Chapter 5
Amelia knelt on the kitchen floor beside Thatcher and the struggling dog. She knew about birthing animals, had always helped her father with calving season and had also witnessed their few sheep and goats give birth.
Birthing was birthing, whether a calf, sheep, goat . . . or dog.
But this situation was obviously precarious. As they’d stepped through the back door and into the kitchen a few moments ago, it had been clear the dog—a mutt that was a mix of sheepdog and Lab—was suffering and wouldn’t make it if they didn’t help her soon.
Thatcher rubbed a hand over the creature’s taut abdomen.
Amelia brushed aside the tail to reveal the dampness of the old blanket she was lying on. “She’s lost a lot of fluid.”
Thatcher glanced up at her, his eyes rounding.
He had really blue eyes. She hadn’t paid attention to their color earlier, had only noticed the kindness reflected in them. But now, up so close, it was hard not to admire the blue that was like a happy, cloudless summer sky with so much potential and promise.
“Is she going to make it?” Across from them, the boy—Stan—was kneeling and stroking Bitsy’s head.
Although his face was still creased with anxiety, he’d wiped away his tears as they’d ridden up the path to his family’s home on the hill above Breckenridge, near one of the mines where his pa worked as a foreman.
The house looked fairly new from the outside, with clean white paint, but the yard was overgrown and dirty, with heaps of broken barrels, iron beams, and other scrap metal.
The inside was crowded too, with an assortment of blackened pots and pans, a couple of washing bins and boards, baskets filled with sewing notions, and more.
They’d had to push aside the clutter in order to have room to tend to the dog.
A woman with a toddler on her hip stood in the doorway that led to a hallway. She’d introduced herself as the boy’s ma, but Amelia couldn’t remember the woman’s name. She was lucky Stan’s name had stuck.
His ma had been leery about letting them in, announcing right away that she had no money to pay Thatcher for his services. He’d waved off the concern and told her not to worry, that he’d do what he could to help and that she—or Stan—could pay him in whatever way they saw fit.
There was no sight of the pa. Was he working this late? Or was he down on Main Street at one of the many saloons she’d seen on her way out of town earlier?
Stan was watching Thatcher and waiting for his pronouncement on whether Bitsy would live or die.
If Amelia had to make the prognosis, she’d say that Bitsy had no energy or stamina left. The poor dog was nearly comatose, probably from being in labor for so long, losing so much water, and suffering the pain.
Thatcher gently palpated Bitsy’s abdomen, swollen like a cow’s udder before milking time. “Let’s see if we can revive her. If we can’t, I’ll try a cesarean section.”
It was Amelia’s turn to look at Thatcher with surprise. He wouldn’t really try a cesarean section here on the dirty floor of a mining family’s kitchen, would he?
“It would only be a small incision,” he replied, clearly sensing her question, “and easy enough to stitch up when I deliver the pups.”
She opened his leather bag. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll help any way I can.”
“There’s something blocking her.” Thatcher shrugged out of his suit coat, then began rolling up the sleeves of a clean white dress shirt, one that should stay clean and spotless and free of the stains that were sure to come during the delivery.
Clearly the animal was more important to him than clothing, and she could respect that about him.
“Maybe one of the pups is facing the wrong way,” she suggested.
“That’s what I’m thinking. Or maybe the presenting pup is just too big.
” He finished with one sleeve and then began on the other, revealing strong, tanned arms with flexing muscles.
“If you could locate the thermometer in my bag, I’d be obliged.
Then, if you don’t mind, you could bring me some clean water and soap. ”
She dug through the satchel that contained a hodgepodge of utensils, medicines, salves, and powders, along with bandages and thread and other supplies.
Then with Stan’s help, she located warm water in the kettle on the back of the stove and brought a basin of it to Thatcher along with a bar of soap.
He finished taking Bitsy’s temperature, then plunged his hands in the basin, lathered them with soap, and began an internal examination. “Yes, I can feel the pup’s snout. It’s facing the wrong way and clogging things up.”
“Do you need forceps?” She’d seen the scissor-like tool in his bag.
He shook his head, his expression turning grave. “Using them would probably harm the puppy, and I think it’s still alive.”
“Good.”
