Kirra’s started whelping on February 16 and it was textbook – or so we thought at that time. She’s been getting special attention for two weeks and when the day to whelp arrived, everything was running smoothly.

Kirra was in our home in our ensuite and after a few hours of pre-labour reassurance and encouragement, the clever girl had two little pups without any assistance needed. They were born two hours apart on the afternoon of February 16.

Kirra has had a litter before and, despite her more than ample size in the tubby-stakes, she only has small litters. Her first litter in fact was just one puppy, which caused great amusement as we had been anticipating a big litter of five or even six going by her size.

(My experience is dachshunds are either food inhalers (piggies) or not at a ratio of about 50:50. Kirra falls squarely in the category. )

Anyway, we were thrilled to see the safe and uncomplicated arrival of two delightful little girls, as pictured below.

Clever Kirra giving birth to her two little girls on 16/2/12

Others not as lucky

The following day, on February 17, we would not be so lucky. Poor old Tandi had not hatched yet, and we had thought she would go before Kirra.

By lunchtime I decided it was time for a veterinary assessment, so I took Tandi to the vet at Maffra for a progesterone test. After an anxious one hour wait, the test revealed she was effectively in labour – yet despite this result we had no signs of any action. Cindy the vet recommend we don’t take the risk and a C-section followed soon after. Great news was all five pups and mum alive and well after the surgery.

The dopy proud mum of five, Tandi, about to head home after her C-section

More to the Kirra tale

Two births in two days was quite exhausting for our family, especially with Tandi’s complications whereby one waits, observes, wonders, worries and eventually seeks medical opinion and likely intervention.

Both me and my husband were sleep deprived with our two new mums in our ensuite and our girls’ bathroom (they now live in Melbourne). I was getting up every couple of hours to check Tandi’s pups. She was lying on them, worryingly, possibly because she was still a bit lethargic from the anasthetic. And David had been the unfortunate one to discover the accidents of both mums (despite regular toilet breaks) and duly was washing floors at all hours. Which of course is no big deal and all part of looking after our lovely girls pre and post pupbirth.

With the mums and pups all settled, we weren’t too impressed when we were woken by one of our cats requesting to be let in at 4am. We know which cat, as they each have their own special method of inspiring us to rise from the comfort of bed. Sidney scratches the glass of our bedroom window in a racy paws style, Smudge digs her claws in the flyscreen and rattles it (ripping it as she goes) and Benny … well, Benny vocally expresses his displeasure and desire for action.

It was Smudge last night, and both us humans were grumpy. Dave took the opportunity to check the girls while he was up and he called out, “Didn’t Kirra have two pups?”

To our utter delight and disbelief, Kirra had given birth to another puppy! Two days after the other two! I stand to be corrected, but I have never heard of this and neither has our vet or breeder friends.

Not only did this little girl arrive exceedingly late, but she is – most remarkably – incredibly thrifty and strong. She just latches on and sucks non stop!

Pictiure says a thousand words. A non-plussed mum with the unexpected arrival of little miss suction cup!

Doesn’t get any better

There is nothing like new life and those wonderful unexpected happenings to remind breeders (or indeed, sleep dprived young parents) why this whole business of new life is so rewarding and uplifting.

We were both tickled pink, to put it mildly.

It was then Kirra’s turn to visit the vet later that morning to make sure there weren’t any more little critters taking their time to appear.

‘All clear’ was the verdict. And now we have eight delightful babies whose pictures you will be able to follow as they grow in their first eight weeks of life in the eight weeks ahead.

Forget smiling for the camera, Kirra's checking out her xray result! Wants to be certain there's no more coming I guess. Pictured here with Seth the vet.

Footnote

Some of these pups will be pre sold, as we are transitioning from the waiting list method to the exclusively online sale system. But by five weeks of age we will make it clear which pups are available for selection by their new families online.

Non-plussed Kirra - this feisty little sucker arrived two days after her siblings! Surprise package indeed...medical history?

Kirra and her babies arrived from 16/2/12 to 18/2/12 – natural birth. See new article for her amazing story!

Poor spaced out little Tandi ready to head home after her C-Section - but five lovely babes to show! Four girls, one boy born February 17.

We have litters throughout the year of smooth and long haired mini dachshund puppies.

You can see our past puppies on the Where Pups R Now page, plus one above.

