This piece of writing contains a death of an animal. The photo above is not the puppy who passed but the one who is doing well.
Roughly ten days ago, I brought home a foster dog from the shelter affiliated with the veterinary clinic where I work as a vet tech. Her backstory was sad, as most of them are. Though she appeared well cared for, she was pregnant. And appeared close to term. A pregnancy-terminating spay was not going to be performed, so she had her puppies in the isolation unit of the shelter. Seven babies for a very small chihuahua-dachshund mix.
Caring for such fragile creatures is daunting. Unfortunately, momma wasn’t producing enough milk to feed them all. The decision was made to supplement their feeding and pull them through the first critical days. Numerous people were involved in this endeavor. The physical work is exhausting as they need to be fed every two hours, stimulated to both urinate and defecate, and kept at a very exact temperature. Mentally, it’s brutal. Lack of sleep. Intense worry. Trying to make the right decisions then second-guessing yourself. Animal care is not for the weak.
There were various genetic issues as well as being premature; the odds were stacked against them from the beginning. A dozen people were involved in her, and their, care but sometimes there is just nothing that can be done. Unfortunately, five of the puppies passed in a matter of days. I have nothing but respect for my coworkers who tried so valiantly to save such fragile creatures. Knowing, though this battle was lost, they won’t give up when the next one comes to the door.
Momma remained at the shelter, in the isolation room, fiercely protecting her two remaining babies: one girl and one boy. It was decided that the three of them might do better if they were in a quieter environment without so much activity. That’s where I came in. I was asked if I would take them home for “a while.” To say I didn’t think about saying no would be a lie. My heart already hurt for the babies who’d passed. As well as the mom who kept losing her pups. A job in animal welfare is fraught with pain nearly every single day. I didn’t know if I wanted to add the possibility of more to my already heavy load.
I carry, as most bereaved mothers do, monumentally heavy emotional pain. I think the only time of my existence when I am not acutely aware that my child is dead is when I am asleep. Even that isn’t a safe place because this truth often weaves its way into the storyline of my dreams. The mornings after nights filled with those dreams I awake exhausted, as if I have had no rest at all. Those days my mood is darker, my temper is short, and I am close to tears until it’s time for bed again. What would taking home a new mom with critical puppies do to my mental health?
But, of course, I drove to the shelter to pick up momma and babies. Still wondering if I could give this dog what she needed.
I walked through the main area where the majority of adoptable dogs are kept. Noisy and full of commotion as always. I thought some quiet might do momma good. I could provide quiet. I would set her up in my bedroom in a pen. My dogs would stay out of the room, except to sleep at night. The room gets a lot of sun and is warm. Perfect for tiny puppies. I’ll take the opportunity to mention that every puppy weighed less than half a pound at birth, so they were truly tiny. Our house is generally quiet unless our big dog sees something he doesn’t like outside. Otherwise, it’s relatively calm. I could provide an environment that would be better for a new mom than a loud shelter.
I followed the shelter director through the door that led to the isolation rooms. The door to momma’s room had a window in it and she lunged up to the window when she saw me. I was told that she had become extremely protective as each puppy had disappeared. She was going to do everything she could to keep the remaining two safe. I thought, how am I going to care for her and the babies when she wants to eat me?
When the door was open she rushed out and started jumping up and tried to bite my hands. Not mean bites but bites that were meant to tell me not to mess with the babies. She was warning me. I understood. I would have protected my daughter if I had been able to. After losing Becca I was terrified that something was going to happen to my twin boys and I had an excruciating time in letting them go out into the world for anything. I completely understood where this little fifteen-pound momma was coming from. I knew I would have to go slow.
We managed to get her into a carrier by placing the pups inside while she was outside. She came in, realized her babies were snuggled in the blankets, and got right in. I was afraid, however, to pick up the carrier and get my fingers anywhere near where she could reach them. I loaded everything I would need to care for them into the car then loaded momma and babies up last.
The drive home was short and momma growled the entire way. She was pissed, I get that. She was unsure. I understand. She was scared, of course. And, she was grieving. I didn’t know how to help a grieving creature that I couldn’t hold a conversation with.
Setting up her area was easy. Getting her to stay in the pen was hard. I was told she was a jumper but I didn’t realize she could have won a medal in the sport! I am not exaggerating when I say that she cleared the side of a three-foot-high pen with ease in one leap. Her short chi-doxie legs did not slow her down one bit. It was impressive. Except, when she got out she came right at me. Every time. I kept talking to her, calmly, telling her I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her babies. Begrudgingly, she started to trust me. Not completely, I could tell, but enough to change out her food and water and pick up each pup for a weight check twice a day.
The first few nights with her I slept lightly. Getting up often to be sure I could see both babies and making sure momma had plenty of water or if a pad needed changing. We finally got into a routine and I felt more at ease. Enough that I slept through the night without waking with worry. Everything was going great . . . until it wasn’t.
Monday morning I woke up and weighed both babies as I did daily. They’d been gaining about half an ounce overnight regularly, so I was a bit surprised to see the little girl hadn’t gained that much. I fed momma, my dogs, then left for work. At work, I talked to the vet and told her about the very small weight gain the female had overnight and asked what I should do, when should I worry. She gave me a few suggestions and I pushed the worry to the back of my mind because there were other animals that needed my attention that day.
