Ten Little Bloodhounds Read online

  “The two can’t be mentioned in the same sentence, they are grossly incompatible. For instance: Did you hear why Dick and Jane got a divorce? He had no income and she wasn’t patable. Get it?”

  “I got it,” I groaned.

  “Do you know what I’d like? When we get to your place I’d love to have dinner. I’m famished. I’d like to go to a bistro that stocks good wine, has soft lights and flickering candles, and dine on some good French food. Sound good?”

  “Sounds impossible,” I said wryly. “To make that happen you’d have to turn this bird around and fly over a hundred miles to Jacksonville, and by then everything would be closed. Thank God you didn’t say you wished you had a quote, good home-cooked meal, unquote, because if you had, this budding acquaintance of ours would die on the vine. I don’t cook.”

  “You don’t cook? Of course you cook! All Southern women cook!”

  “Not this one. I’ve traded in my frilly apron, Aunt Minnie’s cookbook, and having my arms up to my elbows in dishwater scrubbing greasy pots and pans three times a day. I prefer the simple life.”

  “What do you eat?”

  “Takeout. Pizza, burgers, or maybe baby back ribs.”

  “You know what I’d like?” He laughed. “I’d like a well-lighted diner with indigestible cheeseburgers, greasy French fries, cold beer in a can, and a jukebox so loud the vibrations make your teeth ache. How does that sound?”

  “A lot more obtainable,” I said with false enthusiasm. “There are five such locations in Balsa City alone, with lots more in the county. You’re in luck!”

  “There’s no middle ground?” He sounded wistful.

  “Nope, it’s goll-dern country, or there’s a place you can land behind Hardee’s and pick you up a burger to munch on your flight back to Little Cat Island, where a cordon bleu chef awaits to fulfill your every wish, twenty-four hours a day. Bon appetit!”

  “I was just kidding!” He seemed surprised when he heard the anger in my voice that I hadn’t taken the trouble to hide.

  “Rand, lesson number one: When living in the South, don’t make fun of the natives, they may get restless.”

  He lowered the helicopter slowly downward to rest near the paper towel X that was almost still in place. Only in two or three places had the paper pulled free of the Coke cans that were supposed to anchor it down.

  We sat in silence while the blades slowly finished their rotations and stopped. I saw Wayne and Donnie Ray start out to help me unload. The five nightlights on the property gave us adequate light.

  “I guess this means that we won’t have dinner together tonight. How about Friday, about six? We’ll get an early start and make Jacksonville in plenty of time for a little restaurant I discovered recently. You’ll love it.”

  “Not hungry.”

  He seemed to act as if I had a couple of loose screws for refusing to go along with his plans. I’d have to state it plainer.

  “I don’t think so, Rand. At least not in this lifetime. Thanks for the ride home.”

  I scrambled over Ivanhoe, hopped out, and Ivanhoe obliged by jumping out promptly when I tugged lightly on his leash. If I’d spent time trying to get him out of the copter, it would have weakened my exit line.

  I greeted the boys. I gave Ivanhoe’s leash to Wayne, and signed that he had performed really well and was now to be called Superdog by all. I strode off with confidence, knowing that Rand would follow me and try to set things right between us.

  I stopped on the back porch and greeted Bobby Lee, where he had patiently waited for my return. He followed me into my office, and I began hugging him and talking sweet talk, listening for Rand’s knock on the door.

  When the knock came, I yelled “Come in,” but it was Jasmine who stuck her head around the door.

  “Are you alone?”

  “So far. Come in, did you see Rand out there?”

  “If you mean a man, no. However, there is still a helicopter sitting out there. Is he the pilot?”

  “Yes. Come on in, I want you to meet him. He’ll be along in a minute. Say hello and good-bye in less than three minutes. We’ve just had our first spat.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” she said with a grin, entering and sitting in a rocker. “Is he nice?”

  “He’s quite a hunk. About nice—”

  We both turned our faces to the ceiling when the helicopter’s motor broke the silence with a whoop-whoop so ear-splitting that he seemed to be landing on the roof. We listened for a long ten seconds and then heard him depart, the sound diminishing and fading into the night.

