Shiba Inu

In the beginning, there were five.  All given Japanese names that started with D, like Dosha and Daishiki with English translations that meant things like First and Lovable.  Except one who was just called Dakota.  Her translation was not a translation at all, just a physical description: cream girl.  The other four were brown with black and white markings - a perfectly matched set in a rainbow of colored collars to help identify them to the viewers.  She was solid cream, nude.  Maybe they thought her obvious difference was enough.  No meaningful name required.

I watched them all on the live stream puppy cam whenever I felt overwhelmed, or was waiting for a conference call to start or just wanted the visceral comfort of observing five tiny furry bodies piled on top of each other, breathing as one organism, paws jerking, ears twitching, pink mouths stretched open wide in massive closed-eye yawns.

Awake, they would crash into each other, rolling on and off their shared bed, five sets of jaws clamped onto one empty paper towel roll running round and round the room, like draft horses.  They used each other as step stools, as pillows, as chew toys.  I marveled at their easy engagement, their lack of concern over personal space.

Sometimes the live cam was dark, or the puppies were outside, or gathered in a part of the room the camera couldn't see.  Along the right side of the screen were highlight clips from previous days with titles like "Outside Adventure," and "Crazy Antics" so you could opt to go straight to the cutest moments.  I looked at a couple once but I preferred viewing them live, even if they were doing nothing.  Once when they were sleeping I moved my cursor over Cream Girl's back and at that exact moment she stretched and leaned her body closer to the camera as if in response.  

Twice when I was watching the mother visited.  The first time, she ran right into the center of them, licking their heads and backs and wagging wildly before settling down in their bed so she could nurse.  The puppies clawed and kneaded and nipped at her, disappearing beneath each other to reemerge in a more advantageous spot.  She touched her nose to their bent heads.  She lay back and surrendered herself to their mauling until they drained her entirely, falling asleep mid-suckle, their bellies round and sated.  The second time took place a couple of weeks later.  And though her nipples still sagged heavily beneath her it was as if she had never known them.  She ran in circles around the room as they chased after her, looking down at them in fear and then annoyance as they leapt up at her, her eyes narrowed as if to say "you have no right."  They were undeterred. They jumped and scrabbled and whined, throwing themselves into her path again and again.  They were relentless.  She ran around behind the black-clad legs of the breeder  who stepped out of the way to expose her again and again. It was exhausting. The dam wanting the breeder, the puppies wanting the dam, the breeder perhaps wanting a moment of drama on the screen.  I closed out of the cam entirely.  Later, I noticed the footage was not among that selected for the highlights.

Cream Girl was the first to leave.  I thought maybe she was outside or behind the bed but at the top of the archived footage I spied a still of her in the breeder's lap, a hand raising one of her paws in a wave.  "Dakota bids farewell," it said.  And I knew it was starting.

There is one left now, I think, or perhaps they are all gone and the camera is dark until a new set of puppies arrives.  When they got down to two, I stopped going back.  Watching a puppy alone feels like going to a school playground in the middle of summer.  Is there any sound more wistful than the squeak of empty swings?