JUNO
She was due any day now. Juno, a three-year-old Rottweiler the size of a small sofa, was officially registered as “Daisy” on her pedigreebut to her family, she was always Juno. No one remembered who first slipped out that odd, affectionate nickname, but it stuck for good. So the dog lived with two identities: one for her inner circle, the other for the rest of the world. Not that she mindedJuno suited her just fine.
Auntie Margot, her doting owner, was the kindest soul youd ever meetwarm, hospitable, and soft-hearted to a fault. Juno knew this and exploited it shamelessly. Despite having completed her obedience training with flying colours (and even acing the exam under my watch), she had her owners wrapped around her paw. She slept exclusively in their bed, often shoving Uncle Bert onto the floor at dawn with a well-placed kick, sprawling across the vacated space with a satisfied snore. She dined like royalty at the kitchen table, resting her heavy head on Auntie Margots lap, and had no qualms about stealing a choice bite straight off a plate.
Her owners indulged her every whim. The slightest whimper or hint of discomfort sent them into a panic, mobilising half the neighbourhood. And so it was that night.
Back then, mobile phones were still a futuristic dream, but people managedtaxis and knowing where to find someone did the trick. When Auntie Margot fetched me, she tried to keep her composure, but her trembling hands betrayed her. Juno greeted us at the door, round as a barrel and breathing heavilyhardly surprising, given she was about to pop. A quick glance told me shed be delivering at least a dozen pups.
“Well?” Auntie Margots voice wavered. “Is it time?”
“Auntie Margot,” I said gently, “let me at least take my coat off and wash my hands before I examine your dog.”
Juno, thrilled by the prospect of undivided attention, wagged her whole backside and grinned with all the charm of a dog who knew she was the centre of the universe. Labour was still a good twelve to fourteen hours away, and there were no immediate complicationssomething I reassured Auntie Margot about.
“What?!” she cried, hands fluttering. “Youre leaving us alone tonight? What if the puppies come early? What if one gets stuck?!” Her eyes were wide with terror. Sensing her distress, Juno let out a worried whine and fixed me with pleading eyes.
“Everythings fine,” I repeated. “Shell deliver in the morning, probably around lunchtime.”
“Laura,” Auntie Margot whimpered, “if anything happens to Juno, I wont survive it. You remember how ill she was?” I nodded. “You remember when she nearly died?” Another nod. “I almost died with her. Do you want that on your conscience?!” She arched her eyebrows dramatically.
Honestly, the last time Juno had fallen ill, Auntie Margots hysterics had been almost as alarming as the dogs conditionlying on the floor beside her, sobbing uncontrollably. Id never seen a grown woman panic so fiercely over a case of canine enteritis. It took all my efforts to calm her down enough to let me treat the actual patient. I wasnt eager for a repeat performance.
“Well, thats settled then,” Auntie Margot announced cheerfully, pleased Id agreed to stay the night, and bustled off to put the kettle on. Suddenly, Junos training kicked in. She remembered that well-behaved dogs did not loiter in the kitchen but waited politely in the hallway.
“Wheres Juno?!” Auntie Margot fretted, noticing her absence. She hurried into the corridor to find the dog slumped on her mat, head drooping between her paws.
“Juno?” she called. The Rottweiler flicked a knowing glance at her but didnt budge.
“Oh!” Auntie Margot gasped. “Youre scared of Laura, arent you? Poor love, she wont let you into the kitchen. What a cruel teacher!” She giggled like a schoolgirl.
I couldnt help but marvel at dogs intelligence. Here was a spoilt creature who got away with murder dailyyet the moment her trainer was around, she remembered the rules. Clever girl, that Juno.
My friends flat was spacious by local standardstwo sunny rooms on the second floor of a cosy, old brick house. After a light supper (forced upon me by Auntie Margots insistence), I was shown to the spare room. The luxury of hot running waterstill a rarity in some parts of townsealed the deal. Fresh from a steamy shower, I stepped out to find Juno waiting.
“Are you stalking me?” I asked dryly. She hesitated. “And what does the expectant mother want?” I added, raising an eyebrow. Juno bolted towards the living room, then glanced back, as if asking permission to sleep in her usual spot. Cheeky thing. At the last second, she reconsidered and trotted back to the hall.
Later, when Uncle Bert returned from work, we had tea and idle chatter. Oddly, Juno refused to sleep with her owners that nighta first.
Outside, a blizzard was brewing. Thick clouds smothered the sky, and the moon ducked out early. Winter had arrived in earnest. By midnight, everyone retired. I, however, was wide awakea night owl by nature. After flipping through a magazine from the bedside table, I finally felt sleep creeping in. I left the door ajar, just in case.
Then, in the dead of night, pain strucksharp, searing, radiating from my neck to my chest. My medical bag was in the other room. The agony intensified, stealing my breath. Dizziness and weakness pinned me to the bed. I tried to call for help, but my voice was a whisper.
Juno appeared.
“Juno,” I rasped, “fetch Margot.”
The dog studied me for a heartbeat, then tore down the hallway. I heard her scratching at the bedroom doorlocked, of course. Typical. She clattered back, frustration in her eyes.
“Juno,” I begged, “open the door. Please.”
On her third attempt, she shouldered it open and bounded to Auntie Margots side, nudging her awake.
“Juno, love, do you need the loo? Its awfully early,” came the sleepy reply.
But Juno wouldnt relent. Finally, Auntie Margot roseonly to drag the dog towards the front door, mistaking her urgency for a toilet emergency. Juno dug in, paws splayed. It took a yank of supernatural strength to redirect Auntie Margot back to my room, still in her dressing gown.
“Laura!” she gasped, baffled. “Are you ill?”
*No, Im rehearsing for a play,* I thought grimly. Aloud, I managed: “My bag.”
To her credit, Auntie Margot sprinted for it. “Should I call an ambulance? The neighbour downstairs has a phone!”
Ignoring her, I fumbled with the medicine vial. My hands shook too badly to snap it open. Auntie Margot took over, filling the syringe with practised ease. I jabbed it into my thigh without flinching.
*If I survive this, Im getting a full check-up,* I vowed.
The pain ebbed. Colour returned to my cheeks. Over tea, I thanked my furry saviour. Dogs *know*. They understand more than we give them credit for.
By morning, Junos contractions began. One by one, twelve squirming, squish-faced puppies entered the world. Juno stared at them, utterly bewildered. The look on that new mums facepure, overwhelmed awestayed with me forever.
Shes long gone now, having lived a full, loved life. But I still think of her sometimes. Animals never forget kindness. Do we? How often do *we* remember those whove saved us?