  “As I was saying, he’s a mean-minded, antisocialist, Southern-knocking Yankee, and y’all won’t be meeting him.”

  Jasmine winced. “Is he still a hunk?”

  “Oh yes. On a scale of ten, he’s a nine in anatomy, and a minus one in personality. Want a beer?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope, but I have to shower first. And call Donnie Ray.”

  “How’s this? You take a hot soak. Your muscles will thank you tomorrow. I’ll bring you a cold beer, and call Donnie Ray for you, and nuke you a personal pan pizza. This is offered only if you promise to relate word for word the entire afternoon.”

  “Deal. Ask Donnie Ray if our fearless pilot just sat like a lump, took a whiz, or said anything before he departed.”

  “Everything but the whiz.”

  “Missy Nice Nice,” I taunted as I left to take my bath.

  Soaking in lavender-scented bath salts, and sipping a cold one, is to wallow in sybaritic splendor. I ruminated about my white knight and decided he wouldn’t be caught dead in a ratty jumpsuit astride a control stick in a whirlybird. I took a sudsy finger and drew an imaginary mark in the air in front of me. Chalk up another kill, Jo Beth. Another potential lover shot down before the heavy breathing could commence. My sharp tongue and persnickety ways were my libido’s worst enemies.

  I dressed in soft cotton joggers and thick lounging socks. Jasmine had the time to bake a real pizza, which I bought from Tony’s by the dozen and stored in the freezer. I had beers number two and three while I ate and related to Jasmine the events of the afternoon. Jasmine had one slice to be sociable, and I consumed the rest.

  I had just introduced her to Celia Cancannon when she interrupted.

  “Tell me what she was wearing.” She had her elbows propped on the table and had her chin resting in her hands.

  “And don’t you dare say it was a faded housedress. I’ll strangle you!”

  “It was a pale blue wool power suit, feminine, not stark. The blouse was sheer, same color of the suit, so thin you could easily see the darker blue camisole beneath it. Narrow gold choker, and small button-shaped gold earrings. The slits in the tight skirt were more pronounced than usual, showing off her really gorgeous legs. Her shoes were tiny straps of leather, dark blue, with two-inch heels. She was dressed elegantly enough to meet a queen, or to work for her billionaire aunt.”

  “Mine would be pale pink,” she said dreamily.

  “Would look really good on you,” I agreed. “Just be careful of the doo-doo in the dog runs.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “She has a fabulous job. Where do I apply?”

  “You haven’t heard what a harridan Ol’ Lady Cancannon is!”

  “As opposed to a younger—” She smiled and didn’t finish her sentence.

  “Did you know that the unemployment in this county is almost eight percent?” I pointed a slice of pizza her way, to make my point.

  “Finish the story,” she urged.

  I continued. I recounted everything and I was up to my parting shot I had taken at Rand before stalking off, expecting that he would follow me and apologize.

  She threw her head back and roared.

  “Okay.” I drummed my fingers on the table ’til she could contain her laughter. “I bet I think it’s funny too, when you let me in on the joke. I gather it’s what Rand said to Donnie Ray before he so rudely buzzed the house.”

 
; “Yes,” she said, struggling for control. “He … he asked directions to the vacant lot behind Hardee’s!”

  I joined her, but my sickly laughter was forced. I didn’t see a damn thing funny in his remark.

  10

  “Judy, Judy, Judy”

  October 5, Thursday, 3:10 A.M.

  Heart pounding, I sat straight up in bed. Unsure of what had pulled me from a deep sleep, I didn’t move but quartered the room with my eyes. Nothing. The phone rang. Now I knew that it was the first ring that had alerted me.

  This had better not be Bubba up to his old tricks, I thought sluggishly, still not completely awake. I stared at the clock, trying to focus on where the little hand and big hand were pointing, as I reached for the phone. The second I heard the clicking sound instead of a voice, I was elated. It was Wayne. Judy must have started labor. I listened to the taps in Morse code and translated them into letters.

  O … n … e, pause, m … a … l … e.

