Puppies
The Party Continues
Getting dogs to breed is surprisingly difficult, especially with two dogs with zero prior experience, save for the occasional hump of a couch pillow. The first attempt at getting my Springer Spaniel-Poodle Mix, Tim, and my mom’s English Springer Spaniel, Jo, to conceive ended with all of us equally embarrassed and me cleaning puddles of semen off the saltillo tiles in my kitchen with a roll of paper towels. According to various YouTube videos, instructions ranging from simply putting the “bitch” and the “sire” in the same room and letting them do their thing, to more elaborate measures like holding the “dam’s” hips up and guiding the “stud’s” bulbus glandis in, like, jet airliner docking at the gate. Reluctantly, I started with the former and worked my way up to the latter on a weekend in April.
For weeks after, my mom and I discussed the likelihood of success on our daily calls. Having been there firsthand and witnessing the interactions between Jo and Tim, I maintained that no puppies were cooking in Jo’s stomach, while my mom saw every change in Jo’s behavior and uptick in appetite as evidence of her pregnancy.
“She’s so affectionate. She laid in bed with us for half an hour this morning while we drank coffee. I really think she’s pregnant.”
“She’s eating nonstop and her tits are swelling.”
My mom’s blind belief in Jo went as far as taking measurements of her nipples with calipers to track changes in size. Despite my mom’s contagious optimism, I stuck to my guns and bet her a steak dinner that Jo wasn’t pregnant. Our questions were answered by a vet tech with an ultrasound machine, and despite being entitled to my winnings, I never got that steak dinner.
Last summer, I left Tim at my girlfriend, Lillian's and took the short-lived Honda S2000 for a rip down the hill to meet with some friends. With the top down, Tim must have smelled my scent and bolted, chasing after me. Halfway down Burnside, I got a frantic call from Lillian, saying Tim was gone. My heart sank. I pulled a U-turn and mashed the S2000's little 2.0L engine up the hill. I feared the worst—Tim, a country dog unfamiliar with busy streets, was probably dead or dying on the side of the road. Passing cars with the engine pegged at 8k RPM, I came to terms with Tim's demise and prepared for the logistics. We had a great run—a little short but a great run. At the top of Burnside, a Rivian truck was pulled over, and a man was holding Tim, his tongue out and panting. I got lucky, I told myself. I held Tim extra firm that night. The party continues.
