Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Rhys
It’s three AM.
Of course it is.
All old dogs decide to have trouble at three AM. No dog ever gets a pup stuck during the day when I’m awake and functional.
Getting ready is easy, pajamas off, scrubs on. Done.
Socks and crocs, and I head across to the practice a stone's throw away.
What greets me is a full stage performance.
A camera crew is setting up in my operating room. Laura and Tree are here, along with Noah, who is practically inside the kennel with the dog.
“We're setting up surgery,” Tree explains quickly. “I’ve been here all evening. Noah has been here since nine. Active labor for 90 minutes, no pups.”
“This is…” I don't recall the name; my late night-brain doesn't care about trivia, but I know all the important information. “Six years old experienced whelper, twelve pups.”
“He calls her Honey.” Tree smiles affectionately as Noah tries to talk Honey into pushing a little more.
90 minutes of active labor is a long time with no pups.
She's certainly not going to have the energy to deliver all 12 now. The odds are stacked towards needing surgical intervention at some point. Usually, the choice to jump into surgery rests with the owners and their bank balance, but this dog doesn't have an owner. Noah is the closest thing she has to someone who cares, and he’ll want what’s best.
The production team will foot the bill. Or the council.
Or me.
I'll pay whatever it costs to keep Noah’s favorite dog safe.
“Prep her. We'll go straight to surgery.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Tree turns towards the kennels.
“I want Noah to scrub in with me.”
“Noah?” Tree frowns. “He'd be better with the pups.”
“This is his favorite dog. He'll be distracted, worrying about her instead of the puppies. Have Laura support each puppy for the camera.”
A small smile crosses her face before she rushes off to get ready.
My first job is hands-on, administering the sedatives, and then the breathing tube once the dog is asleep.
My nurses prep her, shaving the fur from the incision site while Noah and I scrub our hands in the surgery.
Laura has the heating crib set up ready for the babies.
My patient arrives, joined by a shaking Noah.
“Worried about the dogs?” I ask, trying to focus his mind.
“Honey is in the best hands on the planet.” He answers quickly. “This is my first surgery.”
“You will never forget this moment.” I stand over the dog, just a wall of green drapes around a rectangular of flesh. “Scalpel.”
Noah reaches for the scalpel, his hands steady now, the adrenaline taking over from his nerves.
I make my incision and enter the abdominal cavity. Noah didn't even blink.
As I exposed the uterine wall, he leaned forward a little.
“Opening the uterus now, ready for the first pup?”
“Ready,” Laura replied.
“Here we go.” I cut through the uterus to reveal a tiny pup in his little sac.
I extract the motionless wet body, letting Noah lift it in the palm of his hand.
He instinctively clears the membrane from its face, then rubs it hard.
The floppy pup gives a satisfying squeak.
Noah exhales as if he’s been holding his breath for an hour.
He nods and passes it to Laura, ready and waiting with a warm towel. Noah leans back in, opposite me, leaning over the same wound, with the surgical tray on his left. He's so close, but the situation puts him a world away.
“Exposing the next pup.” I angle the uterine horn to gently ease out the next pup through the same incision. Laura isn't ready for this one yet, so Tree grabs a towel and steps in.
I need to get all 12 pups out ASAP, but I'm lacking in hands to take them. This is Noah’s dog; her well-being comes first. We just save what we can of the puppies afterwards.
“Next,” I warn Noah. He cleans and rubs it, earning his squeak before he hands it to Laura, who now has a pup in each hand. “Next.”
Laura and Tree stand together with a line of sleepy pups, alternating which one they stimulate with aggressive rubbing.
“Damn, I need the Spencer Wells.” I just need to get this next pup out of the way.
Noah doesn't move. He's been amazing until now, giving me what I need, but now, without Tree standing next to him, he's clueless.
“She's bleeding,” Noah observes, placing a gauze swab in my palm. “Will this thingamajigger work for clamping the bleed?”
He offers me exactly what I asked for, without even knowing it.
“Thanks.” We switch, him taking the puppy as I grab the Spencer Wells artery forceps. Next time I'm asking for something by its full name, or I'm calling it a thingamajigger.
We find an easy rhythm, removing the pups in a steady stream until finally I hand Noah the final one.
The last pup is noticeably smaller. Even in the bright surgical lights, the difference is obvious.
“And this last one is clearly the runt.” Noah shrugs.
He doesn't rub this one as hard. Not because he's trying to be gentle, but like it doesn’t matter. The pup doesn't even squeak before he's handed it to Tree.
“Right, let's spay her now, so she doesn't need opening up again.” I mutter, more to myself. “Two point oh Vicryl.”
I extend my hand but receive nothing.
“Maybe if you explain what you're doing,” Noah shrugs.
“I’m closing the incision to prevent fluid leaking into the abdominal cavity during the spay.”
“Suture cotton?” He shrugs, handing me a length of Vicryl on a needle driver.
“Yes. The sewing thingamajigger.”
“Well, why didn't you say so,” he chuckles. He glances over his shoulder at the long line of tiny pups.
