LEAVE BREEDING TO THE PROFESSIONALS
(WHY NATURE IS SMARTER THAN ME)

	Once upon a time, in a land far away, let’s say…San Diego, there was a man, let’s say…me;  who dreamed of entering the Eukanuba Championships 
and winning BEST OF SHOW and all the glory that goes with it. 
Unfortunately, I had a dog that was as dumb as a post. Alpha was a beautiful
Queensland Heeler that looked like an Australian dingo. I had the “brilliance” of 
naming him, as well as his brother Bravo. Alpha could eat his way through a chain 
link fence. Escaping his backyard, he would run around the neighborhood and 
scare the kids who thought he was a coyote. They would run from him screaming, 
and he would run after them thinking that it was a game and that they wanted to
play. It probably didn’t help that he tended to drool a lot when excited. A drooling
Dingo/Coyote running after little Janey and Johnny Schmuckatelli tended to not 
make my family very popular with the neighborhood parents. One day Alpha 
granted himself early parole and broke free of his earthly bonds. He ran until he
was lost in the wilds of Southern California. For five days we searched. We 
looked around the neighborhood, knocked on doors, checked the animal shelters,
puts ads on milk cartons; no luck. Hopefully, some loving family had seen Alpha,
read his license and name tag, checked the microchip, downloaded his GPS
signal, checked the FBI …and then decided to keep him. It was easier to get rid 
of him than it was his brother. Bravo had been sold to the gypsies a year before.
	Once we mended our fence, repainted our scraped up home, replaced 
shattered windows, and begged the landlord not to throw us out we decided to 
replace Alpha with another bundle of joy. My seven year old daughter decided that
2 hamsters, a rabbit, 2 chinchillas, 2 parakeets, a dozen goldfish, and the resident
rat under the house (codename: Templeton) needed a leader to whip them into
shape. The only one to be whipped would be me. In the face of such an onslaught I
had put my foot down. I looked her and my wife squarely in the eye, raised my
chin, took a deep breath…then felt my face and head fall and my whipped answer
was a definite “Yes, dear.“ “But no more big dogs!” We wanted a lapdog that
would adore us, and win for me that elusive championship! I had really wanted a
Pug again since the one I had as a child was killed by a Collie. (I will never watch
Lassie again). So…our income tax refund came in and off to the breeders we
went. We drove over hill and yon until we came to Pug nirvana. The breeder told
us that she had a litter already weaned and ready to go. There were five adorable
puppies to choose from. Four fawn males and a black female. There was little
doubt that evening that that  pretty little lady would come home with us. (The pug
not the breeder). After collecting the obligatory family history, health records 
checks, and DNA samplings, stool samples, the breeder reluctantly decided that I
was an acceptable candidate. (Now I had to get all of the same information for the
dog).
	The family name for our new Gypsy was “Le.” Therefore, we had no
alternative than to name her Gypsy Rose Le. The name Gypsy came from the
band that took Bravo away and Rose came from…a flower. (There was even a 
famous person by that name, though I kept that fact from my seven year old). To
this day I am awed and amazed at the cleverness of me. I was even more awed 
and amazed when we brought our tiny ball of fur home and found Alpha sitting on
my chair in the backyard, reading the newspaper and finishing picking his bionic 
teeth with the scrap of sheet metal that he had ripped off the side of the house. 
Where was that wandering band of gypsies when we needed it? 
	Alpha immediately tried to assert his dominance over Gypsy. This
proved difficult for him as we had installed doubled-paned, shatter-proof, Kevlar
reinforced Plexiglas for our back door and Gypsy was on the inside. We brought
her some water seeing that she was panting quite hard because she was 
dehydrated. In reality, she was laughing and sticking her tongue out at Alpha. To
end the Alpha chapter, he was soon adopted by our landlords and taken to the
country where he could gnaw on their furniture and car tires to his heart’s content.
We were free to focus on Gypsy and try for the fame and fortune that was sure to 
be ours!.
