**JUNIE**
She was due to give birth any day now. A massive three-year-old Rottweiler named Izzythough to her family, she was simply Junie. I cant recall who first let that odd, affectionate name slip from their lips, but it stuck fast. So she lived with two names: one for her loved ones, the other for the rest of the world. And she didnt mindJunie it was, then. It suited her.
Aunt Lillian, her owner, was the kindest soulhospitable, gentle, and utterly devoted to her furry child. The Rottweiler knew this well and took full advantage of her softness. Though Izzy had completed her obedience training with me, even passing her exams with flying colours, she allowed herself many liberties under her owners indulgent watch. She slept exclusively in their bed, often shoving poor Uncle William onto the floor by dawn with her powerful paws, sprawling across the freed space and snoring loudly. She ate like any proper family member at the kitchen table, resting her heavy head on Aunt Lillians lapor sometimes nabbing a choice morsel straight from a plate without a hint of guilt. The owners permitted it all, and at the slightest whimper or hint of discomfort, theyd rally half the town in panic.
And so it happened this time.
In those days, mobile phones were unheard of, but people managedknowing where to find someone and relying on taxis to navigate tricky situations. When Aunt Lillian brought me to her home, she tried to keep her composure, though her nerves showed. Junie met us at the doornoticeably rounder, breathing heavily but otherwise healthy. By my estimate, she was carrying at least a dozen pups.
Well? Aunt Lillian asked anxiously, glancing at the dog. Is it time?
Aunt Lillian, I said, slightly flustered, let me at least take my coat off and wash my hands before I examine her.
Junie, thrilled by the attention, yipped excitedly, wagging her tail and grinning with that enormous Rottweiler smile. Labour was still a good twelve to fourteen hours away, and there were no immediate complications, which I assured her.
What?! Aunt Lillian gasped. Youre leaving us alone tonight? What if the pups come early? What if one gets stuck? Her eyes froze in terror. Sensing her distress, Junie whined and fixed me with a pleading stare.
The dog is fine, I repeated. She wont give birth until morning, near lunchtime.
Laura, the elderly woman pleaded, if something happens to Junie, I wont survive it. You remember when she fell ill? I nodded. You remember when she nearly died? Another nod. I nearly died with her. Do you want a repeat of that? Her raised eyebrows demanded an answer. Truthfully, that episode had shaken methe way shed lain on the carpet beside her sick pup, hysterical. Such panic over a dog was new in my practice. Convincing her to pull herself together had taken effort. I didnt want a repeat.
Well then, Aunt Lillian said, relieved, and bustled off to the kitchen to make tea.
Junie, suddenly remembering her training, slunk to the hallwayher proper placeinstead of following.
Wheres Junie? Aunt Lillian fretted, noticing the dogs absence. She stepped into the hall to find her sprawled on the mat, head resting glumly on her paws.
Junie, she called. The dog flicked a knowing glance but stayed put.
Ah, Aunt Lillian chuckled. Youre afraid of Laura, arent you? Mean old trainer, keeping you from the kitchen. She laughed, almost girlishly.
I never ceased to marvel at a dogs cunning. Spoiled rotten at home, yet the moment she sensed authority, she recalled the rules. Clever girl.
Their flat, by local standards, was spacioustwo bright rooms facing south, on the second floor of a cosy wooden house. After a light supper (forced down out of politeness), I was shown to the spare room. The ensuite was a luxuryhot water wasnt a given in every home then.
Fresh from a shower, I stepped outonly to find Junie waiting.
Were you guarding me? I asked sternly. She hesitated. What does our expectant mother want?
Junie bolted toward the living room, where her owners sat, then glanced back at meas if asking permission to sleep in her usual spot. The sly creature. But she changed her mind and returned to the hall.
Later, Uncle William came home from work, and over tea, we chatted. Junie, oddly, refused to sleep in their room that nighta first.
Outside, a blizzard brewed. Clouds smothered the sky, and the moon vanished before it could shine. Winter, in all its might.
By midnight, everyone retired. Sleep eluded meIve always been a night owlso I picked up a magazine from the nightstand. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy. I switched off the lamp, leaving the door ajar in case Junie needed me.
Then, in the dead of night, pain strucksharp, searing, from my neck down to my heart. My medicine bag was in the other room. The agony worsened, stealing my breath. Dizziness and weakness followed. I tried to call for help, but my voice was a whisper.
Junie appeared.
Junie, I rasped, fetch Lillian.
She studied me, then dashed off. I heard her scratching at their doorlocked. Bad luck. She returned, nails clicking frantically.
Junie. Open the door.
On her third attempt, she shouldered it open and roused Aunt Lillian, who drowsily muttered, Need the loo already?
Junie wouldnt relent. Finally, Aunt Lillian rosebut instead of coming to me, she grabbed the lead, clipped it to Junies collar, and tried to drag her outside. I heard the struggle. Junie planted her paws, resisting with all her might.
Thena yank. Junie hauled her bewildered owner straight to my room.
Laura, are you ill? Aunt Lillian gaped.
*No, Im just practising melodrama,* I thought acidly. But the pain was real.
My bag, I managed.
She fetched it swiftly. I fumbled with the vialno strength left. Aunt Lillian snapped it open, drew the dose, and I injected myself without flinching.
If I live, I swear Ill get checked, I vowed.
The pain ebbed. My cheeks flushed pinkor so Aunt Lillian said. She was too shaken to lie.
Over tea, I thanked my stubborn saviour. Dogs truly understand.
Junie asked to go out repeatedly that night, tracking snow inside each time. By noon, her labour beganand now it was my turn to help.
Puppy after puppy arrivedhealthy, squirming bundles. Izzy stared at them, utterly bewildered. That stunned mothers gaze stayed with me forever.
Shes long gone now, after a life well-loved. But still, I remember her.
Animals never forget kindness. Do we?
