Dad and his hunting friend bred their bird dogs once when I was 12. The friend built a whelping box for us. Of course, Dad was out of town when ours went into labor, so the friend came over to be with Mom and me. It was a an amazing experience to watch the dog birth five puppies. All were healthy, and no help from humans was needed. I vaguely recall the mother eating the afterbirth.
Each pup developed their own personality, and I was allowed to name them. Diesel, the dominant male, went to another hunting buddy; Destiny, the outgoing female went to her father’s owner; Prestige, was sold to a man who lived out in the county and never seen by us again; and Serinity was sold to a family down the street who wanted a family dog for their young children.
The final pup, Jonathan, didn’t sell right away. Dad tried to talk Mom into keeping him, but she didn’t want another pet in the house. One night, the phone rang during dinner, and Mom went to answer the call. Our ears perked up when we heard her say, “Yes, we still have a puppy.” And then, “No, he’s no longer for sale.”
Jonathan turned out to be much like Ferdinand the Bull. He liked to smell the flowers in the garden, chase butterflies, and gently eat the raspberries off of the shrubs. We adored him for his gentle ways. When he was less than a year old, he disappeared from the yard. This was before leash laws, but he never strayed from the yard or his mother’s side. We searched high and low for Jonathan, visiting all of the animal shelters in the county to no avail. There were stories of dog thefts in the area that were being attributed to sales to research labs. It was such a sad ending for us.