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“Doc, I guess your medical support staff is down to one. Errand girl and sherpa, all rolled into one, that’s me. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Yeah.” Joe groaned. “Reserve a big, strong slug of something medicinal for me, for when we’re done here. For now, get me a big pile of blankets and towels or something.”
“Oh, right. We’ve got plenty of them in and near the whelping box Guinevere has decided she doesn’t want to use.”
“No accounting for the whims of the pregnant.”
Mary raced to the garage and came back with an armloadshedepositedonthegroundbesideJoe.She crouched to pass things to him one by one.
“No, they’re not for Guinevere. They’re for me. Some of them, anyway. It’s cold out here, and I’m getting too old for this hard-packed ground.” He rolledover.Maryspreadblanketswherehisbodyhad been and he reached back into the dog house.
“Care to place a small wager on how many pups we’ll have? If I win, you use your influence with Van to get me a whelping box.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Special Deliveries
V
AN LEANED BACK INMary’s Magic Chair and touched the button that turned it into reclining, spine-cradling, muscle-massaging heaven. He poured a nip from the brandy decanter at his elbow. It would complete the process of turning his bones into mush. If he had to be banished with Lancelot while Guinevere had her children, this was the place to be exiled to.
It was odd in this day and age. A hospital birthing room seemed to be an equal-opportunity observation gallery these days. They just about brought in the new mom’s fourth cousin twice removed.
Mary, however, was reading a historical romance in which they packed the husband off with a flask of brandywhilehiswifewasgivingbirth.Sheseemedto have taken it seriously in her planning for this event. Andabigpartofherplanhadobviouslybeentokeep Van out of the way. He had to admit he wasn’t sure he’d want himself in the way if he were in charge of this project.
He’d tried to lock Lancelot up here, then go back to where the action was. If the father wasn’t there, surely the grandfather had to be. At first, Joe and Mary had just ordered him — did they have to be so vehement about it? — to back off. Then Van had started to feel labor pains along with Guinevere. Okay, maybe he’d felt them before she did. Maybe he’d yelped a little noisily when they hit. Maybe he’d been in the way a time or two when he doubled over with a really bad contraction.
He’d heard childbirth was painful. The subject had come up with Joe sometimes, somewhere around the ninth hole, when Joe was finally relaxing after a rough delivery. He swore his patients all said it was worth it. Van had never been sure about that. Joe wasn’t the one giving birth.
Was it as bad for dogs as for humans? Van had read of a Saint Bernard who gave birth to thirteen puppies in one go. Thank goodness the vet had said Guineverewouldproduceasmalllitter—maybehalf a dozen.
The prospect still made him so miserable he topped up his glass of brandy. It looked warm and rich and heady, even if he wasn’t much of a drinker. Maybe it would help with his labor pains.
Van glanced down at Lancelot. He was holding still for a change, curled in a miserable ball with his anguished muzzle resting on his little paws and his ears sagging in long puddles around him. Van knew the poor little man would be up again in another few minutes and back to pacing in a sad, slow trudge from one side of the room to the other.
Van wanted to express his sympathy to his fellow exile, but he couldn’t speak without choking up. His eyes were a little damp too. Some dust must be floating around. Everybody knows dust in the eye can make the manliest of men, well, tear up a bit, just because of the dust, you know.
Van cupped his hands around his eyes to fend off any errant speck of new eye irritation and leaned over the side of the chair. It almost bucked him out. Oops. He’d better stop the massage first.
He leaned over the arm of the chair again to bring his head closer to Lancelot’s level. “How are you doing, my fine little soldier?”
Lancelot whimpered, looked up and nudged Van’s hand as a hint that this dog’s head could use some stroking. Van obliged.
“Hey, my friend and fellow exile, would you like some of this?” Van waved the flagon of brandy to makesurehisfriendknewwhathewastalkingabout. It sloshed a little. He set it down carefully beside the carafe of water Mary had also provided. “Or would you prefer Adam’s ale?”
Lancelot nodded. Van nodded back.
“A wise choice, I’m sure, my dear Lancelot. You’ll be glad of it tomorrow morning.” The question now was how to give Lancelot a drink. Van looked around. “Ifyoucanbringmethelittlecrystalbowldecorating the shelf over there … ” Van pointed his finger.
Lancelot trudged over to the bookshelf and stopped, looking back at Van.
“A little to your right, Lancelot. Yes, that’s right. Hah! I said that’s right! Get it?”
Lancelot shot Van a look of reproof.
“Oh, all right. It wasn’t the greatest joke in the world.Anyway,justgrabthebowlthat’srightinfront of your nose. Good thing the shelf isn’t any higher. Good boy. You’ve got it. Now bring it to me.”
Lancelot did as he was told. Van took the bowl carefully from the Basset Hound’s mouth. “Such a fine fellow you are. I know you have a remarkable nose, as your ancestors have had for centuries, but retrieving game with such a fine, soft mouth isn’t supposed to be among your attributes. You’re far superior to your peers.” He poured a generous tot of water into the bowl. “It’s a shame they exiled you as well as me. I bet you could have helped Guinevere in her time of need. Manly support and protection and stiff upper lip, and all that.”
