For the record, I am aware that this post is TMI. If you are squeamish, move along. Skip. Do not read.
And be glad that I didn’t take any pictures.
Apparently, the dog had 4 puppies, not 3. The first one died at birth, outside. In spite of Dave searching all over in the shrubs and in the nooks and crannies, no puppy was found, and neither of us thought more about it. I had an uncanny feeling that there were 4, but when nothing was found outside, I just figured I was over reacting.
Today, as I arrived in Laguna Beach with my sons for their storytelling workshop, L called.
Mommy Dog decided that the puppy she had buried outside was starting to smell bad, so she dug it up and brought it to the door for us to help her take care of it.
L found the decomposing carcass and called me. I promptly called Dave to get back home and take care of it. It didn’t get a trip to the freezer until trash day. I’m traumatized and I didn’t even see the yuck.
We just might be cured of fostering puppies at this point.