Ol’ Number Thirteen

Arizona Outdoorsman / AZOD

Ol’ Number Thirteen

By Linda Dightmon AZOD

There are two kinds of people in the world, dog people and then everyone else. Dog people understand and overlook minor things like craters in the back yard, chewed up drip systems and tooth-trimmed shrubbery. Others, let’s call them ‘non-doggers,’ tend to become irritated and annoyed at the canine culprits of such deeds. We dog people are pure optimists and see only the graceful gundog in the field delivering a fat Gamble’s quail to hand. Non-doggers tend to be realists and dwell on the 300-plus days of the year when this same graceful gundog is terrorizing the backyard or worse, draped over the furniture. Life gets interesting when a dog person and a non-dogger marry. Such is the case in our household.

Last November my German shorthaired pointer bitch birthed 13, yes THIRTEEN, pups. (See Memoir’s of a Reluctant Canine Midwife.)

http://www.azod.com/GunDogs/Archives/2003/Q1/Memoirs%20of%20a%20Reluctant%20Canine%20Midwife.htm

We have been together a long time so I was not surprised or upset that Geno, my husband, did not help during the whelp. He is a tad on the squeamish side anyway. There were 12 pups when he got back from his golf game that morning. His only comment was, “Twelve more PITA (Pain in the A--) dogs in the world.” He had nicknamed Millie PITA months before.

I had been up all night so he took over puppy watching so that I could try and take a nap. (He is not THAT bad.) In the meantime my Uncle Ron and his wife Nanette had made the trek from Jake’s Corner to check out the newborns. A few hours later I was awakened by Nanette shaking me and hollering, “Linda, Linda, she is having another one. What do we do!”

When I got to my dog, puppy number 13 was halfway into the world. Geno was watching, unable not to. The expression on his face alternated between total gross-out and amazement. This puppy was the biggest one of the litter. It took him a lot longer to be born and unlike his littermates he was lethargic. I rubbed him real hard with my towel getting him to breathe and cry like the rest. I was the expert by default and I expressed my doubts about the survival of this little guy. Some expert! It took him about an hour before he would nurse but then we knew that he would be OK.

Four weeks later you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather when Geno asked me, “Which pup are you going to keep? How about Tank?” Tank was the handle that we had given No. 13. Since his tenuous beginnings he had not only thrived but grew to be the strongest of the pack. He would plow through the puppy pile like a tank leaving a cleared path with puppies on either side.

That is how “Geno’s Panzer Tank” came into our life. It is kind of fun to watch a non-dogger come around. Now, when my husband comes home from work he steps over the pieces of bottlebrush scattered about the patio. A big clumsy pup comes loping across the yard delighted to see his master. I sure am glad Geno wasn’t there for the other dozen.