  I hung up, turned on the light, and started pulling on the clothes I had laid out last night. Judy had just delivered the first puppy of an expected litter of ten. You can’t wait until delivery to be surprised at the number of puppies. It has to be known in advance because sometimes the last one or two can’t be delivered normally through the birthway and have to be removed by cesarean section. Harvey, my vet, had confirmed the count by X ray fourteen days ago. He had first tried to palpate, but there were too many to take a chance on missing one.

  As I tied my shoes, I reassessed her condition. A normal whelping can begin between fifty-eight and sixty-three days after breeding. This was day sixty-one for Judy. Wayne and I had started monitoring her temperature on day fifty-five. We keep a log and enter the reading three times a day.

  The idea that prompts these readings is to recognize the drop in progesterone, which happens one or two days before whelping. Her temperature had hovered from 100.4 to 100.9 for the past six days. Yesterday morning it suddenly dropped to 99.1 and remained there all day. This was when we started ’round-the-clock surveillance; we’d keep it up until all ten were born.

  I had been with her from 4:00 P.M. until midnight, then Wayne took over. We were lucky. Judy completely trusted both of us, so we could take turns staying with her. Some bitches won’t allow but one person to be present when in labor. Bloodhounds have to be reassured constantly and have you near the entire time. I glanced at my watch. Judy had begun heavy panting and restlessness at 6:00 P.M. last evening. Nine hours so far. The first delivery had arrived, but she might not drop a second one for hours. Thirty minutes is average, and any delay after that we start worrying. If it went to three hours, we would panic and call Harvey and demand a cesarean, which would mean Judy was in trouble. The puppies would be at risk.

  I’m a worrywart when any of the bitches are whelping. I think of all the bad things that can happen, chew my nails, and pace, as if I were a first-time expectant father.

  I hurried through the hallway and Bobby Lee joined me. Rudy had been awakened by the phone and was hunkered over his dish, where he had left a few morsels from his supper. I let Bobby Lee come along. We entered the grooming room and went down the hall to the whelping room.

  Bobby Lee knew he couldn’t go any further. He had waited outside this door on previous occasions. He quietly settled in the hall, and I entered. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, so they could adjust to the dim lighting. Judy wanted her delivery to take place in complete darkness. This wasn’t possible, but we only burned a small lamp, shaded with a towel.

  “How is she doing?” I whispered, and watched Wayne’s flashing hands.

  “She cried and jumped into my arms on the arrival of male one. She never did that before.”

  “Oh no,” I breathed. Bloodhounds don’t usually show they are in pain. If Judy had been that demonstrative, she could be in trouble. I inched around Wayne’s sleeping bag and picked up her chart from the low shelf where we keep all essentials close at hand. Wayne was on the other side of the whelping box, gently rubbing Judy’s back.

  Her eyes followed my movement but she hadn’t stirred. She didn’t seem restless or in pain. Judy’s previous litters had been normal, and had gone without a hitch.

  Bloodhounds can have very large litters, up to fifteen. The average is from six to eight, but ten is not unusual. In Judy’s previous litters, the number of births had been seven or less. Bloodhound bitches get very big before they whelp, and Judy had been enormous this pregnancy. She had resembled a blimp. Her stomach had changed from round to pear-shaped two days ago. This meant she had “dropped normally.” Harvey had examined her every morning for the past week and declared she was healthy.

  I continued to read on down the chart. The time of birth for puppy one was recorded at 1:16. My eyes widened and I checked the time. It was now 3:30. Two hours and fourteen minutes ago! I looked at Wayne, who had been watching my progress down the chart.

  “We still have a window of forty-five minutes. She’s showing no distress, so let’s give her a little longer. She has been lactating for two days. If she has a cesarean it could slow her milk. We already know we’ll have to supplement the feedings. The puppies will gain weight much faster with her milk than they will on formula.”

  He lowered his hands again, to rub Judy’s back. I reached over and wiped drool from her mouth with a towel and whispered some comforting words. I went back to her chart. Male one weighed four hundred grams. His collar color was blue, and his coat markings were black and tan with no white. He was born without a placenta. We had to keep a careful count of placentas. Leave one inside too long, and Judy could die.