“They're small, sluggish from the anesthetic, but all showing signs of life,” I share the benefits of my better position and superior knowledge.
“She's so lucky she was here.” Noah confesses. “I knew she'd struggle, but I wouldn't have been able to do this.”
“She is going to be lucky for the rest of her life.”
Noah has to keep her. I’ve already decided.
I could probably handle him moving her into his bedroom for the next eight weeks. Let's face it, she's going to need around the clock support nursing her litter. I'd rather lose Noah from the surgery during the day than from the house during the night.
“I hope so,” he smiles.
“You can keep her if you want.”
“Maybe. I need to find a house…”
“You can keep her.” I repeat. He already has a house. I'm offering him the dog.
“Would I make her lucky for the rest of her life?”
“Do you have any idea how much she loves you?” I resist calling him an idiot. It isn't hard to make a dog happy, especially one who is already middle-aged and grateful for anything outside her box. I finish the spay worrying that Honey isn't his favorite, just the most pregnant.
Maybe he was this devoted to all of them around their due dates, but I like this one, so this is the one we will keep. I love the devoted way she looks at him, the way he clung to her as he passed out in my arms.
Maybe I just love the way he slumped in my arms. I shouldn’t remember that moment as clearly as I do.
We move on to suturing Honey back together, and she's done. Noah is clearly torn between monitoring her recovery and checking on his new puppies. Kindly, and while fighting a yawn, I grab some damp gauze and start wiping the iodine from around the wound. My hand comes down on top of Noah’s, though he withdraws his like I've burned him.
“Sorry, just thinking that stuff would taste gross,” he mumbles.
“Why would you care what it tastes like?” I’ve never been struck with the urge to lick a surgical site, but I've never operated on an animal I consider mine.
“The pups will need to suckle soon.”
“Oh, right. I'm just tired.” That makes perfect sense.
His eyes meet mine, a fierceness in them I haven't seen before. It's cute, but I do prefer them filled with fear.
“You thought I wanted to lick her, didn't you?”
“No,” I lie. “I thought you were better than that.”
He smiles widely, which turns into a chuckle. “I was thinking it smells too weird to lick it. That's why I decided the puppies wouldn't want to lick it either.”
Tree rudely leans across the body right in front of us, putting her head right between ours.
“The camera is still rolling,” she hisses softly.
Noah, with his back to the camera, pulls a cheeky face and then whirls around.
“The operation on Honey is a success. We already suspected a six-year-old carrying so many pups would have difficulties, even one with Honey's experience. And here they are, so let's officially meet our newest patients while their mother recovers in peace.”
That boy has gone from flushing red as we discussed licking iodine, to him performing perfectly for the camera. His mask is almost as good as mine.
That’s… dangerous.
I clean the iodine with one hand while watching him examine each little pup in front of the camera, checking they all have the right number of toe beans, and a nubby-stubby. I can’t tell if it’s the tail or the umbilical cord, but he makes it sound adorable in that cooing voice.
But under that cutsie voice that's used on dogs and children, I know why he's checking each pup. If they’re defective, they aren’t sellable. On a puppy farm, there is no point wasting energy raising pups that won't sell.
I wonder if he has the heart to do it. To take an innocent life to spare its future, or whether he tried hiding those ones from the brothers.
“And this last one is clearly the runt.” His angle is perfect for the camera, but it means I can also see the small black body he's introducing to the camera. “See how it's so much smaller than the siblings.”
He compares another next to it; the size difference isn't massive. Most owners would give the runt a chance, but most owners aren't running a puppy farm.
Like it or not, Noah was very successful in running a puppy farm.
“Okay, well, I usually name these little puppers myself, but I might need help with this many.” He looks directly at the camera as if he's challenging the audience to write in.
“And that's where you come in,” Laura tells the camera as it pans around to her. “We'll add a photo of each puppy to the website, numbered 1 to 12, and for the next week, you can suggest names for them. But for now, we'll say goodbye and get these adorable bundles settled with their mommy.”
“And cut.” The cameraman says the words that make the entire room relax.
“Eleven pups,” Noah corrects Laura softly, still holding the runt. “We won't let this one suffer.”
“Noah, let me see him,” I call. “Tree, take over recovery. I need to check these pups.”
Why am I doing this? Taking the runt from Noah’s hands, I check it over with one goal… to prove runts are worth saving.
He isn't being heartless, just compassionate in a blunt way.
“I know you are used to the farm rules, but here, everyone lives.”
“The brothers were very clear that the runts had to go.
But they weren't around enough to check, so when I first started working there, I'd leave them with their moms and give them a chance. They usually only lasted a few days. I realized quickly that it was kinder not to try. For them and for me.” He gives the puppy a gentle stroke. “I'm not trying to be mean.”
“Noah, you are not mean.” I put the pup back in his warm hands. “You are being practical.”
And that explains perfectly how he can shrug off the brothers’ deaths. They were runts. Not the smallest people, but the ones who brought the least good into the world.