Whats the normal litter size for a chihuahua?

Question

We have a teacup chihuahua (1.1kg)
Difficult to imagine that she could actually have babies, but curious.
Shes 3.5 years old.

Answer 1

56 on a good day

Answer 2

to my understanding its 1 to 4 most only have 1 or 2 , I to have chihuahua's and done some resurch on the web

Answer 3

I think since they are small they have 2-3 babies . but get her a c- section she cannot handle giving birth herself

Answer 4

Four I'd say would be the limit: any more than that and I'd say book her on Letterman--and give her some sort of trophy.

Answer 5

Read This:

Helter Shelter


It is early morning at the Stanislaus County
Animal Shelter in California. And for you, the
animal care specialist, the day opens in minor chords.

You walk to the computer and print out the list
of dogs that fill dozens of the agency's kennels.
You sit there with your coffee, highlighting in
yellow marker the ones that have been here for
five days. They've all got a story.

Someone stopped loving him. No one ever loved
her. He got too big. She started chewing on
sprinklers. He bit a child. Her owner is out of
town, and the house sitter noticed the dog got
out but didn't bother to call the shelter.
Whatever happened, it doesn't matter now: Their
time is up.

You move to the first noisy cage. As you open the
door, a few dogs try to escape, while others cram
themselves into the far corners to avoid you.
Everyone on the outside says the animals have no
idea what's coming, but you've seen too much
proof to the contrary. Yes, on some sad level,
they know.

You squeeze into the cage and slip your leash,
your noose, around the neck of one. You lead him
back to the gate and open it just enough for you
to squeeze through. You pull his head closer to
the gate, and get ready. Then you jerk him out
quickly and slam the door so the others don't get
out. He's scared and whimpering, looking around
frantically, but he does what he's told and
follows you, faithfully, to the end of the line.

The killing room is a large, cold place with a
small row of metal cages along one of the
concrete walls. There's a large, stainless-steel
table in one corner, holding syringes, needles
and bottles of tranquilizer and Fatal Plus, a
solution of sodium pentobarbital that usually
kills within seconds.

As a co-worker readies the syringe, you're
kneeling, holding the dog still, cuffing one leg
with your hand. Sometimes you have to fight them.
Sometimes the battle is so fierce, you resort to
forcing them between a gate hinged on a wall,
immobilizing them long enough so you can get the
needle in.

But not this time. This one's calm. He trusts
you. He even gives you his paw: He's obviously
someone's pet. So you stroke his head softly as
the co-worker finds a vein. Then, just like that,
he melts in your arms. You grab his paw again and
drag his limp body to a corner.

One by one, you lay them out on the cement floor.
One by one. Though county records show roughly
15,000 animals are killed each year at the
shelter, it's a number, like eternity, that
defies comprehension. But when one considers the
solitary act of each animal death, and the people
who do the dirty work, the number 15,000 comes
into better focus. One death is a tragedy;
anything more than that is just a statistic.

On this morning, and every morning, there will be
about 15 to 20 of these canine executions, not
counting the ones that come in throughout the day
that are injured or unadoptable. As you walk to
the cages to retrieve another, the anger swells
inside you. Because you know most of this daily
ritual easily could be avoided. Spay and neuter,
people, you say to yourself.

Spay and neuter!

Time runs out on a mother pit bull and her
puppies. When she showed up here last week, your
only hope was that she wouldn't give birth before
her five days were up. But she did.

You hardly could stand to watch her care for her
pups, licking them, dragging them around to
protect them. Finally, you gave in and fed her
treats, telling her, 'That's a good girl.'

Because, sadly, you knew all her efforts were in
vain. This day always comes. Once you've got them
all gathered in the room, you put her down first.
Because you've learned the babies cry when
they're injected, and that only adds stress to
the mother.

One by one. One after another. You stack the
singles into piles. You load the piles into
55-gallon barrels. You push the barrels into the
walk-in freezer, where rows and rows of barrels
fill completely about twice a week. The barrels
are emptied into trucks. It's like a factory
here. And they call this a shelter?

The stench of death permanently haunts the air:
It's a dull fragrance you won't forget the rest
of your life. Someday years from now, you'll be
served food at a restaurant, and something will
trigger the memory of that awful smell. Just like
that, the meal will be over. You wash your hands
incessantly; trouble is, what you're trying to
clean doesn't go away with soap and water. That
would take a psychologist, better than the one
you have.

An hour into it, you're nearing the last of the
morning's kill. Next up is an adorable pop-eyed
Chihuahua you had thought someone might claim. Or
adopt. You start for her, but then you make a
grave mistake: You look into her eyes. In a
flash, your mind acknowledges that this is a
living, breathing thing. Damn dog, now she's
under your skin.

Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not
this one. Your back yard already brims with the
dogs and cats you've personally spared over the
years, and there's simply no more room. So, you
sneak her off the list and move her to another
kennel. Your day off is tomorrow, and you just
put it out of your mind. That's all you can do.

Now, through the bars, you spot the big mongrel.
You squeeze into the cage, and he moves away.
He's scared and hungry; he's not the alpha male
in this lot, so he hasn't eaten in five days. And
who knows what he went through before he ended up
here? So you kneel and call to him in a pleasant
voice. Now he's wagging his tail because he
thinks you're going to rescue him from this awful
place.