When I got home, the first thing I did was weigh the pups. The girl had lost weight and her stomach wasn’t as full and round. I pinched her skin and it tented, meaning she was dehydrated. I know an animal can crash quickly once they are dehydrated, so I started care right away. I warmed subcutaneous fluids. Stimulated her. Helped her urinate and defecate. Syringe fed. Karo syrup on her tongue. I stayed awake with her nearly the entire night.
I begged her to live. I told momma, who by this time knew (I think) that I was trying to help her baby, that I was sorry. I kept saying, “I’m so sorry momma, I’m so sorry.” As a bereaved mother, I did not want another mother (no matter the species) to lose a baby on my watch. I knew the baby was fading. I could tell by her breathing that she was dying. There was literally nothing else I could do but let nature take its course.
At four a.m., I fell asleep in the pen with the little family. When I awoke, I could tell she was gone. She had passed. She was still tucked up next to her mother who was giving her little licks on her head. I was devastated.
I just sat there and cried. For her, for the baby who died, and for the loss of my daughter. All of these emotions were whirling over each other in my soul and I felt broken. I did the only thing I could, which was to take care of the puppy’s remains with love and let momma say goodbye.
I used a hand towel as a shroud for the baby. I held her tiny body, still warm from her mother’s body, and let momma sniff her. I told her I was going to wrap her baby up and take care of her and I wanted her to understand what was happening. She looked at me as if she did understand. She really did. I felt a spiritual connection with her at that moment. I knew the pain of losing a child and she did, too. I believe momma knew I did my best and that she was thankful for me being there.
Exhausted from no sleep and raw with emotion I wrapped the baby in the towel that was wet from my tears. I was sad. I was angry. I was full of guilt that I didn’t do enough. I had failed.
There is a sacredness in tending to such fragile life. Holding a tiny body against your chest, coaxing breath and warmth into it with trembling hands. It feels like a ritual, an act of communion between species who share an understanding of grief. Caring for her babies was more than just an act of duty; it was something holy. I was witnessing life in its most vulnerable form, grasping to survive against the cruel indifference of nature.
I know that I often transfer human emotion onto animals. Anthropomorphism is the word. I just looked it up because I couldn’t remember it. I’ve heard it isn’t healthy to give animals human emotions. I think it’s ridiculous not to understand that animals have many of the same emotions we have as humans. Momma dog lost a baby. She’d lost multiple babies. I could see the sadness in her eyes, in the way she kept grooming her baby. I did not have to speak the same language as another grieving mother, animal included, because there is a universal language that transcends any barrier.
Maybe she needed to be with me so I could be the one who cared for her after this loss. To hold vigil over her grief, acknowledging her pain without expectation of healing. Perhaps it was the only way to lessen the heaviness of both our burdens. There was a connection forged between us, stronger than words, rooted in shared loss.
My daily morning and night weigh-ins turned into four times a day. I didn’t want to miss any change in weight before it got too far for me to be able to intervene successfully. It’s been four days since the little female puppy passed. I am happy (and guardedly optimistic) to say the little boy pup isn’t so little anymore. Two important thresholds were crossed: weight over a pound and the two-week-old mark. He’s chubby and becoming very mobile. Everything a little pup should be doing.
I’ve often written about the healing I find in working with animals. Being able to be a part of helping a sick animal become better. Of being present when an owner chooses humane euthanasia. And now, the healing in being in the sacred space with a mother who has lost her child. Being present in this situation has brought a facet to my understanding of the acceptance of death and the fragility of life.
As I write this I am sitting on my bed and can see momma happily grooming her only remaining baby. Both of my dogs are curled up against me, asleep, and it’s peaceful as the rain falls outside in the dark night. Momma is happy. Her baby is healthy and content next to her. All is perfect in her small world.
My boys and their families are healthy and happy. They have grown into men I am deeply proud of—kind, resilient, loving. They have navigated their own grief, carried their own pain, and still managed to carve lives of joy and purpose. They are strong in ways I sometimes feel I am not. They have families of their own now, children whose laughter fills the spaces Becca left empty. I watch them as fathers and feel a warmth that is almost painful, a joy intertwined with sorrow.
They are here. Alive. Their faces reflect fragments of Becca at times—a tilt of the head, a shared smile, some subtle likeness that leaves me breathless. I have to steady myself, to remind myself that life continues to grow around the scar her absence left.
But that scar is part of me now. It always will be. And I have come to accept that my world will never be truly whole again. There is a piece missing—a child who will never grow older, who will remain forever young and vibrant only in memory. A loss that echoes beneath everything, constant and unyielding.
Yet, I have also learned that the beauty of life is not erased by loss. It is complicated by it. Made richer, somehow, by the acknowledgment of what is gone and what still remains. It is the recognition that grief and joy can exist side by side, tangled and inseparable. It is the understanding that healing doesn’t mean forgetting or even moving on. It means learning to carry both the weight of pain and the lightness of love.
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