Olde English Nanny
I became the caretaker or “doggy nanny”, for six Olde English Bulldog puppies two weeks before their arrival. Trying to gain the trust of Gianna, the pups’ very pregnant mother was no easy task. It took a while before I figured out what could fix her “pregnant jones,” and it turned out to be nearly anything liver-flavored. After four days, she was allowing me to rub her sides and touch her belly for an early introduction to my soon-to-be clients. On Feb. 29, they burst into the world in a successful race to win me over.
Gianna first gave birth to three boys that the family named Giavanni, Guido and Sonny. Next, an equal number of daughters arrived that the family named Rosa, Frankie and Remy. Remy was most definitely the runt at nearly half the size of the rest of the litter. Remy’s first twenty four hours were rough, but she proved to be a fighter. She actually began to die twice and the family was able to revive her each time. None of her siblings were fazed by her size and Gianna fed and cared for her the same as the others and soon Remy began to flourish. At nine days she was the first to open her eyes and the first to squeal out a few puppy peeps. Clearly, Remy was in it for the long haul!
I was a bit apprehensive about how Gianna would react to me coming into her territory everyday to handle her pups and change the bedding in their whelping box. So, I made sure that I greeted her first, made a big fuss about what a great mom she was, and allowed her to watch very closely every move I made with her babies. After a couple of weeks, I think she anxiously awaited my arrival so she could have a break from her puppies that were growing fast and becoming rowdy.
As the days went by and the puppies began turning into little rolly pollies, six very different personalities were developing right before my eyes. I started calling Remy, the peewee girl, Peter Frampton because the resemblance was too funny to let go by unnoticed. Each day, their teeth got sharper and sharper. Not only were they scratching up my ankles through my jeans with their little choppers but they were starting to tear up my shoes, too.
Soon thereafter, they created a bizarre new tactical peeing sport, and would assuredly have won gold medals for years to come. When I took them out of their whelping box to run around their pen, one would start to pee on the floor. No sooner than I’d clean up that puddle, the next one would leave a puddle on the other side of the pen. I’d make my way over to clean that one up, and yet another would then have a poopie somewhere else. As I bounced back and forth like a pinball, their chubby jowels shook with mocking, albeit playful laughter. This would end, literally, when they pooped out, which; of course, left me pooped out as well.
At nine weeks old, they are moving fast, getting really strong and are my current best friends. Gianna has stopped nursing them; they are eating real kibbles, and are teaching themselves to potty on the paper in their pen. Sometime in the near future, they will take their sweet silliness to their new adopted families. By this time next year they will be as big and stout as their mom and dad are now. Maybe, they will trade in their puppy paws, puppy tails, and puppy breath for litters of their own and their fun-loving, wiggly spirits can continue to roll down the Bulldog bloodline.
You can e-mail Rachel Pelizzari at rachel_pelzz@hotmail.com.
