A Startling Morning in the Whelping Room

Last night was my first night sleeping in the whelping room — a quiet ritual I keep with every litter. Piper is due to whelp on July 20, and I want her settled into the box she’ll use when her time comes.

The spare bedroom has become our nursery for now. Piper’s whelping box sits in one corner, my spare bed and desk in the other so I can work during the day and stay close through the night. Tika, Piper’s two‑year‑old daughter, and Kaila, her mother, stayed with us, curled up on their dog beds just outside the box.

The box is Piper’s alone, though she’s free to come and go as she pleases. Through the night she shifted between her box and the beds outside, resting near her daughter and her mother. Watching the three of them, three generations, each in her place, I felt a quiet sense of pride and a connection to all the care and time it took to get here.

The morning, though, brought a jolt.

When I woke, I saw drops of bright red blood on one of the dog beds. That quick punch of worry came immediately, not panic, but a sharp tightening in my chest.

I knelt by Piper with a tissue in hand and checked her discharge. All I found was a faint trace of clear fluid. She lifted her head and looked at me with those steady, calm eyes, as if to say, I’m fine. You can stop worrying now.

That helped, but I still needed to be sure. Then I checked Tika, and there was the answer. She had quietly started her heat cycle overnight.

Relief came with a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I moved Tika into her crate, slipped on her heat cycle diaper, and let her settle in. Kaila remained on her bed, ever the matriarch, keeping watch. Piper stretched back out in her box, undisturbed, content to wait.

Even after years of breeding, mornings like this remind me that the worry never really leaves, and neither does the deep care that drives it.

The room is quiet again now. Eight puppies are on their way soon.