From March 2012, all available puppies will be posted on this page*.

You can check out which parents are expecting babies and approximate due dates on the Upcoming Litters page (under construction).

When the puppies are born, we shall announce it on this page including a pic of mum and babies, colours and gender.

When puppies reach five weeks of age, we will have individual photos and a $100 deposit facility (a Paypal ‘Buy Now‘ type button).

This deposit is 100% refundable if for any reason you don’t wish to proceed once you have met puppy in person. It’s just our way of most fairly and practically managing the puppy allocation process.

* To people on our old system who have been waiting patiently, you will be handled privately and remain first in-line.

1. Puppy price and what u get

Puppies are all one price: $1485

This includes:

• $135 GST
• $50 desex voucher
• vet check with vet certificate of health
• microchip & transfer of microchip ownership
• internal parasite treatments
• external parasite treatments
• heartworm treatment
• C3 six week vaccination
• puppy bed-crate familiarisation* for smoother transition to new family
• puppy crate
• collar trained and collar
• puppy’s familiar scent blanket and hot wheat bag
• puppy paper trained
• pet insurance policy for health/accident/death (for 6 weeks after handover)
• puppy instructions and phone/email support as needed
• email updates and puppy images at different milestones
• puppy pack including food samples and other goodies
• all veterinary and other care of puppy from preconception through birth to handover
• lifetime care of puppy’s parents
• transport of puppy to two drop off locations in Melbourne (Carlton and Pakenham), or Melbourne Airport for interstate buyers
• a puppy

*Pups sleep in their crates in pairs in the last week with us. They will stay in their full litter social group by day.

Optional extras:

• interstate transport to any airport in Australia including a new PP20 airline certified crate: $242 (for one or two puppies; same price)
• international transport: price destination-dependent
• desexing and two week convalescence (pup stays until 10 weeks of age): $370
• custom filmed and edited DVD of pup’s life, including ultrasound footage of pup in utero, pup’s actual birth, mum and dad in their day to day life, pup and litter mates at different milestones (eg footage of first suckling, first solid meal, eyes open etc): $366 … please note this must be pre-ordered prior to puppy’s birth.

2. Terms of Sale

In purchasing a puppy from Dachshund Australia (DA) the new owner acknowledges that DA has to the best of their ability bred a sound and healthy dog and they have provided reasonable guarantees of this through a vet health certificate and a six week complimentary pet insurance policy (which can be extended by the owner).

Accordingly, the new owner accepts responsibility for the health and well being of the puppy from handover onwards.

Suzi Cute is two and this is to be her first litter. Pooh is two and a half and has had a few litters now. His dad was Elvis, one of our first stud boys who many will remember. When Pooh arrived we retired dad to let the choc genes come forward via Pooh.

It was all touch and go for a while here. It looked like there was to be no litter for Suzi at all…she simply didn’t fancy the boys!

We figured that was just fine; all in her own good time. If not this year, maybe next year or maybe never.

A few days later we put Winston Pooh in with Suzie Cute to keep each other company and .. OMG! Her heat should have been well passed, but hey presto…Pooh was the boy for her. Inseparable, figuratively and then – amazingly – literally!

We are a bit unusual probably in that we have a high number of boys. Probably one third of our dogs are boys. Mostly we do this because it’s vital (we believe) to have a broad gene pool. Fact is we are putting dachshunds of-the-future out there and it’s encumbent upon us to have that as wide a variety of genetics as possible. All very dachshund looking, beautiful in fact, but with different genes. Chances are two pups we have produced will

In time I will add pix of all our dads to the website.

For now though, sit back and enjoy this snippet of the two firm soul mates and expectant parents: Winston Pooh and Suzie Cute. Both choc and tan mini dachs, one long and one smooth and both dead gorgeous in everyway (but of course I would say that!).

It was this song that started running through my head recently, after a 15 year absence from my life. It came to me from nowhere as I looked with disbelief at the tiny imperfect puppy in my hand. Perfect in every way – except for the fact that one of her front legs was two thirds missing.

Little three legged raggy doll - still hard to get an unblurred puppy pic!

In seven years as a breeder I had never been confronted with such deformity. Perhaps I’ve been lucky in that respect; I don’t know. Whatever the case, luck surely wasn’t with this little mite at some stage during her development in utero.