You get him outside and pet him to try to keep
him calm. But he's excited, jumping up and down,
because you helped him out of the chaos. You're
his friend now; he'll follow you anywhere. So you
lead him toward the room and he trots along
happily.

But halfway there, something shifts in him. You
figure he's starting to smell that stench coming
from the freezer. Yes, on some level, they know.
He starts jerking his neck back, usinghis front
legs to try to pull you back. The more you fight
him, the more he realizes he should fight. So you
drag him the rest of the way.

Once you get him into the room, he's still
fighting pretty hard. Your arms are getting
tired. To get him to the table, you both trip
over piles of dead dogs that now cover the floor.
Finally, you get him stopped. The soft talk helps
a little, and you're able to hold him still
enough for the co-worker to find a vein. Once
it's in, you let go. He moves away, woozy. They
don't always die immediately. He wanders over to
the corpse of another dog, and sniffs it a little
before collapsing onto the floor.

Spay and neuter, people!

Leaving the room, you remember something you
wanted to tell a co-worker. She's working alone
in the cat room, putting down several dozen to
start her day. You open the door, but the scene
makes you forget what you wanted to say. There
she is, sitting in a corner, crying, surrounded
by dozens of dead cats that litter the floor. You
make eye contact and get ready to say something,
but she waves you off. It's a quick shake of the
head that says, 'I'm fine; just leave me alone.'
So you do. For those who do this for a living,
it's mostly business as usual, life goes on. But
there are occasional meltdowns. Not to mention
divorce, denial, alcoholism, nightmares,
antidepressants and all sorts of other ugly side
effects.

Walking away from the cat room, a simple question
forms in your head, one that plagues you often
throughout your days here: Does anybody care
about animals? Anyone at all?

Inside, you know there are thousands of people,
just like you, who cherish their pets and treat
them like family. Or even royalty. Working here,
you rarely see those folks. They take care of
their animals.

Instead, you get the people who before business
hours drop off a cardboard box of mangled kittens
that were used to train pit bulls to fight dirty.
Usually, they just toss the dead alongside the
road somewhere, but for some reason, someone
brought these in. You open the box to discover
all but one are dead, and the only one alive is
using its front legs to crawl toward you because
its back legs are crushed.

Or you get the people whose hobby is trapping
feral cats and bringing them to the shelter. Once
you asked about strange lines etched into the
stick they use to hold the trap shut, hoping you
were wrong. But, yes, like notches in a gun,
that's how they track how manycats they've
captured. It's a game to them.

Or you get the man who brings in three kittens in
an ice chest he placed in his trunk. In the
middle of summer. When you open the lid, most of
the horror has played out. You look up and scold
him, asking him what he was thinking. And he
shrugs. Not like it matters, he says, they didn't
belong to anyone.

Or you get the people who pull up in a moving van
to drop off their family pet, saying that they
can't take the dog with them and that they were
unable to find the animal a home. They drive
away, conscious clear, leaving the dirty work for
you. Like you're some kind of sin-eater.

And to think, you took this job because you
wanted to save animals. Standing there at the
kennels, lost in the flashbacks, you ask yourself
again: Does anybody care?

Anyone at all?

A friendly face pops into your mind. Yes, there
is one, you finally remember, trying to cheer
yourself up. That poor young woman from the west
side, the one who's been coming by twice a week
for the last six months, looking for her beloved
red Doberman pinscher. She keeps asking you, 'How
long should I keep looking?' And you keep telling
her, 'As long as your heart needs to.' Who are
you to take away hope?

And now, come to think of it, you did notice a
nice-looking Doberman in the back kennels this
morning. Nah, couldn't be, you think. He
disappeared six months ago. But, needing a
miracle, you go and check anyway. You look him
over for a while. There is some red in his coat,
but you're not certain.

Cautiously, you have someone call the woman. Be
sure to tell her we're not sure, you say, but let
her know we might have her dog. An hour later,
the woman is scurrying through the hall toward
the back kennels. You can barely keep up with
her.

I think I hear him, she keeps saying excitedly.
She keeps calling out his name. All you hear is
what you always hear: the deafening din of scores
of barking dogs. When you get to the back
kennels, a lowered metal guillotine door is
keeping everything outside. So you raise the
door, and 80 pounds of frenetic dog come bounding
inside, wildly running around the cage. You think
to yourself, how would he even know she was
coming? Yes, on some level, they always know.

Just like that, this huge dog plasters itself
against the chain-link fence, licking the fingers
of a woman who's pressing herself against the
fence, too. The scene is reminiscent of lovers on
a beach. It's him, it's him, she keeps saying.
All the while, this enormous dog is emitting the
strangest high-pitched yipping you've ever heard,
almost like a puppy.

Overcome with emotion, the woman sinks to the
cement gutter and starts sobbing into her hands.
You sit next to her to offer some comfort. Then,
before you know it, you're right beside her,
bawling uncontrollably. She's crying because her
life is complete again. And you're crying
because, after working this job, your life never
will be the same. Because for every animal that
leaves with its owner, dozens are hauled
off in garbage trucks.

No, you think, wiping away the tears, this is no
place for an animal lover.




BY TY PHILLIPS
BEE STAFF WRITER