Stan was kneeling across from them again, his eyes bouncing back and forth between them during their exchange.
Thatcher bit his lip as he focused on what he was feeling inside Bitsy. “I’ve got the pup’s jaw.”
Bitsy lifted her head and turned her pitiful eyes upon Thatcher. She was miserable, but at least she was interacting and not so listless.
“Come on, Bitsy.” Stan leaned in and crooned gently to the dog. “You can do this, girl.”
The mother dog’s tail thumped just once against the dirty blanket. It was enough to know that Bitsy loved the boy and would fight for him.
Amelia held the towel toward Thatcher to have at the ready. He leaned in low and appeared to be tugging at the pup slowly. Amelia couldn’t see much past his large hand, but the sinews in his arms flexed hard, showing his restraint.
He was obviously a very skilled veterinarian and cared about both the people and their animals.
She liked that she was getting to see him in the throes of a crisis.
It was the perfect way to judge someone’s real character qualities, and she could see that he worked well under pressure, was decisive, a quick thinker, and calm.
“There you are,” he said softly as he continued to gently maneuver the pup.
He’d also taken the news about her name confusion and about the baby better than she’d expected.
She’d expected him to feel deceived or to question her honesty and morals.
But he hadn’t been upset, had understood that exchanging a few letters hadn’t been enough to get to know each other’s situations, and had been willing to continue on with their marriage.
So far, Thatcher was the complete opposite of Charles in just about every way, and she was relieved and grateful to put that part of her past behind her. She could have a new life with a new husband who was respected in the community for his goodness instead of despised for his cheating and lying.
“It’s coming now.” Thatcher’s tone took on a note of excitement. He glanced at Stan. “Let’s see if we can get Bitsy to do her part again and push.”
Stan rubbed the dog’s head. “Come on, girl.”
Amelia gently scratched the dog’s back. “Let’s go, mama. Push that baby out.”
They worked together for long moments, encouraging and petting her. Finally, as though realizing her puppy was about to be born, Bitsy grunted and began to make small efforts at helping.
“And there it is.” Thatcher guided a wet bundle of fur and mucus out. As he held the pup in his broad palm, the creature didn’t move.
Had it died?
Thatcher leaned forward and placed the creature on the rug in front of Bitsy’s head. The mother dog eyed the baby wearily but then lifted her head and began to lick it methodically and thoroughly.
In less than thirty seconds, the pup squirmed and then opened its tiny mouth to take a breath.
Stan was still scratching Bitsy’s head and crooning words of praise. Thatcher returned to catch another pup, because without the breech puppy holding up the process, the others were coming much more easily.
Three more pups were born, and by the end, Bitsy was busy taking care of them all. Although a little slow, she seemed to be regaining her energy now that her ordeal and the pain were behind her.
After the birthing, Thatcher washed up, and Amelia helped put away the supplies.
Thatcher didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, and he sat with Stan and the puppies and helped them get started with nursing.
All the while he gave Stan advice about how to take care of the puppies, how to train them, and even how to look for homes for them when they were old enough to be weaned.
Stan’s ma made them tea and offered them biscuits with homemade strawberry jam, and they sat on the floor with their snack and watched the puppies with Bitsy while Thatcher shared other more daring birthing stories.
Amelia could see Thatcher enjoyed the socializing as much as he’d enjoyed the successful birthing. Even though she was naturally a quieter person who didn’t have a lot to say most of the time, she realized she wasn’t in a hurry to go either.
Before marrying Charles and moving to Albany, she’d been alone on the farm with her father for so many years.
Of course, they’d gone to church, and she’d attended a small country school for a while whenever she could.
They’d socialized once in a while with neighbors, and over recent years she’d had some callers—men who’d wanted to court her but hadn’t wanted to settle down on the dairy farm with her and Father.
The truth was, she’d led a very lonely and isolated life with just her and Father after Mother had left them. Amelia had forgotten, maybe hadn’t ever known, what it was like to sit and talk with people and get to know them.
When Stan’s pa finally stumbled inside the front hallway, wavering and slurring and inebriated, Thatcher offered to help carry the man up to bed. But with embarrassment lining their faces, Stan and his ma said they would take care of things and that it was best for Thatcher and Amelia to leave.