By Daniel Webre
From the get-go, Jacques seemed an unlikely suitor. I’m sure whoever arranged these trysts was well-versed in reading pedigree papers and such. Surely, they wouldn’t have sent an over-the-hill poodle to do this stud-work. But Jacques looked old. His white fur had started to yellow, though everyone insisted he was peach. I wasn’t privy to the whole affair, but from what I saw, he took no interest in Ms. Toots, nor she in him. And if they had hit it off, by my estimates, Jacques would have required the assistance of a small stool or stepladder to mount her.
I was as shocked as anyone when word spread that she was pregnant. Soon, though, we were all swept up in the excitement. This wasn’t even my dog, you see, but she was my neighbors’ and we were like family—all of us, pets included. I got started right away reading about how to prepare for puppies and began construction of a whelping box. Since I was only five at the time and not permitted to use power tools, I got my dad to help, too. In retrospect, he did most of the work, but we designed the specs together, according to the book I had read, and I am certain the project would never have been completed had it not been for my initiative.
As the days passed, an uncle of mine came forward and showed us how to count the babies. It was simpler than I thought. I remember Uncle Conrad setting his cigarette down and reaching out with the authority of a doctor. My neighbor, Ms. Leda, held Toots like a baby and scratched gently behind her ears while Uncle Conrad pressed one-by-one the pink segments of her abdomen. By his count, six new poodles were on the way, and I hoped the box Dad and I were building would be big enough.
When it got closer to the delivery date, we would line the box with crumpled newspaper, as the book instructed. This, I supposed, would provide a kind of nest for Toots and her babies.
In the meantime, Ms. Leda agreed it would be a good idea to let Toots get used to the box. Once Dad and I finished constructing it, we gave it a coat of paint. I remember thinking it looked like lemon ice-box pie. It had a creamy appearance—very different from the yellow of the expectant father, which reminded me of the fringed pages of old diaries or love letters—at least that was the charitable spin I adopted so as not to diminish Ms. Toots’ romance.
Dad and I carried the box next door, and Ms. Leda clapped for joy.
“That is the finest whelping box I ever did see—bar none,” she said. Ms. Leda was from Georgia and had a slightly different accent from ours. When she was feeling well, everything she said sounded exultant. It never crossed my mind to wonder just how many whelping boxes she actually had seen. Anyway, it didn’t matter. I knew Dad and I had built a fine one, and I was proud of it. Four feet by three feet, just under a foot high—I knew it would work beautifully. And during the test runs, when we encouraged Ms. Toots to stretch out and get comfortable, I imagined six squirming babies, their lemon creamsicle coats the perfect blend of father and mother.
***
As it happened, Uncle Conrad had been mistaken. Not only was he not a doctor—for people or animals—but my mom confessed later that the one dog he had owned in his lifetime was a boy. It was simply Uncle Conrad’s habit to speak with an air of authority on all sorts of subjects he knew nothing about—or very little about, anyway. But we didn’t love him any less for this.
Ms. Leda, however, was a bit more disappointed. She had already spent the money anticipated from the sale of Ms. Toots’s pedigreed puppies. Even being an optimist, I thought she’d over-budgeted. I just couldn’t shake the thought of orange and elderly Jacques tainting the gene pool. I wondered if they might bring him back around for another try, but apparently the magic was gone, if there had ever been any in the first place. I never did see Jacques again.
All was not lost, though. The cream-colored box came home with us. We filled it with pine straw, covered the top with chicken wire, and used it as an enclosure for turtles for years to come. At the time, I had no understanding that I was basically operating a prison from under my carport. But life brings with it many lessons. Some we learn in the moment, and others take much longer to sink in.
Daniel Webre‘s short fiction has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Pinyon, MUSE Literary Journal, I-70 Review, Permafrost Online, Hawaiʻi Pacific Review, and other places. He is the recipient of the 2023 Willow Review Award for Fiction.