The Perch: Fostering 2 dogs leads to mothering 4 puppies

By Jill Callison

It took many years, but I finally found the secret to being popular.

Have puppies.

I did that, a little more than 10 weeks ago, and from that moment on, a steady stream of visitors came to my door. So many, in fact, I kept waiting for my neighbors to turn me in for conducting some seedy sales of illicit substances. Luckily, the kids who live around the corner knew better and called me “the puppy lady.”

When I say I “had puppies,” I mean, of course, the credit all goes to Kris, the foster dog I took in with another dog from a high-kill shelter in Alabama. Kris and her possible sibling were billed as males in need of neutering. I originally agreed to take in Nick only, but when I saw the picture of them sharing a kennel, well, no way could I leave one behind.

They arrived before Christmas, thus their names: Kris Kringle and St. Nicholas. I’m no veterinarian, but it didn’t take long to realize Kris was not the boy she had been billed. And a few weeks later, when they both went to the veterinarian’s office, I learned it was too late for her surgery — she was a mama-to-be. (Although to be honest, when I was told Kris had passengers on board my first thought was fleas.)

I adopted a puppy about eight years ago as a rescue and learned then I knew nothing about raising a puppy. Now, confronted with being a puppy godmother, I was apprehensive to say the least. The veterinarian predicted three puppies.

To prepare, I read — a lot. There is no book titled “What to Expect When Your Foster Dog is Expecting,” but the internet is a wealth of information, sometimes contradictory. I had all the signs of labor memorized — so, of course, Kris showed none of them when I went to bed on a Sunday night.

When I checked on her about 2:30 a.m., she had delivered two puppies successfully, no help needed. Still, it seemed rude to say, “Well, you’re doing fine without me,” so I curled up on the couch next to her. Twenty minutes or so later, Kris gave one discreet yelp, I turned up the light and welcomed puppy No. 3. Then, I went to bed.

Four hours later, I checked on her again, counted the puppies, rubbed my eyes, counted again and discovered puppy No. 4 had arrived. Welcome, Winken, Blinken and Nod. Plus, Jerry. (Winken, Blinken and Nod are named after a poem that apparently only I remember. Jerry is a favorite cousin I tried to lure into taking a puppy. It didn’t work.)

Like any parent to multiples, I had worried I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Wrong, wrong, wrong. How could four sibling-puppies look so different? I would swear they had different dads.

What I can’t swear is whether Nick can claim paternity. Sometimes, I’d think he was the puppy daddy. Sometimes, I thought no chance he could be the culprit.

I didn’t know newborn puppies are helpless. Based on the videos I’ve seen of baby giraffes, colts and fawns, I thought puppies also would be up and at ‘em in a couple of hours. Even with all my reading, I didn’t realize they’d be blind and swim toward Kris rather than walk and just generally be, as my nephew said, potatoes with fur.

It didn’t last. Eyes opened, razor-sharp teeth emerged, little legs became strong enough to stagger toward Mom at mealtime. They became a rambunctious quartet of sisters who quarreled, played, nipped on fingers and at ankles, peed copiously and thought the world should revolve around them. And, for weeks, it did.

They delighted in company, which was good for them and for me. Because, while still following COVID-19 protocol, it kept the five of us from becoming feral. It took my mind off the future — where they would go up for adoption and I would be not an empty-nester but an empty-kenneler.

That has happened: Winken is Katie, Blinken is Brinlee, Nod is Fauci, and Jerry now goes by Miley.

And Kris and Nick will find new homes, too, and my trio of dogs will be at the door waving goodbye. They will rejoice in being top dogs in this house once again.

I will go back to my usual level of popularity.

But I will never forget how much fun it was being the alpha dog for a while. And I will never forget my puppies.

Jill Callison is a recovering journalist who loved fostering the puppies but echoes Bob Barker’s plea to spay and neuter your pets.