I write this story here for two reasons. Firstly, to share with you how I handled this as a breeder; the scenarios, questions and answers I wrestled with in seeking the best outcome for puppy. Secondly – and most importantly – to find this little raggy doll a loving home.

What went wrong?

My disbelief and the Raggy Dolls TV theme were swiftly pushed aside by my feelings of guilt. ‘God…what did I do wrong?‘

I know two obvious things that can cause such limb deformity are inbreeding and chemical exposure of some kind.

In regard to inbreeding: impossible. There is zero inbreeding. To the extent that we had bred both her parents and that the grandparents have papers and there’s no inbreeding there either. In regard to chemical exposure during pregnancy, I could think of nothing. I then double checked the flea treatment label as well as the wormer – but both were fine for pregnant and lactating bitches, as I already knew.

Next I spoke to vets; our own vet and three vet friends. The consensus was ‘these things can happen‘. Nature can go wrong.

Live or die?

If I thought the guilt trip was bad while it lasted, the next phase I was entering would prove far worse.

At this stage puppy was four days old. She was occupying that blissful world of babe-in-nest, doted on by a besotted mum. A world devoid of sight and sound, demanding no more than snuffles and shuffles to secure a warm flow of sweet milk.

In this respect time was on my side and I was glad that I would have plenty of time to weigh up all factors. In fact in these early days the little puppy was quite possibly experiencing the most complete days of her life; that pre three week  ’slug’ phase, where she was no different to her siblings. My thoughts lay beyond this time though, wondering how she would cope with life as an adult tripod.

I would think about it by day and then think about it during my sleep. I would ask various people their views. I asked the vets. I asked fellow breeders.

In the one week it took me to make a decision, I woke probably once every two hours ruminating over this or that.

My decision was that I cannot possibly put her through this life. It was a painful and horrendous burden to bear, the making of such a decision.

My reasoning was that this is a short-legged, front-heavy and long-backed dog. Her physical shape as a dachshund is simply not on her side. The weight load is to the front, her nose is already close to the ground and how would that long back cope with a distorted gait?

I thought of the contrast with Wilbur (see video of disabled Wilbur in article ‘The demise and resurrection of Wilbur‘), our 9 year old Chihuahua who recently became spastic. A lightweight slip of a pooch, whose weight is evenly distributed across his matchstick long legs.

My thoughts then turned to the family who might have this puppy. Why, to let her live would of course be the easy decision for me. Yet how can I take the easy path, if in so doing I feel no pain at the cost of passing that pain downline and in a greatly magnified form as a dog struggles to live comfortably and a family daily witnesses the challenges facing their much adored family member?

And so it was I made a decision that I could not handball my pain onto a lifetime of difficulty for this puppy and her human family. Decision made, it was the first time in the week long struggle of conscience that I got unbroken sleep. As deeply sad as it all was, I would call the vet in the morning and make arrangements. Puppy was now 10 days old.

Other’s views

I asked the vet to make a house call to euthanase puppy. We are about an hour return trip, but I was determined this little creature would know no different of this world except the love and safety of the nest. Mum Wilma would be taken away and hopefully not notice the loss of the pup (time would tell: I would watch her closely, of course).

Our vet had the wisdom to bring a vet nurse with her. Together they checked puppy out and together they said, ‘She’ll be fine‘. The thumbs down inverted to a thumbs up.

I took their recommendation on board. I spoke more to breeder friends and colleagues. Two large breeders and a few small breeders too. They all agreed with my chain of thought, but also said at the end of the day the best thing to do is be guided by the vet whose opinion you value and trust.

The general consensus was puppy would never know any different, so to her life on three legs would be normal to her. Sure, she mightn’t have a vastly long life and she might get arthritis in later years, but that’s not to say she won’t be able to have a rewarding time on Earth for herself and her family.

One of my breeder friends who has been breeding for many, many years told me about a pup that only had one ear. She kept pup with her until one day someone rang asking if they had any discounted pups, as they could not afford a full price pup.

My friend talked to them about the pup that was not perfect with its little missing ear. Her reply?  ”Well, we’re not too perfect in this family either.”

For me that lovely comment and the Raggy Dolls song kinda sums it all up. Who of us, when all said and done, is that perfect anyway?

Can raggy doll live with you?

