Eight

Once again we have tiny black and white bundles of warm furriness and squeals and mewling to fill our idle moments. Miske produced eight tiny puppies on Tuesday morning. She insisted I was up all night with her - going so far as to follow me into another room to drop the last pup.  We thought that seven was surely all there was to be. No. Eight.

So we are back into the routine of mewling, baby barks, and the silence of contented sleep, occasionally punctuated by loud cries of distress if a puppy finds itself too far away from its comfort zone.

It also means I've seen a few more sunrises than has been usual as I'm up early to give Miske her morning feed. She is ravenous.

I'd been promising myself I would tromp through the bush next door to get  a better view of the inlet in the morning light and finally I did, with Miske in tow. The sky had an extra reddish glow because the autumn burning off of the bush is in full swing. During the fine days there is always a smoky haze somewhere on the horizon - taking advantage of the cool and damp sweet spot between the too hot and dry of summer and the too wet of winter.

Wilson's Inlet - there is a town down there somewhere below the trees

 
Miske was a little sidetracked by all the delicious scents on the dewy bush trails. All I could see was the intermittent flash of her white tail as she snuffled off through the thick undergrowth. After taking my photos I called her back and reminded her about her puppies. Then she was off and racing back to her brood. Spoilsport.