About two months ago, a couple of colleagues and I spotted a stray dog roving the campus of Angie’s List, and in a matter of minutes she’d been rounded up and was gleefully wandering the Blue House, going from editor to ad designer and back again, being fawned over and adored. I decided she was going home with me and, about an hour later, when she was walking up the front steps to my house, my husband wasn’t in the least bit shocked that the “surprise” I said I had in store for him was a dog.
Originally, keeping her was a temporary situation. “Just the time that it takes to find her a good home” is what I promised after we’d taken her to a nearby veterinarian I’d found on the List to ensure she wasn’t microchipped. However, I had no intention of returning her even if she was microchipped, as it was clear she had been severely mistreated. The plan was to just keep her until we found her a suitable home. We posted a video on adoptananimal.org and waited for someone to express interest. Luckily for us, that interested party happened to be my dad, who proposed that he would “financially” adopt her, while we could handle the actual “physical” adoption. Worked for me.
We named her Clio and made an appointment with the same vet we had previously seen to make sure she was up to date on all of her vaccinations, as I had no interest in living out a scene from Old Yeller or Cujo. Everything seemed fine, and when I questioned the doctor as to the possibility of her being pregnant, she was dismissive, as it seemed Clio was in a stage of a heat that made it an unlikely time for her to allow any “gentleman callers,” and the vet recommended that we spay her as soon as possible.
Satisfied, we went home and went about our daily business, as Clio seemed to get fatter and fatter. At first, we just assumed that it was because she’d been living on the streets eating Flaming Hot Cheetos, or whatever chicken wing remnants she could find, and that it was normal that she was putting on weight now that she had a regular diet. But, as her belly got rounder and rounder, we decided that it might be a good idea to double-check with a professional. Back to the vet.
One X-ray later, we found out that our dog was a bit of a package deal — 10-in-one to be exact. Nine puppies she was going to have, and within a matter of weeks, leaving us with very little time to prepare. We asked tons of questions, and started doing what little we could to get ready for the big day. We went to a local hardware store and bought wood and nails, and I feverishly set upon building a “whelping box,” wondering all the while if that was a category on the List, and if my dad would consider hiring a handyman to build a dog’s birthing box as part of his financial duties. Nevertheless, I got it finished, and we filled it with a load of newspaper and blankets and sat, and waited.
The vet assured us that we would not have the luxury of coming home from work one day and finding Clio in her box with all of her puppies happily munching away. “No,” she said, “dogs are prone to giving birth in the middle of the night.” She was right. My husband and I found ourselves wide awake at 1:30 in the morning, being grateful for the invention of the Internet while we researched what to do when your dog is giving birth. However, when one site we came across recommended feeding your dog vanilla ice cream to reassure her while she’s giving birth, I was more grateful for online resources like Angie’s List, which helped me find a fantastic vet.
The next morning, we called to report to the doctor and made an appointment for their first checkup. I’m happy to say that Clio did wonderfully, and we wisely abstained from the vanilla ice cream. All nine puppies are healthy and doing well, and as soon as they’re old enough we’ll be looking to find them good homes…after we decide which one we’re going to keep. It’s going to be bedlam in my house for the next couple of weeks.
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