And so it is that the little raggy doll who came our way is now seeking her  forever home. She will come desexed and with all the other bibs and bobs our pups come with.

She is $250 and this money I will donate to a dog charity.

If you are interested, can you please reply publicly by placing a comment to this article. It might provide a chance for others to comment too on the prospective homes for raggy doll.

She is a stunning little long haired mini girl red girl with black overlay, as can be seen from the video. Sweet as sweet.

The home which seems most suited can then have a chat with our vet (and their own vet too) so they can be comfortable that they are making an informed decision.

And last but not least, little girl will go with a lifetime guarantee…she can be returned to us at any stage, be that two weeks, two months or ten years from now.

If you think you can give her a happy home, I encourage you to write here. One thought is that is is easier for her to get about on carpet. So houses with mainly tiles and wood floors would be difficult for her. Apart from that, it’s over to the readers now.

POST SCRIPT

Anyone reading the comments below will know that little girl is headed for a fabulous home, in NSW.

Now we can await her name!

A beautiful pup, all set for a happy life

Pups expected in very early March. This will be Banjo’s first ever litter.

Chocolate & tan little Crumble

Compact but chunky Banjo, the caramel & cream dachsie

Crumble is expecting her second litter! And Banjo is the father.

Crumble only had two pups in her first litter, so this upcoming litter is not likely to be a big one.

We bred Crumble ourselves and she arrived on 5/10/2009.

She is a small mini and sweet as pie like her mum and dad. She can be quite outgoing on occasion though and is a courageous little dog.

Hi hi - I'm Crumble

Yes: it's true I am good looking

Banjo has a superb gentle nature and is the son of Rupert The Blue Bandit (long haired blue dachshund) and Nelwyn (smooth haired tan girl, now retired with Grandma Rena in Ocean Grove).

Banjo was born on March 15 2010 and he is now expecting his first babies! Due in about 6 weeks time.

Well done Banjo!

Yes...I am handsome

How do you like my choc nose and dreamy amber eyes?

How much longer for the photo shoot?...I'm bored!

Hmmm...someone stealing my limelight here. But you can still spot my cream eyebrows and choc nose.

In some cases people make contact when heart rending decisions need to be made: do we or don’t we put our dog to sleep? Other times the dog has passed away and people ask if I think they should get a new dog. The main thing they tussle with is the notion of not wanting to be disloyal to the memory and love of their dog just gone…not wanting to ‘replace’ their dog.

I thought I might share what my thoughts are on these two questions with you all, and I do so as I currently wrestle with the grief of losing our beautiful truck of a dog, Percy, a few days ago. Percy was put to sleep in my arms at home, at just five years of age.

Live or die

The decision to enthanase or not is one that many people have to face in their lifetimes. Simple fact is that a dog does not live as long as a human.   My family and I were confronted with this awful decision concerning Percy but a few days ago. I will now share what I have learnt from past experiences and this most recent heart breaking one.

Percy was in pain and that was not going to change. His condition was due to his abnormal size – a giant of a Cardigan corgi. (I never quite had the heart to tell his breeder. For it mattered little, we loved him whatever he was.) He became paralysed in his back legs and despite 24 hours on an anti inflam drip at the vet clinic and high drug rates, no treatment was helping ease his misery. Unlike Wilbur’s paralysis some months earlier (see article The Demise and Resurrection of Wilbur), Percy’s condition was not the result of an accident. It was a failing of his body with no reason to have hope this would be any different into the future.

I blubbered our decision to euthanase to the vet and vet nurse who respectfully waited as we said our goodbyes to our brave boy. By this stage we were all on the ground outside the back door of our house; it was impossible to shift Percy back inside due to his level of pain and fear. At 31kg, he was double the size of his breed. Not fat, so much as huge: huge head, huge paws and all that sustained on the dietary intake of a  mini dachshund one tenth his size.

What I blubbered was this. We love him so much that we will now take over his pain and make it our own. When his pain ceases, ours will begin and we will do that for him. We love Percy enough to let him go.

I was not alone in my tears, as all present were moved by the integrity, love and suffering of this massive creature before us.

Question of replacement

This topic is one I have personally grappled with over the years too. After all, how can it be that I could somehow go out and get another dog when my soul mate and shadow of maybe 13 plus years had just left me?

