Part 5: The Stud
Conclusion of the short story, The Pick
Olive gladly relinquished the task of finding a stud to Eugenia. Besides, Eugenia planned to pay the stud fees.
“I want to control the lineage,” Eugenia had said, explaining how it worked. “If I give the stud owner the pick of the litter, rather than keeping it for myself, they get to influence the lineage more than I do.”
Olive scoffed. “Making decisions about genetic lines is like pretending to be God.”
Eugenia bristled. “I only want to do what’s best for the health of the breed. Many breeders don’t do that—some will even breed siblings just to get the coat color they want.”
“I hate this whole business,” Olive said. “But it’s the price I have to pay.”
“Just let me know when she goes into heat. We need to test her hormone levels to optimize her chances of success with the stud.”
“Okay,” Olive said. “Have you already found one?”
“Yes, a grand champion sable.”
“Where?”
“Just over in McMinnville. not so far.”
Lily went into heat in late spring, just after the lilacs bloomed. Olive knew it was coming—Lily had been in heat four times before. The signs were unmistakable: a few dried drops of blood on the tile, Lily obsessively cleaning her hindquarters. At first, Olive was put off by the mess, but discovered doggie diapers at PetSmart—just like a period, but less frequent than the human kind.
When it finally happened this time, Eugenia called it “a textbook start.”
“What happens now?” Olive asked, dreading the answer.
“We get her progesterone tested so we know exactly when to breed,” Eugenia said, already scrolling through her phone. “I have a clinic in mind. They’re fast and reliable.”
Within days, Lily was poked, swabbed, and had her blood drawn like she was being screened for an infectious disease. Olive tried to stay upbeat, brushing her ears and giving her treats, but she could feel Lily’s nervousness in the tension of her muscles. She seemed to know something was afoot.
The stud dog’s name was Jojo—he had the countenance of a king and the posture of a yoga instructor. His owner, a lanky woman named Valerie, wore her long blonde braid over one shoulder. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of the same yoga studio as her dog.
Her house in McMinnville sat atop a hill with a view of the Coast Range on one side and a vast vineyard on the other. The interior was modern and spare, impeccable, save for her extensive collection of trophies and framed photos of Tibetan Terriers Jojo had sired.
“This is Jojo,” Val said, gesturing to the dog, who sat statue-still in a sphinx pose, attention fixed on his goddess. Val rolled her hand upward, and Jojo immediately rose to his feet, assuming a stack position as if he were in the ring.
“He’s… really something,” Olive said.
“Yes,” Val said. “He’s the real deal. A real stud.”
“How long will it take?” Olive asked. “Do you want us to wait?”
“I’m not sure,” Val said. “Let’s just see how they do together.”
Olive wasn’t sure what to expect—maybe a little flirtation? A courtship dance?
Val clipped both dogs to short leads and guided them into a padded pen in the backyard. Olive and Eugenia followed. Jojo perked up. Lily, on the other hand, flattened her ears and backed into the fence, growling.
“She’s nervous,” Olive said. “Maybe we should give her a minute?”
Val gave a tight smile. “She’s young. First timers usually are.”
And then, like some horrible school bully video come to life, Jojo pounced. Lily managed to scramble away, but in the small pen, he caught up quickly and mounted her again. Lily yelped, turned, and snapped—not at Jojo, but near enough to signal she wasn’t okay. They broke apart. Olive stepped forward, but Eugenia clamped her wrist.
“Let them figure it out,” she whispered. “It’s instinct.”
It didn’t feel like instinct. Olive felt complicit in something awful.
That breeding didn’t work out. After an hour, it was clear Lily wasn’t having it.
Val said, “Well, she’s really upset. Why don’t you leave her here, and we’ll try again in a couple of days? Maybe by then she’ll warm up to my little boy.”
Three days later, Val called to say it was done.
When Olive and Eugenia returned to pick up Lily, Val handed Eugenia a contract, which she signed without comment. For Jojo’s services, he’d receive a flat fee of $1,400. Eugenia would retain control of the line.
“How’d she do?” Olive asked.
“It wasn’t easy on her. She didn’t want anything to do with this business. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she hated Jojo. If it doesn’t take, I’m not open to trying again.”
Olive didn’t plan to subject Lily—or herself—to this again either.
Aunt Eugenia thanked Val. They shook hands. Business as usual.
Before they got into their respective cars, Eugenia said, “Well, we’ll know soon. Cross your fingers.”
“Uh, not sure what I wish for at this point,” Olive muttered. “If she isn’t pregnant, I’m not going through this again.” Her anger seeped out, and Olive could see that it registered on Eugenia’s face.
She rode home in silence, listening to Lily’s anxious whines and panting from the back seat. Olive glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her pink tongue pulsed with each breath. The light in her eyes was gone. She’d been betrayed, and Olive had been the one to do it.
