A quarter of a century raising miniature dachshunds has produced a mountain of memories and tons of tales that serve as profound object lessons as well as qualifying as certifiable documentation that dog is indeed man’s best friend.  An experience with our most recent litter, however, rivals any puppy tale that precedes it.  KayDee May, our three-year old female, gave birth to a litter of five puppies on May 26^th.  The litter was healthy, well and consisted of four males and one female.  KayDee’s previous litter was her first and had been seven puppies strong in the beginning.   Unfortunately, we lost a puppy each day for the first five days and ended up weaning only two of the seven.  Several of those lost had been laid on by their novice mother and we were determined to prevent that from reoccurring, if we could.

Lazarus

In spite of our efforts, (which even included my wife, Karen sleeping near the box to listen for crying puppies if trouble arose during the first two weeks) on the litter’s third day, Karen stormed into my office, tears streaming down her cheeks and angry, very angry.  KayDee had lain on one of the pups and it was dead.  She ordered me upstairs to remove the sorry little creature from the nesting box as she refused to touch it.  I went to the box and immediately spied the hapless victim lying off to one side away from the rest of the litter.  Picking it up, I discovered it was still very warm, but as lifeless as could be.  I studied the little guy closely, watching for any sign of life, but there was none. 

Author with an Arm Full of Puppy Love...

I wrapped the puppy in a paper towel and went outside, planning to deposit it in the garbage can.  At the last moment, I turned away from the trash, deciding instead to bury the pup in the dog cemetery in our back yard.  This small section of sacred ground was where the remains of our previously departed canine family members rested.  I stepped into the garage, grabbed a long-handled spade and then paused before stepping into the yard.  I once again examined the little body that I held in my hand.  It was a male with a dark red body, lots of black trim and a large, long white blaze on the center of its chest.  A handsome Doxie specimen that was as lifeless and as limp as the proverbial wet noodle.

What a shame, I thought as I brought the pup to my mouth, covered its muzzle with my lips and gently blew as I felt its lungs expand.  I began rubbing the pup’s upper and lower body and then blew into its mouth again.  After a minute of repeating this process, the puppy reacted.  It appeared to gag, but then nothing more.  Excited and encouraged, I took it as a sign of life and picked up the pace continuing with my administrations.  After another minute of treatment, it gagged again and in another minute I thought I heard it squeak.  This all only urged me onward in my mission to resuscitate.  At the end of the next ten minutes, much to my amazement, joy and awe, I held in my shaking hands a breathing, squirming, crying little puppy.

Lazarus surrounded by his siblings...

I walked into the house and watched Karen’s jaw drop when she saw what I held in my hands.  Incredulous, she asked if that was the same puppy and wanted to know what I had done.  I shared for the first time a story that I would relate over and over again as we put the pup back in the nesting box with its mother and littermates.  Still not fully believing what had just happened, I frequently checked the pup throughout the rest of the evening.  Each time I peered into the box, it was securely locked onto one of its mother’s nipples, nursing like a starving maniac.  I would find it eating when I quite honestly expected to find it dead.  By the time I was ready to retire for the night, I was confident that the pup would survive its crisis.

To make a long story short, the pup did survive along with the rest of the litter and it appeared to have no serious side effects.  I had suggested to Karen that we name it “Bear” because it was so tough and Karen upped the ante by declaring that we would instead dub it “Grizzlee”.  Ten days later, struck with an inspiration, I christened the resilient little pup “Lazarus” after the man that Christ raised from the dead in the New Testament.  Karen was less than impressed with the pup’s new name until I told her that I’d always wanted to have a dog that I could call by saying, “Lazzie!  Come home, Lazzie!”  Upon hearing my explanation, she laughed heartily and good-naturedly agreed to the name change and pup became Lazarus, Lazzie for short. 

Lazarus once again on top of the pile...

We watched Lazarus closely for any signs of blindness and other damage or complications that may have been caused by the long period of time without oxygen, but nothing ever manifested itself.  The puppy is bright, playful and full of life.  It still can cause a chill to run up and down my spine, however when I look at that beautiful little creature and think back to how close I was to throwing its little body into the trash can and walking away.  What a waste it would have been! Lazarus is going to bless some lucky family, bringing a million smiles with his bright little face and warm little puppy kisses, gifting them with many years of happiness and joy.  And to think that all of that potential puppy love came so very close to being thrown out with the trash. 

And what a good kisser Lazzie is...