I would have real problems with this. I was devastated with grief on the one hand, yet on the other hand compelled by some inner drive to seek a new family member.

As the years have passed I have come to a greater understanding of these seemingly contradicting emotions. Interestingly, the insight came to me from a human tragedy some years ago now.

We had moved into our first home in Melbourne and my new elderly neighbour was an instant friend. A lovely warm person. After a few weeks she showed me a photo one day of a young woman in her mid thirties. It was her daughter. She then explained her daughter had passed away at 37 from cancer, leaving two young children and her husband.

They had been a very happy and loving family and she explained that her son-in-law was shattered through her passing. She then quickly went on to add that she could not understand how someone so-shattered managed to meet someone else and marry within 12 months of her daughter’s passing, as her son-in-law apparently did.

She went on to say that she was coming around to it all now, some 18months down the track and some two and a half years since her daughter’s death. But it had taken a while.

She explained that the new wife was delightful and also had two young children; a Brady Bunch affair. She said they seemed very happy and they would go out of their way to include her in all family functions and called her ‘mum’ and so on. She accepted they were happy, and that made her happy, but still felt it had all happened too fast; her daughter had been ‘replaced’ too fast.

I went away and though about this for some time. How could it be, that someone who was so in love could so quickly start over? And then it hit me. And it holds true for me and my dogs too. Here goes: the speed with which a new relationship begins to forge is not an insult to the mate gone, but in fact a compliment. By this I mean that the greater the love and bond, the greater the hole left behind. That seemingly bottomless canyon of desperately missing someone who can never come home again. Pain so immense that something must come in to start filling the void for fear one will be lost forever in grief; like the astronaut unleashed from his ship and endlessly floating in space.

So to people who ask me, I say getting a new dog has nothing to do with ‘replacing’ your old dog. For nothing can ever replace that love and bond and what that creature gave so selflessly to your world. No chance. But when the pain of loss is so great, sometimes we must inject positives into our world if we are to go on. Welcoming a new dog to the family is one way of doing this; a darn good way for many people.

Goodbye my lovely boy Percy, our king of the puppies

As recently as today, I asked my vet what to do about dog ear-edge scabs that won’t heal.

Her reply?   ‘It’s very difficult. Some suggest vaseline.’.

Well, I have devised something much better and I share with you here. Please note I am simply relating what has worked for me, and why I believe it has worked. Whether or not you apply this information to your dog is completely up to you.

Here goes.

As a child, I suffered a nervous condition that saw my fingers split (from ages nine to 17). The wounds appeared as gashes across my fingers; three bleeding gashes on the one finger was not uncommon. Most dramatic, to say the least!

Water hurt them, air hurt them, brush bristles spiking in hurt them …

It was with this in mind that led to me to look more scientifically and empathetically to my two dachshunds who had persistent little scabs on their ear margins.

In the case of my two dogs, these were ear scabs that just wouldn’t heal. They were small, but the scab would never finish and was crusty and could be knocked off only to start the healing process all over again. This is not restricted to my two dogs: one of my past puppy owners contacted me with a similar thing (prior to my own manifesting, and, interestingly, not related to my two dogs). My vet has since advised me that it’s common in greyhounds and any dog that has ears close to the ground. The ears can be easily abraded and damaged.

My solution

I looked at my lovely dogs and thought about what had hurt me as a child with chronic, exposed wounds.

This is what I came up with.

For some reason (genetic or environmental – who knows?) the body is not progressing beyond the scab phase to finalise the injury-healing process. That is, a skin barrier to the outside world (air, water, bacteria etc) never eventuates because the wound never progresses beyound scab-phase.

Spray on bandaid

I happened to pick up some spray-on human bandaid on special at Woolies a while back.

This interested me, because anyone who has had to dress the wound of a dog or horse or any creature will know how tricky that can be. Bandages simply don’t stick to hair, nor do they resist the movement and licking of the recipient.

The spray on bandaid unfortunately, in my opinion, is light-weight stuff designed for humans (and works well enough for this species). It is not, however, up to the rigours of those recipients who understand-not what has come their way.

It did serve to get me thinking though.

Pick up where body fails

My thoughts were this.

If I can create an artifical skin, then I will pick up where nature has dropped off. I can give the dog their chance to heal properly by giving them the protection that skin would normally afford them.

