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“Are you upset that’s she’s pregnant?” he’d asked.
“Am I upset? Of course I am,” I’d snapped. “There are hundreds of abandoned pets in our county alone, forget the thousands and millions around the world. We’re contributing to overpopulation. If we wanted more dogs, we should’ve gone and rescued them.”
Manning had pulled back, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Okay, but it didn’t happen that way. Your dog is pregnant. You love animals. You’re a vet. How are you not happy about this?”
The licensed vet I’d worked under almost a year constantly reminded the staff to tell our clients to spay and neuter. Since our own pets were a daily topic of conversation, I’d have to admit that I hadn’t done it yet. “It’s irresponsible,” I’d said, then left to get ready for work.
Tonight, for the first time, I tried to summon some excitement about the fact that there were puppies on the way. I patted Blue’s rump and pulled out my thermometer.
“Everything looks normal,” I said, sensing Manning hovering. “Her water should break soon. You could get her something to drink.”
“Sure,” he said, his boots crunching on straw as he left.
Alone with the Blue, I spoke in soft tones, soothing her as I lifted her tail to take her temperature. Really, she didn’t need my help. In fact, aside from stepping back and monitoring the births, there wasn’t really anything Manning or I could do. Still, I was glad I’d come home. I wanted to be there for her. Blue was my first real pet, Manning’s, too, and she meant the world to both of us. Even if Manning didn’t understand my anger, I knew, deep down, it wasn’t because we hadn’t spayed Blue like we should’ve. I was also to blame for assuming she was never around other dogs when she had acres of land to herself. After the initial shock of the pregnancy had worn off, my embarrassment over not spaying her had become a small part of why I was so upset.
Irrational as it was, all Blue’s pregnancy had done was remind me I wasn’t pregnant. And she was just the latest in a string of brutal reminders. Tiffany was due next month. A receptionist at the doctor’s office had recently announced she was having twins. My regular checker at the grocery store had left on maternity leave. Not to mention I often administered prenatal check-ups on animals, ordered ultrasounds, and occasionally assisted in deliveries.
Everybody was getting pregnant.
Every single woman and animal could get pregnant.
And then there was me.
Weeks before finding out about Blue, I’d secretly gone to see my gynecologist after a few months of abnormally painful menstrual cramps. Manning and I had been trying to get pregnant for over a year. The instinct I’d had that we’d conceived had flipped to a gut feeling that something was wrong. Manning continued to reassure me he wasn’t worried, yet he’d been smoking a lot, sometimes disappearing out back in the middle of the night when he thought I was sleeping. I couldn’t blame him for being upset, but even if I asked, I doubted he’d admit he was disappointed things were taking so long.
Now I had an answer.
“I’m concerned you’re infertile, Mrs. Sutter.”
A pelvic exam and ultrasound had revealed ovarian cysts. My doctor suspected a blocked fallopian tube—my body was keeping Manning’s sperm from fertilizing my eggs. Given all that, plus the amount of time we’d been trying, endometriosis was my likely diagnosis. Manning and I had thought we’d moved the stars, but fate would get the last laugh. I hadn’t even begun to think about how I’d break the news to him. I wanted to have a solution before I told him—some way of easing the blow. Maybe even a second opinion. Until then, it was easier to be angry, to take it out on him and Blue, to pretend there’d been no ultrasound, no results, and no bad news.
Manning returned to the stable with a dish of water and set it next to Blue. I removed the thermometer from her rectum and checked the temperature. “We’re good,” I said, noticing movement in her stomach. “And her contractions are starting.”
“What now?” Manning asked.
I put the thermometer away, turned, and sat cross-legged to look at Manning. “Now, we wait. It could be quick, or it could be a few hours.”
He sat against the wall opposite me, resting his forearms on his knees. “It’s late.”
“Dogs usually give birth at night,” I said.
“I meant you were at work late. You have been a lot lately.” He scanned my face, probably reading me like a picture book. Most times, I appreciated his attentiveness, but lately, I wished he’d just stop looking at me. Stop trying to figure me out. There was no good way to tell him that even though I’d fought the heavens for a chance to give us everything we wanted, I wouldn’t be able to.
