At work the other night, I was in the process of running around and training a new assistant when one of the techs directed me to “go catch puppies” from the dystocia being cut in surgery.
This resulted in my standing at the door to surgery with a clean towel spread over my arms, watching the surgeon remove the obstructed uterus, and then having freshly newborn rottweiler puppies (no bigger than my hand) essentially dumped into my arms, which I had to then run and deliver to the doctor and techs waiting at the treatment table.
After six fuzzy little wormy-looking things were “caught” and run to the table, I was handed one of them and told to rub. This began the ~half hour of rubbing, tilting and pitching (for lack of a better word), suctioning, and placenta-tying.
It was an amazing experience.
For the first few minutes, we rubbed and rubbed and rubbed–to the point that I thought I was doing more damage than good, despite the directions from the doctor to go rougher than instinct allowed. (I couldn’t help but think, “I’m going to break it, I’m going to break it!”) But – lo and behold! – a few minutes in, the lump of stuff in my hands–which I had been convinced was just dead sadness that I had only squished further to oblivion by rubbing too hard–squeaked real loud and started wriggling around!! I could see a swollen little mouth panting and I could feel an uncountably fast heartbeat all the way through to my fingers. The little bugger was alive!
After we wiped them dry of all the colorful goop they’d arrived in, we tucked the four pups that survived (including mine!) into a heated nursery box. The four itty-bitty rottweiler pups all snuggled and squished up together were painfully cute to look at–I’m telling you: it was “sickeningly sweet” defined.
Ugh. I couldn’t even handle it, the whole experience. It was magical and amazing and gross and nerdy and adorable and beautiful and stressful and exhausting and proud and overwhelming and ughhh.
I love my life. :)