**JUNEY**
She was due to give birth any day now. A massive three-year-old Rottweiler named Izzy. But to those who knew her best, she was simply Juney. I cant recall who first let slip that odd yet affectionate nickname, but it stuck fast. So the dog lived with two namesone for family, the other for the rest of the world. She never minded: if they called her Juney, then Juney it was. No harm done.
Aunt Mabel, her owner, was the kindest soulwarm, hospitable, and gentle to a fault, utterly devoted to her beloved pet. The Rottweiler knew this and took full advantage, pushing the limits of her patience. Though Izzy had completed her obedience training with meeven passing the exam with flying coloursher owners leniency meant she allowed herself all sorts of liberties. She slept exclusively in their bed, often disregarding basic hospitality by shoving Uncle George, the man of the house, onto the floor with her powerful paws at dawn. Sprawling in his vacated spot, shed snore loudly, finishing her sleep in comfort. She ate like a proper member of the family, resting her heavy head on Aunt Mabels lap at the dinner table, and sometimes simply helped herself to a choice morsel from a plate without a hint of guilt. Her owners indulged her every whim, and at the slightest whimper or hint of discomfort, theyd raise half the town in alarm. And so it happened this time too.
Back then, mobile phones were unheard of, but knowing where to find someone and with taxis at hand, people managed in tricky situations. When Aunt Mabel brought me to her home to check on my patient, she triedas usualto keep her composure. Juney met us at the door, noticeably rounder and heftier but in good health, though breathing heavily. Understandableshe was on the brink of motherhood, and by my quick estimate, shed bless her owners with a dozen pups. No fewer.
Well? Aunt Mabel asked, voice tight with worry. Is it time? Her anxious gaze flicked to the dog.
Aunt Mabel, I said, a little flustered, at least let me take my coat off and wash my hands before examining her.
Juney, anticipating undivided attention, yipped excitedly, wagging her hindquarters and grinning with all the width of her massive muzzle. She wasnt due for another twelve to fourteen hours, and there were no complications requiring my immediate interventionsomething I quickly reassured her owner about.
What? Aunt Mabel gasped, hands flying up. Youre leaving us alone tonight? What if the labour starts early? What if a pup gets stuck? Her eyes froze with fear. Sensing her distress, Juney whined and fixed me with a pleading stare.
Ive told you, shes fine. Shell deliver tomorrow, late morning at the earliest.
Laura, the elderly woman begged, if anything happens to Juney, I wont survive it. You remember when she was ill? I nodded. Remember when she nearly died? Another nod. I almost died with her. Do you want a repeat of that? Her eyebrows shot up in accusation. Truthfully, that episode had rattled meher hysterics, lying on the carpet beside her gravely ill pup. Such panic over a dog was a first in my practice. It had taken great effort to calm her enough to let me treat the patient properly. I had no wish to relive it.
Well, thats settled then, Aunt Mabel said, visibly relieved at having persuaded me to stay the night, and bustled off to the kitchen to make tea. Suddenly, Juneys memory kicked in. She recalled that a trained dogs place wasnt in the kitchen but by the front door, in the hallway.
Wheres Juney? Aunt Mabel fretted, noticing her absence, and hurried into the corridor. The dog lay on her mat, head drooped between her paws.
Juney, her owner called. The Rottweiler glanced up knowingly but didnt move.
Ah, Aunt Mabel realised, youre scared of Laura, arent you? She wont let you into the kitchen, will she? Strict old teacher. She laughed, almost childishly.
I never ceased to marvel at dogs intelligence. Here she was, in a home where she was spoiled daily, allowed every indulgenceyet she remembered that an instructor wouldnt tolerate such liberties. Clever girl.
By local standards, my friends flat was spacious: two sunlit rooms facing south, on the second floor of a cosy wooden house. After a light supperwhich I managed, at Aunt Mabels insistenceI was shown to the spare room. Next door was a proper bathroom with hot and cold running water, a luxury not all homes in our town enjoyed back then, especially in winter. I couldnt refuse such hospitality.
Fresh from a steamy shower, I stepped outonly to find Juney waiting.
Were you standing guard? I asked sternly. She hesitated. And what does our expectant mother want? I added, meeting her adoring gaze.
Juney bolted to the living room where her owners sat, then paused at the door, glancing back as if seeking permission to return to her usual spot. Crafty creature. But at the last moment, she changed her mind and trotted back to the hallway.
Soon, Uncle George returned from work, and we gathered for more tea and pleasant chatter. Oddly, Juney refused to sleep with her owners that night, baffling them entirely.
Outside, a blizzard brewed. Thick clouds smothered the sky, poised to unleash a deluge of snow. The moon, barely glimpsed, vanished again. Winter, in short.
By midnight, all had retired. Sleep eluded meIve always been a night owlso I picked up a magazine from the bedside table. After flipping through it, my eyelids grew heavy, and I turned off the lamp, leaving the door ajar just in case.
Then, in the dead of night, I fell ill. A sharp, stabbing pain woke me, radiating from my neck to my heart. My medical bag was in the other room, left there after examining Juney. The pain worsened so rapidly that standing was out of the question. Breath came in gasps; dizziness and weakness set in. I needed helpurgently.
I called for Aunt Mabel, but my voice was a whisper. Juney appeared instead, visibly agitated by my state.
Juney, I rasped, clinging to hope, fetch Mabel. The dog studied me, weighing her options, then tore down the hall. I heard her scratching at their doorlocked, of course. Bad luck. She clattered back, nails clicking on the floor, her expression frantic. The rescue mission was failing.
Juney, I croaked, lips parched, open the door. The door. The pain in my chest flared. If I passed out now, itd be the end.
On her third attempt, she managed to shove it open with her bulk. Rushing to Aunt Mabels side, she nudged her awake.
Juney, do you need out? Its early, came the sleepy reply. Undeterred, the dog persisted until Aunt Mabel roseonly to dress, clip on the lead, and drag Juney toward the front door. I heard the scuffle but lacked the strength to call out. Juney dug in, resisting with all her mightit took real effort to move such a beast. Seizing her chance, she yanked the lead, hauling her bewildered owner back to my room, still in her coat.
Staring between me and the dog, Aunt Mabel gaped. Laura, are you ill?
*No, Im just joking,* I thought sourly, but the pain was real, unbearable. *If I dont get that injection, Im done.*
My bag, I forced out before another wave hit. To her credit, Aunt Mabel dashed off and returned with it. Should we call an ambulance? Helen downstairs has a phone.
Ignoring her, I fumbled for the vial and syringe. Time was criticalif you can help yourself, dont wait for others. But my fingers failed me; I couldnt snap the ampoule. Aunt Mabel stepped in, breaking it, drawing the dose, and handing it over. I jabbed my thigh without flinching.
*If I live, I swear Ill get checked out.* Soon, the pain ebbed. Your cheeks have colour again, Aunt Mabel saidno liar, she. Shaken, she took longer to recover than I did. Over tea in the kitchen, I thanked my stubborn saviour. Dogs truly understand more than we credit.
Sleep was lost to us. Juney, ever the dutiful pupil, asked to go out several times more, leaving Aunt Mabel to trek through the mounting snow. By eleven the next morning, contractions began, and it was my turn to assist.
One after another, sturdy, square-headed pups arrived. Izzy stared at her brood, utterly bewildered. That dazed maternal gaze stayed with me forever. Shed become a motherno small thing.
Shes long gone now, after a full life with those who adored her. Still, now and then, I remember my rescuer. Animals know gratitude. Do wehumansremember our saviours half as well?
