Hand-raising a puppy is not for the weak

A phone call from my brother led to an unexpected occurrence recently. He was taking care of a French Bulldog while her owners were on holiday in Cape Town. The dog just had a baby, he told me in a flat spin, and nobody knew she was pregnant.

And to top it all, he ended, the mom wanted nothing to do with the baby and the baby refused to latch. What could I do? I had to fetch the baby.

Famous last idea. I came home with a mom and her newborn. People often say, “Oh, how hard can it be?

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Puppies are cute.” Those people have never met a day-old French Bulldogpuppywho believes sleep is optional, milk must be served immediately and human dignity is negotiable. The vet said the mom went into early labour due to the crackers going off on New Year’s Eve. Hence the black and tan baby the size of a small croissant.

I told myself I’ve got this. After all, I could read instructions. I owned a kettle.

My confidence was high. That confidence lasted exactly seven minutes. The feeding schedule alone was a cruel joke.

Every two hours. Day and night. Which means my life was now divided into “before feeding” and “why am I still awake?”.

I’ve learnt to warm formula to a precise temperature. The puppy latched on like a tiny, determined vampire after a huge struggle, making sounds normally reserved for clogged drains. Milk dribbled.

Stains decorated my shirts and pants. Sleep deprivationset in quickly. I began hallucinating squeaks even when the puppy was silent. I rocked imaginary puppies while standing in the kitchen.

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