ROTT N CHATTER, November 1993, Volume 2 Number 3

 

                            THE DOCTOR'S BAG

                            GAEA MITCHEL, DVM

 

   Through the shrouds of sleep-fog I heard and struggled upward toward the

light.  There was no light, only the familiar sound growing louder and more

insistent.  Rapid, fluid and frantic, unmistakably the sound of a bitch

cleaning her new-born pups, answered by an occasional faint squeak.  With

recognition my panic subsided but WAIT!  Something was wrong here!  My

thought process moved faster than light in the darkened room as I struggled

from the depths of stupor, groping for reason and the lamp.  Frigga was

spayed years ago, and Wennie was just a pup - an adolescent pup, but all

possible precautions were taken when she was in season a couple of months

ago.  Weren't they?  Then how...?  My hand found the lamp switch as my feet

hit the floor, and I staggered squinting to the foot of the bed.  There she

lay, Wennie, young and full of potential, my great hope for a show dog and

foundation of a Rottweiler empire.  She was burrowed deep in her bed trying

to wash life into her squeaky newspaper toy and my right bunny slipper.  The

left slipper lay across the room, whether abandoned in death or yet unborn,

I couldn't say.  I will never again underestimate the power of a false

pregnancy.