the faint of heart. I know that complications can arise -- I saw them first-hand with the birth of these wonderful babies. What I didn't realize is that the experience could just keep on being scary. I didn't realize the number of different ways experience would be invaluable -- experience that I don't have (and didn't really intend to gain in quite this way). Yes, I know what a healthy puppy looks like. I know what I'm supposed to do for them (not much just yet). I read how to help them urinate and defecate; I read how to bottle feed them. But the books couldn't find me the right nipples for the bottles. The books couldn't tell me that I'd need to be quiet and calm and just insist that the baby take the nipple (even the YouTube videos didn't help me there). While I struggled here, in contact with the vets, with Jean, and with Margaret, they struggled with feelings of helplessness -- had they been here, they could have helped. As it was, all they could do was advise, encourage -- and pray.
What worked in our favour was that the puppies were robust -- and so able to withstand those 36 hours without their mama -- and that Victory is such a natural mama. She hasn't missed a beat since coming home to them, and I have a whole new appreciation of what she is doing in caring for these babies.
And so, more special to me than ever, the Tiny Dancers are thriving -- and they're not even all that Tiny any more. I am so grateful and so delighted to watch them growing into recognizable little dogs day by day (almost hour by hour).
Next step in the choreographed dance: the appearance of the lights of their souls. Eyes should open any day now!
 |
| Twist, Day 9 |
 |
| Jazz, Day 9 |
 |
| Disco, Day 9 |
 |
| Tango, Day 9 |
I sure do love these babies, and I look forward to watching them develop and thrive over the next several weeks. What a precious charge has been given to me!
Wow that I was quite drastic way to get experience with breeding!! Sure glad Victory is fine and the babies are doing well.
ReplyDeleteEven more moving than the info you gave me Thursday. Have been reading all about breeding, whelping, post-whelp progress and problems in "Sheltie Talk". Not because I am over going to breed, as you know, but just so interested in all this now. Really covers joys - and problems you have faced and surmounted. Also have book-marked page with developmental stages. Le me know when the eyes are open. Should be soon.
ReplyDeleteWe're on peeper watch here; getting close but haven't seen any yet.
DeleteSheltie Talk is a great resource, and each time I open it I am thankful that there are so many things I have NOT had to face.
I hope the excitement is over and the rest of your time with these babies is stress free! Having gone thru this a few times myself, I can totally understand the worry and joy of whelping puppies. The fun starts when the eyes open and they can interact with each other, their mom and the world arounfd them.
Delete