They may not look like much now, but a boat load of careful decision-making went into these eight gerbil-like creatures. Our decision to breed Zsa Zsa to Que is not half as important as both dogs’ impressive pedigrees representing decades of decisions made by breeders with vastly more knowledge than I have.
Zsa Zsa, frankly, couldn’t care less. She wants to know how, exactly, this happened and who she needs to see about fixing this infestation problem.
The puppies are now three days old and Ms. Zsas is bored with them. She jumps out of her whelping box constantly and waits at the dining room door every time someone enters the kitchen. Then it’s, “Hell with the kids. I smell poultry.”
We let her out a little bit and she potties, begs for more food (we’ve already doubled her feed), drinks a bit, then suddenly gets a look as though she forgot something, but she can’t quite remember what it is.
We remind her she has puppies to tend to and she looks all put out and annoyed, but goes back to her kids with about as much enthusiasm as any woman would have if they had just given birth to octuplets.
Oh, she sticks with it long enough to shut them up, but she also lets us know of her martyrdom. See? She’s picking up on this motherhood thing really well!
Today the puppies get their tales docked and dew claw clipped, so it may be a bumpy night for everyone involved. Four of the brood, who are going to
See the black tri with the black ric-rac and the red tri? They were born on Dirtman’s lap. Next time you see him, ask him about it. He’ll be telling this story over and over for the next few years. Come to think of it, you probably won’t have to bother with the asking part.
So now you know what we’ve been doing around here lately instead of eating. And writing…