“I’m sorry,” Olive said, reaching back to touch her. “You didn’t choose this. I did.”
A few weeks after the rape, as Olive had come to privately call it, she began to see signs that Lily might be pregnant. Her nipples were enlarged, pinker than usual. She’d been lethargic, which Olive attributed to depression at first.
Eugenia disagreed. “Oh, Olive, I think you’re projecting your own feelings onto her. Dogs don’t experience emotions the same way we do. She’s probably just pregnant.”
Olive begged to differ but didn’t want to argue.
“If you want to know for sure,” Eugenia said, “take her to the vet and get her palpated.”
Olive decided she wanted a definitive answer.
“Definitely pregnant,” said the vet. “And it feels like a large litter. If you want a somewhat accurate count, we can do an X-ray in a couple weeks.”
Olive didn’t care about the number, but Eugenia did. Turned out, Lily would likely have six or seven, based on the visible spines in the X-ray.
Lily went into labor just past midnight on a Wednesday. Olive called Eugenia—she didn’t want to do this alone, and it turned out to be a good decision.
She’d set up the whelping box in the spare bedroom—one of those blue plastic kiddie pools lined with lavender-scented, freshly laundered towels. She’d read every book, watched every YouTube video, even called Eva once (reluctantly) to ask about contractions. But nothing prepared her for the real thing—the look in Lily’s eyes, both trusting and terrified. Birthing was betrayal number two.
Crouched beside the pool, Olive rested her arms on the rim and watched. Lily didn’t whimper. She worked. And when the first puppy came, Olive cried. It was tiny, slick, and blind, wriggling in the half-darkness. Lily licked it clean, ate the sac, but hesitated. Eugenia stepped in, snipping the cord with sterilized scissors she’d brought.
The next pups came quickly. By dawn, there were five.
Eugenia looked worried.
“What’s wrong?” Olive asked.
“The vet said there were more. I don’t think she’s done.”
Lily panted, then lay her head down. Eugenia helped the pups find their way to her teats. Then Lily rose abruptly, knocking them away, and let out a cry.
“I think she might need help,” Eugenia said calmly. She got Lily to lie down and, with one hand on her belly and a finger in the birth canal, assessed. “There’s a pup stuck. If I can’t move it, we’ll need the emergency vet.”
Olive’s heart pounded. How could this happen? She’d never forgive herself if Lily died.
Eugenia’s face was all focus. “I managed to turn it. It’s moving now.”
Soon, the tiniest pup of all slipped out. Eugenia cleaned it off. “Stillborn.”
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Olive whispered, her eyes filling.
Eugenia wrapped the pup in a tea towel and took it away without ceremony.
Lily settled. She seemed more at peace.
Olive sat there long after the last pup. Her emotions moved from awe to sorrow to deep regret. She had consented to do something she hadn’t fully understood the day she made the deal with Eugenia. There had been no moment of violence—unless you count the rape—no single breach of trust. Just a series of choices. Small. Cumulative.
Lily changed after the birth. She grew subdued, blank. She fed the puppies, but the spark was gone. She stopped playing. Stopped greeting Olive at the door. Her eyes, once bright and curious, seemed vacant—as if she lived in a different room altogether.
It took Olive two weeks to name it: grief. Not exhaustion, not postpartum depletion. Grief. And it broke her.
One afternoon, as the pups toddled around the backyard enclosure, Olive and Eugenia watched from lawn chairs.
“Which one’s your pick?” Olive asked.
“Not sure yet,” Eugenia said. “I’ll wait ‘til they’re weaned. I’m leaning toward the runt. Penelope.”
“She’s my favorite too,” Olive said.
“I didn’t know you wanted one,” Eugenia said.
“I don’t. And I don’t want to sell them. I just want Lily back.”
There was a long pause. “Liv, that’s the deal. That’s how this works.”
“I know.” Olive tried to keep her voice even. “But it was a bad deal. For me, for her. I didn’t understand. I shouldn’t have made this decision for her.”
“She’s a dog, Olive.”
“No.” Olive stood up. “She’s Lily.”
The next week, Eugenia confirmed she’d be keeping Penelope, and the other four pups would be sold once weaned.
“I’d like Penelope to stay on with you and Lily for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“She can stay,” Olive said. “But I’m not keeping her if there are any conditions attached.”
Olive didn’t cry when Eugenia took the other puppies. Lily didn’t either. Motherhood wasn’t for her.
That night, Lily climbed into Olive’s bed for the first time in weeks. She pressed her body close and let out a long, trembling sigh. Olive scooped up Penelope. The three of them fell asleep together.
Oof, this one packs a whallop! Beautiful storytelling and a wonderfully human perspective on something usually approached so clinically.
Heartbreaking, but a happy ending thank goodness.