Accordingly, I experimented with my own wounds. Calling on my 30 years plus as a fixerer, I knew i had never been damaged by glues or sealants on my skin; fair and sensitive as it is (I’m a redhead). A good start.

I sprayed the human band aid on and then followed up with a fabric glue coating.

Perfect healing. Exccellent.

I applied the same to my two dogs, but firstly I bathed them in a triple disinfectant process used by vets for surgery: a wash in 70% methylated spirits, followed by hibicleanse, followed by iodine scrub. I soaked off any scabs in this process and allowed the ears to air dry in a clean environment.

I then applied the spray on human bandaid: barrier/monolayer number-one. Next I painted the clear fabric glue on. Perfect adherence. Brilliant!

Even more brilliant, the next day I examined the paint brush upon which the glue had set. A nice chunky solid coating: just like my dogs’ ears. I took the paint brush and , with a sharp knife, slit through the membrane.

To my utter delight, the membrane was merely an external coating. Not one bristle was clogged or coated: the bristles were pristine and free and uncoated. They had been simply cocooned. Bu contrast, imagine a brush coated in dried paint. Every single bristle is gummed up and stiff and coated. In this case, however, not so. The brush was simply coated in an outer skin of glue, with pure pristine bristles beneath.

The result?

The artificial skin adhered wonderfully and it took one month before it sloughed off.

My initial reaction was one of disappointment, because it appeared that my dog’s ear damage was more extensive than I had believed. That is, it looked like a little chunk out of the ear, deeper than the original scab.

Another month passed and I began to view things differently. Under the ocular eye piece (x 10 magnification) I saw to my delight that we had perfect healing! The wound had healed and the skin was there and there was even new hair growing!

I soon realised that the depth of the healed wound was merely a reflection of where the healthy tissue began.

Six months on

Now six months post the one-month treatment, my dogs’ ears are still perfectly healed and intact. This is after 12 months of the chronic unhealing scabs.

As I said earlier, it’s up to the individual to assess and judge if this idea is any good. I am simply sharing my experience.

This is where it began. I am seeing it play out on a big screen inside my head. Lily, 11, in the back seat of the rental car is determinedly petitioning us for a dog of her very own and has been non stop on the topic throughout our three week tour of England. I involuntarily duck as yet another fighter jet plane thunders overhead in the supposedly tranquil Lakes District and with suitably frazzled nerves I put an end to the topic. ‘No dog!’ I am resolute. Ironically, it was at about that very moment that ‘he‘ was born… Wilbur, a little black long haired yappy Chihuahua.

I tune back to the alarming reality of the present, and hear my impossibly terrifying screams for the family to get up and come and help. Loud as I can yell, with all the urgency I can inject: “Call the vet! Get up! Get up!”

I am running the distance of two hundred metres from the doggery building site to our home. It’s only 6.30 on a Sunday morning, but my day was well under way. My yelling continues but drops from focus as my attention shifts to the limp body planked across the palms of my hands. I know he’s dead. Tongue lolling, not breathing. His tongue is now a deathly white with the most horrendous tinge of black purple. God. Please breathe! Should I do mouth to mouth?

I ran 100 metres at school in an unimpressive 16 seconds from memory. What was I making this 200m dash at? Still screaming for help I am somehow imploring Wilbur at the same time to stay with us; not to leave us.

I know he is dead but refuse to believe it.  How can this be?  The story that began in the UK so long ago now ends? Wilbur’s story is completed? His ‘Once Upon a Time’ set in England now capped by ‘The End’ in a paddock in Gippsland at the jaws of his best buddy? God no! The 11 year old primary school girl now a 20 year old uni student living in Melbourne. Is this it?

The film in my head plays some more: reel two. I see Lily leaning into the back of the Discovery; I have sent her to the car on the pretext of helping me bring in groceries, where in truth the only grocery is a 500 gram eight week old black scruffy little puppy, sporting a bejewelled red cat collar – and even that is way too big. I see Lily; her face, her disbelief, her utter joy. She cannot take air, this delightful 11 year old girl. She literally cannot breathe and has one hand to her decolletage and the other fanning the air and a beaming smile on her face as broad as a smile has ever been. Wilbur, as he would soon be named, for his part was doing impossibly cute little pitter patters foward with those funny matchstick legs, followed by scrunch-up-and-shuffle-backwards excited little movements. Such was their meeting.

