The trainers had brought collapsible whelping boxes with them, and within a couple of hours, seven little ones were born, three dogs and four bitches. All of them were dark, some were marked with brown. When Scramble had them thoroughly cleaned up, licked into shape, and nestled against her belly with one thigh protectively covering them, I opened the door for Behemoth. He greeted Scramble, nose to nose, then took a sniff of the puppies, pushing them this way and that with his huge muzzle. Scramble didn’t object, and when he had satisfied himself that all was well, he went out to his bed, dragged it in through the door, and lay upon it inside the door, on guard. “If it weren’t for me,” said I, “you’d be hunting now, wouldn’t you?” “Yuh,” said Behemoth. “Werna hyou, llon gone.” It was true. If he’d been wild, he would have been long gone, hunting food for his mate and the pups. If it hadn’t been for me, or Gainor, or Shiela, or a hundred others. Of course, if it hadn’t been for those of us who’d fought like devils to protect them, all dogs would have been long gone, on Earth at least.