  It isn’t easy being a midwife. I had checked on Judy first; now I was ready to see the absolute joy of all this labor. I peeked into the nursery box. It had two hot pads on low, covered with a receiving blanket. The little guy was asleep. I picked up the tiny creature and cradled him in my hands, looking for any imperfection. He was beautifully handsome and appeared flawless. We wouldn’t know for sure until several months had passed, but at this moment in time, he was perfect. This litter was slated for the show ring. An impressive champion papa and an award-winning mama had gotten together to produce this small miracle.

  I loved all my bloodhounds, but this litter’s monetary value would be substantial if they all had the right bone configurations. The pick of the litter went to the stud owners. Nine others would be sold from a carefully culled list. The new expectant owners had already signed a purchase agreement and mailed a large deposit to guarantee ownership. This was not just the birth of some purebred bloodhounds, this was a happening!

  I glanced at the preparations that awaited the future births. Nine different-colored pieces of yarn were aligned in a row. These were temporary collars so we could identify each puppy. Some litters have two or three with the exact same markings. This preserved their order of birth and helped us keep them straight when we charted their progress.

  Judy stirred. Wayne and I watched while she rose to her feet and started straining. We both reached for thin disposable gloves. Within thirty seconds, Wayne caught puppy two and moved it closer to her. It was still in the sac. Judy tore it open with her teeth and chewed through the umbilical cord. Sometimes we had to help young bitches with their first delivery. Inexperienced bitches will sometimes chew too close. They can’t tell where their umbilical cord ends, and start chewing open their abdomen. We watched her closely as she severed the cord quickly and neatly. Judy began cleaning her offspring. When I saw that it didn’t move, I reached for a hand towel and picked up the puppy. I rubbed it briskly to start circulation. The puppy still wasn’t breathing. I held its head down and swung it back and forth by its legs. When the rib cage began moving, I placed her beside Judy and she finished cleaning her up.

  I stared down at the puppy as it crawled up to the nipples and started to suckle. At this point they can’t see or hear, they simply move toward the heat of their mother’s body, and to a certain extent the smell of her.

  This
little bundle of wrinkles was using her gifted nose to find the tit. I let her suckle for a few minutes, then weighed and added statistics to the chart. My little beauty, female two. I moved her littermate beside her for added warmth and watched both of them rigorously suckling.

  It was now after five.

  “Go have a hot bath and eat,” I signed to Wayne. I climbed over the whelping box, poured cold coffee down the drain, and refilled my cup. I drew a beanbag chair closer to Judy’s box and settled in comfort.

  “We don’t know what today will bring,” I signed when I saw he was hesitant about leaving. “Get some rest.”

  Scratching his head, he stretched and gave me a grin.

  “Want me to bring you the newspaper?”

  “You’re putting me on! Who can read at a time like this?”

  “Promise y’all send Donnie Ray to wake me, if you need help?”

  “Promise.”

  Things were quiet for the next hour. The puppies would suckle, fall asleep, then wake with a start and suckle again. Judy napped. She woke, wagged her tail when I rubbed her ears, and stood, stepping out of the box.

  I quickly picked up the puppies and placed them in the nursery box so they would be warm. Judy was standing at the closed door. I attached her lead and took her outside.

  Keeping an eye on her, I let her wander around while she looked for a spot to piddle. When she squatted, I did too, so I had a good angle to view her. Sometimes they will deliver a puppy while you think they are doing their business. She walked around for a few minutes getting some exercise. It was good for her and I enjoyed the cool morning breeze. When she headed for the door, we returned to the whelping room.

  I had just placed the puppies back with her when she stood and started straining. I put the two back in the warming box. Judy strained for five or six minutes and produced male three. Male four came two hours later.

  At eight, Jasmine knocked softly on the door. I stuck my head out.

  “Is Judy okay?”

  “So far, so good,” I said, knocking on the wood casing of the door for good luck. “Three males, one female. They look healthy and have good markings.”