The morning walk had been longer than usual.
When they got back, the other half looked shaken. Properly shaken. Macy was fine—wandering around as she always did—but the back of her coat was covered in something thick and unpleasant. Slime, foam… something worse.
After a cup of tea, the story came out.
Macy had been let off the lead while still in season. The carefully planned match with the chocolate lab from down the road had gone nowhere.
Inca—the black retriever from the other side of the park—had not been so hesitant.
They’d been locked together for twenty minutes.
What I’d just spent half an hour cleaning off her suddenly made a lot more sense.
We had fifty-six days.
We left it until about day forty-seven before taking it seriously—by then you could see the pups moving. Small ripples under her skin, shifting and wriggling like something out of a low-budget alien film.
She carried on as normal. Still chasing tennis balls. Still herself.
So when the other half went to London for the night, it didn’t feel like a risk.
It was.
We’d spent the week before preparing. Books from the library, supplies from every pet shop within thirty miles, a proper birthing pen set up in the living room. Rails to stop the pups getting crushed. Blankets to keep it dark.
We had a plan.
Macy didn’t.
It started just after 1am.
She woke me by standing on her back legs, tapping my face, licking until I got up. I followed her downstairs. She paced. Back and forth. Birthing pen. Living room. Birthing pen again.
This was it.
I called London. No answer.
I was on my own.
Then she disappeared—into the gap beside the sofa, down by the radiator where all the tennis balls collect.
The first pup arrived before I’d properly worked out what was happening.
Seconds.
I was leaning over the arm of the sofa, half asleep, in my boxers, watching my dog give birth.
Macy got straight to work—tearing the sack, clearing the pup, eating the afterbirth. Five minutes later it was suckling.
Then the second.
They were smaller than I expected. Eyes sealed shut, ears folded, claws almost transparent. Completely helpless. Just instinct—find a teat, hold on.
The third was different.
Longer. Harder. Macy was distressed.
When it came out, it didn’t move.
No wriggle. No sound.
She nudged it. Nothing.
She started to whimper.
I reached down without thinking. Picked it up. It was still warm—but limp.
Small lungs. Fast heart.
A breath.
Pressure.
Again.
No idea if it was right.
Then it moved.
A twitch first. Then a wriggle.
I felt it scratch against my chin as I held it, Macy watching, still, waiting.
Whether I did anything or not, I don’t know.
But it lived.
We had three.
Then four. Five. Six.
Thug. Lippy. Mutley. Dash. Blackie. Minnie.
About twenty minutes after the last one, Macy stood up, stretched, and picked up a tennis ball.
At four in the morning, she wanted to go out.
So we went.
Up the road, into the park. I threw the ball twice. She chased it, lighter now, then stopped suddenly and sprinted home.
I found her sitting by the front door.
Back inside, she went straight to the pups. They’d dried out, soft now, starting to look like dogs.
Everything was normal again.
Just more of it.
I went upstairs to bed.
Half an hour later she jumped on the bed beside me, then down again. I could hear her moving downstairs.
When I got up, Mutley was on the bed.
One by one she brought the others.
We spent the rest of the night like that—on the bed, me barely sleeping, trying not to move, the pups scattered around me, Macy settled close.
Morning came with a phone call.
Sixteen missed calls.
“Where the fuck were you?” I said.
But it didn’t matter.
Everything was fine.
That was enough.