There she sat, Indian-style, on the ground, in stocking feet.  Her faded gingham dress pooled in the circle she formed with her legs, and inside she cuddled one fur-ball after another as the Chow Chow puppies tumbled in and out of her lap and then back to their mother’s teat, blindly searching for the warm milk. 

Sissy leaned her tousled head down to rub noses with one of the five puppies then reached to stroke Sing-Quan, one of several dogs bred by her mother.  “Mama Quan,” she crooned in her six-year-old voice, “I think these are your prettiest babies ever.  I can’t decide who my favorite is this time, although Pe-Pe is definitely the tiniest.”  

She held the runt of the litter up close and looked intently at its flattened face and the black-purple tongue that jutted out to lick her nose.  “Ooh, sandpapery,” she laughed and leaned over to return the dog to its pile of siblings, tumbling and climbing and nursing.  She picked up another pup as it wandered away from its mother’s haunches, and held it to her flat little girl chest and crooned a lullaby with senseless words.

It was just then that Sissy’s grandmother appeared on the path outside the breeding cage, and expelled a sudden strangled breath of fear.  Slowly she backed away and edged herself to the kitchen window where her daughter-in-law was peeling potatoes.  “Nadine,” she called as she tapped on the glass.  “You’d better get out her.  Sissy is sitting in the middle of those puppies.”

“So,” queried Nadine, allowing the squeak of the opening window to hide her exasperated tone.

“Nadine, you know how dangerous Chows are.  I warned you about that when you first had this fool idea to run a kennel.  And when they are nursing—that dog could take off Sissy’s face in one bite.”

Smiling slightly Nadine leaned out the window and glanced down the walkway.  “It’s OK.  Really.  Sing-Quan knows that Sissy loves her babies.  Sing-Quan knows that Sissy is just a baby herself.” 

And with that Nadine lowered the sash and returned to making potato salad.