My Dog Has An Hysterical Pregnancy And Other Lockdown Challenges
I have two French Bulldogs, both of Indian descent. They’re from Delhi, and we came to own them quite by accident. We had been living in Mumbai for about six months, and were feeling sadly pet-less. Our rescue (feral) cat, Jet, had crawled out of a dumpster in the jungles of Costa Rica, and when we decided to move to India we knew that he wouldn’t survive the concrete jungle of Mumbai. After a brief stint with one of my besties, he now resides as a school cat on the north Pacific coast of Costa Rica, along with a few other ferals.
After a summer back in Costa Rica, we came back to Mumbai and found ourselves moping around the apartment, missing something. Soon, we realised, we were missing the presence of another being, an animal to be precise. My husband suggested we get a cat, but this time not a foundling (like every other cat I have ever had the pleasure to call my flat mate), but instead a pure bred. A Siamese perhaps, or a Russian Blue. Something with distinction (his words, not mine). At the same time that we were contemplating adding another member of the family, the teens were also talking. They wanted a dog. This wasn’t anything new, we had been talking about being dog owners for some time, always poo poohed by yours truly because dogs can be very restrictive. I like to travel. A lot. The idea of a dog has always been a bit repellent because I felt it could really restrict our wanderings.
The seed was planted, however. ‘I need a therapy dog,’ Miss Then-15 stated. Great psychological tactics. I started questioning my parenting. Maybe the teens did need a therapy dog. I mean, we had ripped them out of their tropical paradise home in Costa Rica and dragged them all the way around the world to live in a huge, challenging city. The transition was hard. Really hard. A therapy dog could be just the tonic.
I started googling. I looked at different breeds, and soon came obsessed with Frenchies. Such cute faces. Such beautiful personalities. The right size! I’d send photos and links to our family whatsapp group. The girls and I oooed and aaahhhed over how cute they were. ‘We’ll do everything.’ (How many stupid parents have fallen for that one?). ‘We’ll walk them everyday.’ (If only I realised Miss-13 was trying out her comedy act). I contacted a few breeders and before I knew it we had chosen two cuties — one male, one female — and, well, I accidentally paid for them and they boarded a plane in Delhi…
My husband went to pick them up from the airport, and when the girls and I returned from school and work respectively, it was instant love. The male was tiny, way too small, and possibly a little ‘special’. The female was bigger, with a big lolling tongue falling out one side of her mouth. They were perfect. We name the male Bender, after Judd Nelson’s character in The Breakfast Club. Turns out it is the absolute perfect name. Bender has special needs and is just a little bit, well, wobbly. Pipa, the female, was named after a cold young coconut in Costa Rica, where we lived for 2 ½ years. Pipa fria is a cold coconut. She is tan and the name Pipa suits her to the tee.
The first few months of being dog owners were insane. The dogs chewed everything. All my shoes got destroyed. Legs of chairs were decimated. What had we done? We did a bit more research on our beloved babies, and soon came to realise that our little pups were people dogs. If we went out, they got bored, and they destroyed stuff. Hmmm. But on the flip side, they were so goddam cute and loving, the chewed furniture and the shredded shoes seemed worth it.
The COVID pandemic may well be the result of French Bulldogs around the world manifesting their owners to be stay-at-home-people. I mean, they just want to be around us. All. The. Time. They love us unconditionally, and so we, in turn, fall more in love each and every day. When we went into lockdown for the first time, about 450 days ago, this was like a dream come true for our furry friends. Suddenly our little Frenchies had all four of us in the house, 24 hours a day. They were only 9 months old when the lockdown started, and because we were there the chewing stopped. It was like Frenchie heaven had come to earth. Yay, people!
The kids (as I call them — my daughters are ‘the teens’) have settled into the lockdown life, and everything seemed to be going along swimmingly. Until Pipa started moping. ‘She’s depressed,’ declared Miss-14. ‘She’s going under my bed, and she’s never done that before. She’s really depressed. I googled it.’ After a week or so of this, I decided to brave the lockdown and take the kids to the vet (an essential service, so still operating, thank goodness). The vet did the usual checkup, and then noticed that her teets were swollen.
‘Hmmmm.’ I felt a bit worried. The vet squeezed out some milk. ‘She thinks she’s pregnant.’
Say what? Yep, you read that right. My dog thinks she’s pregnant. An hysterical pregnancy. A phantom baby. Who knew? What causes this? Well, I can’t be sure — I’m not a vet or anything — but it could be, it just could be, that she has worked out that if there are more Frenchies in the house that the people might never go back to work or school. We will stay with them every day, and forever.
So what to do? Well, in true Indian fashion, the vet prescribed ayurvedic medicine and some homeopathy pilules. Twenty days later and hey, presto. Milk has dried up. The phantom puppy is in phantom puppy heaven, and our beloved Frenchie is back to her usual self… sleeping, eating, cuddling, loving.
Now onto the next lockdown challenge. The 1,000 piece puzzle.
