The Dark Days of Dog Breeding: Our Heartbreaking Experience with Mae

I owe you all an apology. Many of you have been waiting anxiously for news of Mae’s litter, which was due on the 13th. I’ve read your messages, felt your anticipation, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to write this update—not until now. It has taken five days for me to gather the emotional strength to put these words down, to relive what has transpired in our home over the past several days.

Mae’s third litter was supposed to be different. She was in perfect health—fully tested, strong, the ideal age. We debated whether to breed her again, knowing her history, but after carefully weighing the risks, we decided to try once more. Her first litter of six had two stillborn puppies, a painful but not unheard-of occurrence. Her second was a singleton who never took a breath. Both times, we chalked it up to fate, to chance, to the unpredictable nature of life itself.

We never could have imagined what was coming.

The Arrival – and the First Signs of Trouble

Mae’s due date passed without event, but the following morning, she began nesting and panting—the telltale signs of labor. By 9:00 AM, she delivered a beautiful, healthy puppy. Our hearts swelled with cautious excitement. A promising start.

But then, the hours dragged on. By the afternoon, she had only delivered two more, an agonizingly slow process. We waited, we watched, we willed her to keep going. By nightfall, two more arrived—both stillborn. A sharp pang of sorrow hit, but we told ourselves she was done. She seemed calmer. There was no way of knowing that this was only the beginning.

The next morning, Mae was a devoted, attentive mother. Her three puppies nestled close to her warmth, and she nursed them with quiet determination. Confident they were thriving, we allowed ourselves a small reprieve, stepping away for a few hours to have dinner with Brian’s parents.

And that was our first mistake.

The Moment Everything Changed

When we returned, I went straight to check on them. The moment I stepped through the door, my stomach dropped. Two puppies lay still, away from Mae’s warmth, alone.

A healthy newborn puppy does not wander. A puppy separated from the group is a puppy too weak to return.

I scooped them up. Their bodies were cold. Too cold. My heart pounded as I frantically checked the third. She, too, was cold despite being near Mae. Time was against us.

We rushed them upstairs, placing them on a heated blanket, willing warmth back into their tiny bodies. Hypothermia in puppies is an urgent crisis—they cannot regulate their own temperatures, and once they grow cold, they lose the strength to nurse. Without nourishment, dehydration and hypoglycemia set in within hours.

We quickly mixed a formula, desperately trying to coax them into feeding. And then, before our eyes, it happened—one of the puppies stiffened, every muscle in its tiny body locked, frozen, unresponsive. It wasn’t breathing.

I gasped. Before I could even process what was happening, another puppy did the same.

My hands shook as I held them, watching helplessly as they slipped into what I could only describe as death. Seconds stretched into eternity. Then—just as suddenly—their rigid little bodies softened. A gasp of air. A faint, desperate breath.

They were still alive. But for how long?

A Fight Against Time

Now we knew what we were battling: severe hypoglycemia and dehydration. Their bodies were shutting down. We had to act fast, administering fluids, rubbing their fragile bodies to keep their circulation going, giving tiny doses of corn syrup to boost their sugar levels. It was a sleepless, agonizing night.

By morning, the first puppy was gone.

A crushing blow. But we had no time to grieve. The other two were still fighting, and we had to fight with them.

That evening, as I sat beside the remaining puppies, exhausted and praying, I turned to see Mae shifting in her bed. She grunted, lifted her tail—then, out of nowhere, she began pushing.

My breath caught. “She’s pushing,” I whispered in disbelief.

We were sure she had finished. Two days had passed since her last delivery. This was unheard of. How had we missed this?

She struggled through the night, giving small, infrequent pushes. We gave her oxytocin to help move whatever remained—whether it was another puppy or a retained placenta. The hours dragged on. We checked the puppies obsessively, clinging to hope as they showed signs of improvement.

Then, on Sunday morning, Mae finally delivered a stillborn puppy.

I stared at the tiny, lifeless form. So this was what had been lingering inside her, unnoticed. This was why she had been restless. Why she hadn’t been able to fully focus on her living babies. It explained everything—why the puppies had started to decline, why Mae had been unsettled.

We dared to believe, then, that the worst was behind us. That we could move forward, focus on the two remaining puppies. They were nursing—weakly, but still trying. They were taking formula. Surely, we just had to get through a few more critical days.

But by nightfall, hope turned to dread.

The Final Loss

One of the puppies began seizing. The other wailed—a heartbreaking, mournful cry that made my chest ache. Despite the heat pads, both of them felt cold. We spent another sleepless night, doing everything we could, but as Monday dawned, the second-to-last puppy took her final breath.

Only one remained.

She was the strongest, the fighter. But by afternoon, she, too, began to fade. She no longer latched, no longer moved with urgency. She let out quiet, broken cries as she lay flat against the heat pad, too weak to hold her head up.

By evening, she was gone.

Mae, though recovering physically, is devastated. She searches for them, whines softly when she cannot find them. It shatters me to see her like this.

Six puppies. All lost.

What We Learned, What We Regret

When tragedy strikes, the questions follow. What could we have done differently? The painful truth is, in hindsight, there are always things we would change.

Should we have stayed home instead of going to dinner? Perhaps. But they seemed fine when we left.
Should we have taken them to a vet? Possibly, but fading puppies often decline too quickly for intervention. And they were improving at one point.
Should we have rushed Mae in for an emergency C-section? I don’t think so. The final puppy was already gone, and Mae’s recovery would have been far worse.

Then there’s the factor no one likes to acknowledge—emergency care is expensive. I know many believe cost shouldn’t be a factor in our decisions, but in the real world, it has to be. Every choice we make must be measured with wisdom.

The Future for Mae

This was Mae’s last litter. It is painfully clear now that breeding is not for her. We will retire her, and if the right family comes along, we will place her in a loving home where she can enjoy her well-earned rest.

This loss has cast a dark shadow over our home. It has drained us emotionally and physically. It’s times like these that make me question everything—why we breed, why we open ourselves up to such heartbreak. But then I remember the joy, the families we’ve blessed, the wagging tails of puppies that go on to live full, happy lives.

To those on our waiting list, I am deeply sorry. This was not the outcome any of us expected. But we have hope—Nala and Minka’s litters are due in March, and we are praying fervently for smooth deliveries and healthy puppies.

For now, we grieve. We rest. And we move forward.

Thank you for understanding. Please keep us in your prayers.