Bad Mama Genny

For those of you who may have been thinking, “God, Gen is really into baby cats.  Is that all she ever talks about?”

 

The answer is no way, fuckers.  Sometimes, I talk about baby dogs.

 

My friend Max had the best intentions of fixing his dogs, a devoted, super-intelligent lady Border Collie named Rita and a…slightly less ambitious English bulldog named (phonetically, as this is Polish) Tuptush.  Apparently it means something akin to “tiptoes.” I just like that his dog is named something-tushy.  And I have told him this.  And, one day, he will appreciate this revelation.

 

Well, anyhow, time got away from him and she went into her first heat a little early.  He’d read that it’s healthiest for a dog who’s gone into heat to have a litter, so he decided to let Mr. Tushypants (I did not get his permission to call Tuptush Mr. Tushypants, full disclosure) have a torrid affair with Rita.  Which they did, about five times.  Max calculated the due date and waited for his svelte little Rita to swell.

 

And swell she did.

 

 

The day before her due date, Rita showed Max where she wanted to give birth, and he prepared a bed for her.  The morning of, she became very clingy and began labor breathing.  Max had to go to work for at least a few hours, so he did and then counted the hours until his next cigarette and lunch break.  He ran home, and saw this:

 

 

Rita was deflating at an alarming rate!

 

She wasn’t done, and Max never did make it back to work.  Rita gave birth to 7 puppies in all, one of whom was stillborn.  Despite our collective sadness over this news (I say collective because I was getting blow-by-blow text updates…what?  WHAT?!), we were just so damn impressed with Mama, who tried to puff air into his mouth and drop snoutfuls of water onto his face to revive him.  She eventually moved on to care for her other babies and I decided to focus on the positive.

 

And so did they!

 

SEE?  Positive!

 

Which is totally exhausting work!

 

They look dead in that photo, right?  Like massacred by each other’s cuteness.  And puppies that have been massacred by cuteness ARE EVEN FUCKING CUTER oh my god my epiglottis just exploded.

 

I have been told that when they get an ouchy, they cry and gasp and snuffle like children.

 

Oh, there it is.  There.  IT.  Is.  That surge of BMG estrogen we all knew was coming.  Snuffling Puppy Estrogen should be the name of a band or something.  A DEATH METAL BAND. With a trombonist.  Are they called trombonists?  I digress.

 

A few of the puppies have already been claimed, starting with the little girl in this blurry photo, who’s being held by her new owner, one of Max’s good friends:

 

I know, I know I KNOW.  That face!  That squat little body.  She’s a sugar pie, all right.  And I AM GOING TO BAKE AND EAT HER IN THE CUSTOMARY MANNER OF PREPARING SAID VARIETY OF PASTRY.

 

 

So the babies are happy, snuggly, clingy, smart, and, I’m told, EXCRUCIATINGLY talkative.  Mama is going for runs and getting into the best shape of her life.  And Daddy?

 

Well.

 

He’ll get over it.  Eventually.

 

 

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