From the time my service dog, Pandora, was six months old, I knew I wanted to breed her. I waited until she was two. It wasn’t that I wanted the experience of puppies, it was more about having one of her puppies. I spent time thinking about who to breed her to. I wanted to breed her to a dog that had a personality and traits that would complement hers, so the puppies would have the best of both worlds.

I did so much research before making the final decision that I would dream about the things I was researching in the rare times that I slept. I asked around, I joined breeding groups, I used Google, I went on many different dog forums. As you can imagine, I got many different responses.

There were those that were fully in support of me doing something that would provide all around great dogs for family pets, those that supported me wanting to train at least one to be a service dog, and those that were excited in general about puppies. Then there was the other end of the spectrum. Those that called me names, told me I was irresponsible, told me I could go to a shelter and train any young dog to be a service dog (no, it doesn’t work that way), told me I was contributing to the overpopulation of dogs in the world, that my pups would end up in shelters, be euthanized along with thousands of other dogs a day, and that I should have my dog spayed before I bred her, and while I was at it I should probably have myself spayed, since I was too irresponsible to get an AKC registered dog, and breed her to another AKC registered dog. I blocked a lot of people due to bullying.

Finally, came the time.

The sire was more than ready to do his duty, Pandora was willing to stand for him, and I felt honored to be able to witness it. I got to be a part of all of it: making the decision, doing the research, making the commitment to the puppies even if she would have had a dozen, witnessing the mating, and watching for the signs that the pregnancy took.

My first sign was the morning sickness. Pandora is a silent puker. She can sit right next to me and throw up, and I won’t know it until I hear the splatter on the floor. Imagine the wonderful surprise I had in the middle of the night. I had gotten up to get something to drink, and sweetheart that she is, my baby puked right where I would step in it when I got out of bed. It was still kind of warm, and very disgusting.

We went through a couple weeks of morning sickness, an extremely lethargic and tired momma dog, nipples emerging, and the belly getting bigger and bigger. Like anyone else, I took belly pictures and posted them once a week for comparison.

I continued my research, and packed a whelping bag. I had fast acting calcium gel paste for her, sterile scissors in case I needed them to cut the umbilical cords, betadine, alcohol swabs, little collars, a chart to show what time each puppy was born and what collar it had, a scale to weigh them, milk replacement formula and a nursing bottle just in case, and other things. I made sure I had a huge supply of towels (whelping is a wet job) and newspapers. I turned the spare room into a nursery. I put everything out of reach of puppies (turns out that no matter what you do, nothing is ever one hundred percent puppy proof), and got a hard plastic pool for her to have her babies in. I was confident that it would all go smoothly, and the nursery was a stroke of genius on my part.

I knew it was getting close to time to meet the babies when mom started panting, pacing, and digging. She had not done that throughout the entire pregnancy. She started that Monday evening. My husband and I watched as her belly rippled from puppies rolling to get into position. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up with her Monday night. Tuesday she was uncomfortable, but not in labor. I tried to catnap throughout the day. Tuesday night I knew it was only a matter of hours. By that point I had gotten less than ten hours of sleep since the previous Wednesday. I was tired, but determined to be there with her. I lost track of how many cups of coffee I drank.

When she started having contractions, the adrenaline rush made coffee unnecessary. I moved her into the nursery, and the contractions stopped. My baby had decided where she was having puppies, and it was not in the nursery. It was in her sister’s bed, in a spot that there wasn’t enough room or light to really see what was going on. (So much for the best laid plans.)

Two pushes and the first puppy was out. He was still in his sac, and warm. I gave her a chance to open it, but she wasn’t too sure what to do, so I opened it in front of her, tied and cut the cord, checked for cleft palate, got the excess fluid from his mouth and nose, and dried him off.

I put him down with her to nurse, and her mom instincts kicked into high gear. She licked him, let him nurse, and knew what to do when the next one came along. As soon as the sac hit the floor she grabbed it with her teeth, opened it, and didn’t really want me to check the puppy, which I did anyway. Most of the whelping went smoothly.

There was one that was obviously smaller than the rest of the puppies. And by smaller I mean literally less than half the size of any of the others. That was our little one, Patti Ann. She wasn’t strong enough to nurse, so I bottle fed her every hour around the clock. She fought and fought, until she passed away five days later in my husband’s hands when he picked her up to feed her. That was heartbreaking.

Pandora knew Patti Ann needed her. She would take her away from the rest of the litter, and that was the only puppy that Pandora ever picked up and carried. She took her to nurse on her own, and when I fed her would let me know when she wanted her baby back. My husband and I were both devastated, and so was Pandora. She looked for her for the next two weeks.

As the other puppies continued to grow and put on weight, start the weaning process, get big enough to climb out of the pool on their own, it felt like a miracle. Watching their personalities emerge, seeing them learn new things, and knowing that I was part of it all, was something I will never forget.

I have had to modify my gate a few times because I have a couple of puppies that think they are Houdini. They are now on solid hard puppy chow, and water. (Pandora still goes in to let them snack from her once in a while) I have my first interested person coming soon to meet them, and pick one for her dad.

I already know for sure which puppy I am keeping, and have already been teaching her how to sit, come, and her name. That one is staying with me for sure. But no matter which of the other ones it is, I know I will miss him or her. It’s been a roller coaster ride of emotions. Many sleepless nights. I thought as the puppies got older, that by now I would be sleeping (oh how very wrong I was).

Pandora has been an excellent mom, and is back to brushing up on her skills as a working dog. I know she will miss her puppy too, although when I see her tense up as the little furry sharp-toothed eels try to nurse from her, I feel bad for her. It makes my nipples hurt just watching!

In the end, was it worth it? The extra expense of the puppies? The whelping supplies, the heartbreak, the miracle moments, watching them open their eyes, seeing them come running to me when I say “puppies come,” checking that they have met each milestone. Was it really worth it? If you ask me right at this moment, I would say yes in a heartbeat. Just don’t ask me at 9 am, when I have been chasing puppies around my house all night long and haven’t slept yet, and am about to cry (even then I would probably say yes, but let’s not guarantee that answer, ok?).

Despite the expense, the bullying, the sleepless nights, it has been worth it. If I had a social life, I would cancel all plans any time the puppies climbed on me to establish me as the base of the puppy pile, and say it was worth it. When a puppy cries, but calms down and falls asleep as soon as they are settled in on my chest, it was worth it. When my keeper puppy sits on command, it was worth it. When they wrestle me to the ground and bite my hair and ears, and send me into hysterical giggles, it was worth it. Even with the times I couldn’t manage to go into the store because Pandora is not back to working full time, it was worth it. When a Houdini puppy escapes, and I panic looking for him, and step in a pile of puppy poop, then find him sleeping soundly under the coffee table, it was worth it. When the puppies can’t seem to get close enough to me, and won’t stop with the puppy kisses and I smell that sweet puppy breath? Oh yes, it was worth it.