He moves and I think he might be alive. But is it muscle twitches and not real life? I cannot know and I cannot allocate time to investigate, for there is nothing more I can do than what I am already doing.

Still no David and Amelia to be seen and I am approaching the back gate. Then they appear, alarmed and ready for action. Thank God! We’re not alone.

‘Call Mark; call the vet,’ my voice loud, words clarity clipped that no time be frittered in not hearing, not understanding. ‘Amelia, you drive.’

Somewhere amidst all this I must have told them what has happened. That Percy, our 37kg Cardigan Corgi attacked 2.5kg Chihuahua Wilbur for apparently no reason. That a six year old gentle giant of a dog snatched up by the neck the tiny feisty little nine year old dog he normally worships and gave him a death whip to break his neck as a hunting dog dispatches a rabbit.

So graphic is my recall because this sorry event unfolded but one metre from me and before my eyes. Percy and Wilbur were standing together and Wilbur grumbled about something, as is his way, but instead of Percy subserviently demurring to his bossy little mate as he normally does, something inside him snapped. He didn’t growl, threaten, nor posture: nothing. No warning sign at all. He simply snatched him up as a nuisance to be disposed of.

A phone is held to my ear as I brief Mark and we both set forth to meet at the vet surgery, some 20 minutes away. I am seeing now that Wilbur is not dead. He is back with us but it seems clear he is dying. The lolling protruding tongue with its appalling deathly white purple black pallor.

Mark is waiting to greet our car. He has the surgery all prepped, with the tiniest oxygen mask already attached to the oxygen machine in readiness for the smallest of patients.

Wilbur in the oxygen tent with a concerned vet, Mark, watching over

In no time pink colour returns to his tongue. Here I breathe my first sigh of relief. Yes! I got him to Mark alive! First hurdle over! Thank God.

After 10 minutes or so he progresses to the oxygen tent. Mark explains he can do nothing until he is oxygenated and that will be 30 minutes. We call David with the good news. We call Lily with the bad news. It’s 7am on a Sunday morning, but Woolworths is open, so Amelia and I head there. We are both just so darn relieved.

Aimlessly we wander about the supermarket and then the call comes. Wilbur is in considerable pain and has been given morphine and drugs to reduce swelling.

“At the moment he is paralysed down his left side,” Mark went on to say. “He does appear to have feeling there though, but he can’t move that side.

“At this stage all we can do is manage his pain and keep up the drugs to reduce the swelling. Then it’s a waiting game. The paralysis is either the result of spinal chord shock or spinal chord crushing. Both have the same early signs.

“If it’s shock only, we’ll know within a few days because when the inflammation goes down he’ll recover function. If it’s paralysis due to crushing injury, then the outcome is not good.

“I’ll call you later today and then first thing in the morning.”

Whatever the outcome, I comforted myself that Wilbur now had time on his side. We had brought him back from the dead and now he was in expert hands with everything working for him.

The next day Mark rang with news that was not good. His intensive care patient was not responding to the medication as hoped. His paralysis had become worse, not better. By midday he would take a next x-ray to see if his neck had been broken.

The urgency and terror of minutes following the event had morphed into a new disquiet for us all. Had we brought him back from the precipice for…well, for what? He wasn’t going to be a trolley dog, that’s for sure.

Lunchtime brought the news that Wilbur did have a break to his neck, but that it was only significant because it showed the extent of the crushing injury received. That is, the break was on the side away from most of the bruising and this told Mark that the force of the attack had been immense. And only one tiny puncture mark.

Wilbur had another 24 hours in intensive care and then it was home time for some quality home nursing by us.

Wilbur fresh out of intensive care and in the car for the journey home

Mark explained that the next two weeks would be very telling. And also very difficult. He would need around the clock care. Mark said many people get to two weeks and find they are so overwhelmed by what they face they have to have the pet put to sleep. Toileting them, washing them, feeding them with a syringe and so on.

In truth, the recovery – if there was to be one of substance – could take two months.

Wilbur was never alone for one minute after he arrived home. He was twisted to one side and could not move himself from what was a pretty grotesque and distressing pose.

