“I’m going to help Petunia.”
“You don’t even like her.”
“Move.”
Pizza girl tugged on Heather’s elbow, and Heather moved back.
“My OB didn’t like me either,” Georgie murmured. “Get out your phone, Heather. Google ‘pugs in labor.’”
“I would if I had a smartphone!” Heather snarled.
“I’ve got it,” ever-more-impressive pizza girl said. “Here—” She handed Porky to Heather. “—maybe you guys could get some clean towels.”
“Have you done this before?” Heather asked hopefully, taking the dog and wiping her face in its fur.
“No,” the girl said, “but I watch Animal Planet.”
“Google,” Georgie said, reaching into the dryer. Petunia had burrowed under the T-shirt again and was shivering, worrying something with her mouth. Georgie tried to nudge more clothes away, so she could see.
“Okay, okay,” pizza girl said. “It’s loading. Okay, here we go—‘giving birth can be especially challenging for both pugs and pug owners.’”
“So far, so good . . . ,” Georgie said. “It’s too dark, I can’t see anything.”
“Oh.” The girl held her key chain over Georgie’s shoulder. “There’s a flashlight.”
“That’s handy.” Georgie took the heavy key chain and found the stainless steel light.
“It helps when I’m delivering pizzas at night, to get the credit card numbers—okay, it says here that pugs have complicated pregnancies, and we should be financially prepared for a C-section. . . .”
“Skip ahead,” Georgie said. Petunia was wet and splotched with blood. The thing in her mouth was moving. Oh, God, she’s eating it.
“She’s eating the puppies!” Heather shrieked. She was leaning behind Georgie holding a stack of towels and three bottled waters.
“She’s not eating it,” pizza girl said, putting her hand on Heather’s arm. She held up her phone so they both could see. “It’s in its sac. They’re born in sacs, and the mom chews them out. It’s a good sign that she’s chewing them free. It says that pugs are notoriously bad mothers. If she didn’t do it, we’d have to.”
“We’d have to chew them out?” Georgie asked.
The girl looked at Georgie like she was insane—but still managed to look patient. “We’d use a washcloth,” she explained.
“I brought washcloths!” Heather said.
The girl smiled at Heather. “Great job.”
“What else does it say?” Georgie asked.
Still-competent-but-clearly-distracted pizza girl looked back at her phone. “Um . . . okay, puppies—there can be one to seven.”
“Seven,” Georgie repeated.
“Sacs . . . ,” the girl said, “chewing . . . Oh, she’s supposed to chew the umbilical cord, too.”
“Great.”
“And placentas—there’s a placenta for each puppy. That’s important. You need to look for the placentas.”
“What do the placentas look like?”
“Do you want me to Google that?”
“No,” Georgie said, “keep reading.”
Petunia was still working on the wriggly thing with her teeth. “Good girl,” Georgie said. “Probably.”
She patted blindly around Petunia and recoiled when she felt something else soft and warm.
“What?” Heather asked, still half in a panic.
“I don’t know,” Georgie said, reaching back in. She found it again, warm and wet. Was it a puppy? Georgie held up what looked like a bag of blood, then dropped it. “Placenta.”
“That’s one,” the girl said enthusiastically.
“Aren’t you supposed to be reading?” Georgie reached back in.
“There’s nothing else. Make the dog comfortable. Make sure she helps the puppies get free. Count the placentas. Make sure they nurse . . . .”
Georgie felt something else wet under Petunia and grabbed it instinctively. “Jesus,” she said. “Another baby.” Still in its sac. It looked like a raw sausage. Georgie reached for one of Heather’s towels and started rubbing at the membrane. “Like this?”
Pizza girl looked up from her phone. “Harder, I think.”
Georgie scrubbed at the lump till the skin around it tore and she could see the grayish pink puppy inside.
“Is it alive?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know,” Georgie answered. The puppy was warm, but not warm as life. Georgie kept rubbing it clean, tears falling on her hand. Petunia whined, and Heather’s girl reached past Georgie into the dryer to pet her.
Heather knelt next to Georgie. “It is it alive?” She was crying, too.
“I don’t know.” The puppy twitched, and Georgie rubbed harder, massaging it with her hands.
“I think it’s breathing,” Heather said.
“It’s cold.” Georgie brought the puppy up to her chest and tucked it inside her sweatshirt, rubbing. The puppy shuddered and squeaked. “I think . . .”
Heather hugged Georgie. “Oh God.”
“Careful,” Georgie said.
Pizza girl sat back from the dryer cradling another puppy against her white shirt.
“Oh my God,” Heather said, and hugged her, too.
There were three puppies.
And three placentas.
Eventually Georgie thought to call her mom.
And then she called the vet, who talked them through cutting the last umbilical cord and making Petunia comfortable.
The puppies got a sponge bath. Georgie took charge of the one she was still holding inside her shirt. Then they all got tucked back into the dryer with clean towels. “It’s her little nest,” Heather said, patting the dryer like it had helped.
Georgie tried to put the Metallica shirt in the washer, but Heather grabbed onto it, making a disgusted face. “Georgie, no. This is an intervention.”
“Heather. That’s Neal’s shirt. From high school.”
“It gave its life for a good cause.”
Georgie let go. Heather handed the T-shirt to pizza girl, who was starting to clean up.
Pizza girl’s name was Alison, and Heather’s face followed her around the room like a sunflower chasing daylight.
“I still don’t like you,” Georgie said to Petunia, reaching in and stroking the dog’s slack stomach. “Look at you, nursing like a champ. Now who’s a notoriously bad mother?”