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Tiny feet (Big Fight)
Tiny Paws (Big Fight)
Breeding is often associated with joyful puppy photos, heartwarming updates, and the excitement of new life. But there’s another side—one rarely spoken about. A side that tests your heart, your resilience, and your why.
This past week, I lived through one of those moments. And while it’s difficult to talk about, I feel it's important to share—perhaps to process, perhaps to offer insight into what breeders truly experience behind the scenes. The side of breeding that doesn’t make it onto Instagram.
It was a peaceful Saturday afternoon. I’d just come home from a swim in the ocean when a message from one of our guardian families came through. Rory, one of our beloved girls, was in her final trimester—just nine days from her due date and due to return to us the next day to prepare for birth.
Attached to the message was a photo: blood, and a tiny, deformed puppy on the bed. My heart sank.
She was in early labour. Too early. I knew the reality—puppies born this prematurely don’t survive. Most of their vital development happens in the final two weeks of gestation. At this stage, they’re still so fragile, so unfinished.
Still in my bathers, hair wet and dinner plans forgotten, I rushed to pick Rory up and headed straight to the emergency vet in Brisbane.
The prognosis was grim. Early labour had begun. One puppy had already been delivered at home. Four remained. There was nothing we could do to stop it—and nothing we could do to save them. The vet suspected a bacterial or viral infection.
We brought Rory home, set up the whelping box, and did what we always do—slept beside her. She was calm. Not in pain. Just waiting. I didn’t sleep much.
Day Two
The house was silent. I sat with her all day, listening, watching. Late that night, the second puppy arrived. Not viable.
Day Three
More waiting. More hoping. Life paused—meals, showers, appointments all on hold. Early in the morning, the third puppy came. Again, no signs of life.
Around 1 p.m., the fourth arrived. Stillborn. Rory, with barely any amniotic fluid left, was doing her best. And I was right beside her.
One more to go.
And then, this morning, a miracle.
Puppy Number Five arrived
alive.
He’s tiny. Slow. But he’s feeding, moving, and twitching—all signs of life and health. Rory is being beautifully attentive.
We know he’s five days early, so we’ll be monitoring him constantly. He’ll be weighed daily. As a singleton, he lacks littermates to help stimulate his development, so we’ll be stepping in—around the clock—to give him what nature can’t. I know what needs to be done.
The next eight weeks will be exhausting. But hey—sleep is overrated, right?
Through it all, Rory has shown incredible grace. Dogs don’t grieve the way we do. They live in the moment, guided by instinct. She’s calm, content, enjoying the massages, the food, the affection and now her little man.
And me? I’m tired—physically, emotionally.
I question why I do this.
I grieve the little lives lost, and the dreams of the families who were waiting for them. There will be no puppy updates this time. No newborn photos. No happy first steps—until the next litter.
From a business standpoint, there’s no compensation for the costs already spent. No refund for the sleepless nights or the emotional toll. But there is one bright spot: Rory is okay. And one little pup is fighting to stay with us.
This is the side of breeding you don’t often see. The heartbreak. The unknowns. The quiet resilience it takes to keep showing up.
And tomorrow, I’ll show up again.
If you’d like to follow the journey of this tiny fighter—still unnamed—I’ll be sharing updates on our social media. Please join me in willing him to live. Send your love, your light, your good thoughts. He needs them.