He slept between us propped in our bed on his blankets and incontinence liner. My husband would get up at least four times through the night to hold him outside when he would wake and cry, presumably for a toilet break.

We syringe fed him water at about one ml at a time, frequently. We made his intensive care tinned food into a slurry and syringe fed that too.

By day four he became distressed as he realised his predicament. He knew he could not move. He could not be left alone because the fear in his eyes and his distress was palpable.

We felt like new parents all over again as we tried to decipher what the cries could mean. Is he thirsty? Hungry? In pain? Scared? Toilet maybe? What?

Everyday we would look for signs, any sign, of progress. But there weren’t any really. That first while we focused on keeping him comfortable while he recovered from the pain of his injuries. His neck was severely and extensively bruised – a reminder of the level of trauma inflicted, not that we needed any reminders.

Just trying to make Wilbur comfortable was tricky in the first week home; he was rigidly contorted to one side

Towards the end of the first week we realised Wilbur would need to start physiotherapy of some form if there was to be any hope of regaining use of his body.

Amelia was his nurse for that first week during the daytime; she came home from Melbourne especially. Lily was tied to Melbourne with exams.

As the pain of the injury started to leave him, we decided it was time to try and get him vertical, if for no other reason that plant the idea in that little head that vertical is something to aim for.

I remembered the Jolly Jumpers that were all the rage when the kids were babies. Essentially the baby is popped into a harness and hung in a door way by a spring.

I adapted Wilbur’s sturdy Drizabone dog coat for the purpose. And so Wilbur would hang for three five minute periods a day, with his wee legs brushing with the ground.

Wilbur's harness for 'vertical' training. His main weight was supported by the central webbing, with additional webbing to the front and rear to stop him toppling either way.

It was quite a complex looking thing in the end to prevent him toppling forward or backwards. We had a lambswool pad under his belly to avoid pressure in any one spot and loss of circulation etc.

Another great tool for recovery was purchasing a heated dog mattress. God love the Reject Shop! A beaut big thing for only $35. It provided a flat base so Wilbur would have to start using his own muscles to support himself, plus it allowed the freedom for him to move about should he so endeavour. And the heat source was vital for those sore bones and muscles.

Progress during those first ten days remained slow, although we did have some good breakthroughs such as him drinking for himself.

Wilbur takes his first independent drink. He's lying on the terrific heated dog mattress.

Crunch time – hard decisions

Crunch time would come at the two week mark. At this point Wilbur was much stronger and his neck bruising had all but gone. Sadly, though, progress seemed to be going in the backwards direction. His new strength did not bring freer movement; rather, he was contorted more than ever. The left hand side paralysis had not reduced and he was stuck in a twisted form making balancing impossible, let alone movement.

We decided to fashion a flat board to help keep his body straight. This he would be strapped to for brief periods. It was a fine board; like a splint. It was lambswool coated and I sewed velcro onto soft broad elastic. But when I first strapped Wilbur to this, I cried. He cried. I then thought, ‘Enough!’ If this was what was needed for him to finally become mobile one day, then it wasn’t going to happen.

Making matters worse, Wilbur then wet himself on his bed and cried all the while. He is a clean little dog and this upset him greatly. I took the photo below and sent it to Lily in Melbourne, letting her know that we had come to a point where we had to consider what was best for Wilbur. In short, for my part I had decided it was time to love him enough to let him go. Any final decision would be a family one though and, ultimately, Lily’s.

The heartbreaking moment when I knew this could not continue. Two weeks post accident, Wilbur is slipping backwards generally and then here he has just wet himself and cries at the humiliation. Enough was enough for this brave little dog.

Lily was brave and understood, despite being devastated. I was not good and went to our holiday house to be with friends for the night. To get away.

Then, a miracle happened. David called me to say ‘Wilbur took some steps!’

From thereon it has been one joyous day after another. Watching our funny gimpy little chap make his way in the world once more.

The first night Wilbur was in intensive care and he teetered on life and death, I dreamt he was running about me in the paddock in the annoying way he does and yapping away at me for no reason at all other than to let me know he was pretty excited to be alive. I woke with that awful sinking feeling as reality dawned. I cannot begin to describe the joy we have at seeing this little man back in action. He really is our little miracle and the terrible event of four weeks ago is now but one chapter in the life of Wilbur, with hopefully many many more chapters yet to run.

One determined little chap