	Despite being saddled with a name that would cause her 
embarrassment from all the mongrels and strays at the local dog park, Gypsy 
grew up as a  relatively normal pug.  She was a healthy and curious little puglet.
For a year we enjoyed her companionship and playfulness. I fed her from bone
china plates at the table, forcing my three daughters to eat on a card table in the 
kitchen. But, alas, Gypsy’s perfection was imperfect. She had a white star on her
chest. This is not the ideal look for the breed. So sayeth the AKC gods.  More 
research before purchasing my purebred waste of money would have told me this.
Once again, my dreams of trophies full of free Eukanuba for the rest of my life
were dashed. Therefore, if I couldn’t buy a champion, I would make one instead!
	I was determined to go about the process in a logical and deliberate 
manner. First, I paid the vet to make sure of her health. Then I paid for advertising 
to hunt for a worthy stud-dog. Then I paid the stud fee. Then I paid for 1st class 
airfare on the Concorde for the over priced Y-chromosome donor, Then I paid the
psychiatrist to ascertain if I was, indeed, insane. He assured me that I was and 
then I felt much better after that. Everyday I am getting better and better.
	Once the arrangements were made for the breeding, we set up the
bachelorette pad, hooked up the stereo with some Barry White tunes and bought 
her some wispy perfume. I think it was called something French like…Advantage.
So, a weekend came around and Tug the Stud Pug came over. A handsome 
young dog, Tug had been selected over several suitors. He and Gypsy took to
each other like dogs in heat. Poor guy, it was his first time too. So Tug’s owner 
and my wife and I, hovered over the amorous pair like three old yentas taking bets
on who would start first.
	Now I had researched all about breeding dogs and was well prepared
for a nice, romantic weekend. That is until Tug got physically stuck! Eventually, the 
pair ended up standing tail to tail, both whining and trying desperately to free 
themselves! At least Gypsy was. I think Tug was enjoying it. I didn’t think it was
physically possible. Here they were, looking like a squat “push-me/pull-you” with 
tongues panting and eyes bulging out. My wife and I were torn over saving
Gypsy’s virginity and completing the mating. Instinct told me to go get the garden
hose. Fortunately, there was no trauma and the two parted to their neutral corners 
and light up cigarettes. The weekend continued much the same way until Tug’s 
parents came back on Sunday to get their big guy and ask for forgiveness in the 
church of their choice.
	Was she or wasn’t she? Getting Gypsy to use an EPT test kit was next 
to hopeless. We had to wait a couple of weeks before we got the news that she
was in a “motherly way.” More waiting ensued before we knew all the details. The 
ultrasound revealed that Gypsy had four babies and everything was fine. Gypsy
got bigger and bigger, looking more like a hippo everyday. She slowed down and 
no longer wanted to be the spry, agile puppy of days gone by.  The beginnings of
regret for us began to creep in. What had I done to her? Does she know what is
happening to her? How could I force her to do this? Why does she always want to
eat pickles and ice cream with her kibble?
	Now my wife and I had had our three daughters at home with a midwife.
Therefore, I felt well prepared for the events to come. Dogs should pose no 
problem as they are a lower life form. The vet was in on our plans. At “T-minus 2 
days and counting” I had the vet, and a “schnoodle” (schnauzer/poodle) breeder 
friend of ours, waiting on standby for the great moment to arrive. 
	We set Gypsy up in our bedroom with a small camping tent (a true “pup 
tent”). Her bedding area, feeding area, and berthing area were all laid out. 
Shredded newspaper lined the plastic flooring and a small space heater was
wafting warm air into the tent to keep out any December chills. Hot water was 
boiling on the kettle for three days straight. I ended up drinking a lot of tea. 
Clamps, towels, masks, gloves, forceps, fiveceps were all laid out alphabetically 
in the surgical tray. (My midwife would be proud of me). A couple of days before
delivery we had X-rays taken that showed sizes and positions of the four pups. All
seemed A-OK for the miracle of birth. Even the machine that went “PING” was 
tested and tuned. Gypsy started to show all the common signs of impending birth 
so we set up a 24 hour birth watch on her. 
	Being in the Navy, I always seemed to get stuck on the mid-watch for
my ship, so why should being at home be any different? My wife was at work and 
the kids were out with friends when I heard some sounds that had yet to be heard 
before in our bedroom. Coming out of the bathroom, I could see in the dark a 
black shape laying next to Gypsy inside the tent. Cocking my head questioningly 
to the side like the RCA dog listening to his master’s voice, I came closer to see a
newborn pup still encased in its sac. Like in a scene from ER, I flew into action! 
Pulse was checked, temperature checked, airway cleared, Vitamin B-12 
administered. Once I deemed myself to be ok, I had to get down on my hands and
knees and check on the baby dog that looked curiously like a lizard. 
	Gypsy had already digested the placenta and was looking down at the 
pup like it was an alien from Mars.  I picked up the lifeless form with shaking 
hands and removed the membrane from around its head. I looked around for the 
clamp to tie off the cord but could not find it where I had carefully laid it out earlier. I
later found it attached to the little red LEVI’s tag on the back on my jeans. (My 
daughter had pinched it on me the day previous). I ran to the bathroom and chose
the unflavored dental floss.  I did not like it anyway. (I prefer the mint waxed type).
Back to the pup, I tried to tie a knot but was all thumbs. I used a clean rag and 
gently rubbed the pup dry until I heard the soft “meow” and felt it move in my 
hands. “Meow?”… What the hell was that!?… I know it was dark in the room but… 
“MEOW?” Maybe that was why Gypsy was staring at it quite confused. There was
no time to consider the abominable ramifications as Gypsy began to gyrate and 
writhe like a cobra dancing to a charmer‘s flute. This time I saw the second pup 
enter the world and was amazed at Nature’s provisions and miracles. Then I was 
amazed, and wholly disgusted, by Nature’s sense of humor and conservation of 
waste as Gypsy whole-heartedly began to eat the second placenta. She tried to
gnaw away the cord but ended up bouncing the pup up and down like a yo-yo on a
string. I am extremely grateful that my wife did not do such a thing when our 
daughters were born. 
	The third and fourth pups were each born easily. I didn’t feel a thing.  By
this time I was becoming an old hand at this delivery thing. Gone were the panicky
minutes of thrashing around the shredded newspaper trying to find the scissors, 
thread, clean rags, etc. All four were alive and seemingly healthy. Gypsy had one 
more surprise for me though. An hour after #4 came, Gypsy started her jiggy-
dance again. Puppy #5 entered the world without so much as a howdya-do. 
Nature’s sense of humor hit me again.  All of the pre-natal tests; the X-rays, 
Ultrasounds, Amniocentesis, Voodoo witchdoctors had shown four puppies. 
Gypsy had had other plans.
	In the weeks that followed, vets were seen, growth was measured, and 
love was felt in the house. Many sleepless nights were spent trying to find them 
good homes. The loudest voice that yelled at me each night cried out, “You should 
have thought of that BEFORE you bred Gypsy, idiot!” I am happy to say that each
has gone to a well chosen home where they will be loved and adored. We have
kept the firstborn puppy and have named him Phoebus Augustus of Mangerton. (I 
have matured a bit since the Alpha/Bravo naming days). Phoebus is all black, and 
time will tell if my plans to dominate the competitive canine world with him will 
come to fruition.  Perhaps soon Phoebus will be atop the winning trophy. I will be 
so proud, I will have that golden loving cup bronzed!
	So, despite my best efforts, Nature has blessed the new puppies and 
protected them and Gypsy from my stupidity. I believe that Gypsy and I are both 
retired from breeding, as I can see the truth in letting the professionals do the
breeding and that Nature is smarter than I am.
	I hear that cats are easy to breed…hmmm…