Would you believe me if I told you there was a time when this guy could fit in the palm of my hand?
The day I met Gremlin, I had no idea that he was going to come with me on this journey we call life. My mother and I had just packed all our belongings and migrated to a small town with a population just over 7,000 people. Blending seamlessly into the coast, Fort Bragg is nestled between beaches and the Pacific ocean and large expanses of redwood forest. A gorgeous place, even if the climate is rather cold and gloomy on most days. Thirteen years before that trip, I had been born in the Fort Bragg hospital. My baby picture's even on their wall.
It was summer when we got there, and we spent a good month or two hopping around between free campgrounds, our car, and random hippies' trailers for shelter. There was a particular campground a friend had told us about -- WildWood, a trailer park that would be cheap enough to give us time to get on our feet before moving into an apartment.
We took a drive over to meet a guy about buying his trailer, and that was the day I noticed something. A tiny, fluffy, golden puppy was staring at me from the dirt road. Later, I found out that her name was Top Pocket, but on that day, she was just a small, golden pup.
She tottered off, back to her own home turf, and that was when I spotted the canine who would change my life forever. I didn't see much -- a white streak and gray-and-tan fur was about all I could decipher. A few days later, we came back to WildWood, and this time stayed a while. I ended up on another camp space, all of which were open without fences, and sat down with the litter of puppies I'd seen before. The gold one and the one with the stripe --what I affectionately called a "Mohawk"-- tottered right up to me, and the four others of the litter followed suit. Mama dog, a Pug/Chow mix named May-May, was hot on their heels, and I soon had seven dogs fawning over me for attention.
Their owner, a man in his forties, offered me pick between the two oldest boys -- "Mohawk" and another pup who looked similar but had a black mask. It was the absolute worst time to get a puppy, but I was thirteen and I didn't think about that. My mother allowed it, and we decided on the "Mohawk" puppy. I suggested calling him Mohawk, and I'm so glad that my mother came up with another suggestion. At four weeks old, he couldn't sound less ferocious if he tried, and his play-growl honestly sounded like one of the gremlins. And so, we called him that -- Gremlin, Grem for short.
Three days later, I realized that May-May's owner was treating the entire litter horribly, and that I couldn't stand to see my pup in that situation. At just under five weeks, I asked to take him early, and his owner jumped at the opportunity to get rid of one of his "hellions."
I had no idea what I was doing. He was my first dog, and all the reading in the world can't prepare you for reality. I leaned on other dog owners in the park for advice, and got quite a bit. Within a few months, I had taught him sit, down, shake with both paws, high five with both paws, and the beginnings of "play dead," which I thought was impressive for a first-time dog owner. Unfortunately, I had also been given the worst advice imaginable for house training and behavioral training.
Be the alpha! Be dominant! Don't let him disrespect you! If he does something wrong, bite his ear. Alpha roll him if he bites you. Spank him if he barks. Use the end of the leash to swat him on walks so you can keep moving. I tried to follow that advice to a T, and it seemed to work. I felt terrible about it, but assumed that he felt "guilty" and that's why he gave me such a pitiful expression.
I was with him constantly. When I needed to get away from our trailer because there were too many drunks or drug addicts (WildWood was not a nice place), I clipped on his leash and off we went. The park was surrounded by trees and placed far out of town, so there were an endless supply of trails and hills to hike around. Sometimes I would let him off leash, but he usually refused to come back... and when he did, he was punished, because I didn't know any better and thought he'd understand why he was being punished. I learned that it was best not to let him off leash at all.
Top Pocket's owner died of an overdose six months after adopting Grem, and we took her in after finding her wandering the park, lost and frightened. The company was good for Grem, and they got along famously, despite having had little contact since they were young. We worried about accidental puppies; neither dog was speutered, and we couldn't afford the price.
Just before they turned a year old, Pocket came down with Parvovirus. I've never seen a dog go from healthy and happy to sick and dying so quickly. By the time we got hold of a local organization that helps fund emergency vet bills, it was too late. The treatment --fluids and antibiotics-- was administered, and we tried, but she was too far gone and didn't make it. I cried, but I felt the worst for Grem. He had no idea what was going on, where Pocket had gone -- nothing. The only thing that saved him from it was his initial shot. He never had all of his first vaccines, but he did get the first round, and I'm sure that's the only reason he didn't come down with it, too. Immediately after that, I went outside and hugged him, and told him, "You're not going anywhere. I don't care what I have to do, you are not dying."
My mother tried to use the $10 I had to buy cigarettes -- I snapped and screamed and told her my dog's life was more important than her tobacco, and found a ride to town to buy a booster shot from the pet store. A friend administered it for me, and I have no idea if it actually helped, but it gave me peace of mind and he never came down with Parvo.
We lost our trailer a few months later, and after dealing with the freezing cold of northern California in a car, I jumped at the opportunity to have a warmer place to stay; a parked Chevy Suburban with a heater plugged in so that I could have some warmth. The woman who offered me a place to stay was Martha, a twenty-five-year-old living with her boyfriend and their seven dogs. I was grateful for a warm place to stay and some food.
Not long after, Martha and her boyfriend Ashton built a bed into one side of their trailer, and we moved into that.
A few months into living with them, I made the hardest decision of my life. I decided to give Grem up to the animal shelter.
I bawled when I left him. I bawled like a baby. I had no money of my own, so I took him there in the dead of night and tied him outside the shelter with a blanket to lay on and a note explaining his name, age, known breeds, personality, obedience, and a home description I thought he'd fit best with. I said my final goodbyes and my heart broke when he started crying as I left him.
I saw him periodically at the shelter. The few occasions I went to check up on him, the staff told me they adored him. One in particular, a man in his forties, especially liked him -- he claimed Grem was an amazing dog, a quick learner, and a huge attention hog. He had a buddy -- a black-and-white spotted dog named Dottie. I wish I knew who ended up adopting her and if they lived around here still, because the two were great friends. I saw them together, and they were such a perfect match. They'd share a kennel, share water, share food... total lovebirds.
Fast forward nine months. CPS decided enough was enough, I went into foster care, and school was in full swing. Over a break, on a whim, I called the shelter to see if they still had a "Grem" there. Imagine my surprise when yeah, they did! I went out to see him and take him for a walk the next day, and it was like nothing had changed. He barked, briefly, when I took him from his kennel... but the second he realized who I was, he was 45 lbs of love and excitement jumping all over me again.
My foster mom had three dogs of her own, and she agreed that we could try a test run with Grem to see if everyone got along. I brought him home and introduced everyone one at a time. For three days, he was at the house, and it was bliss. But three days isn't a long time, and I was broke. I explained to the staff that I just didn't have enough for his adoption fee, and tried my damnedest not to break down as I left him for the second time.
The next morning, I found a voice mail on my cell phone. "Hey, Jade, this is the Humane Society calling. When you get a chance, could you give us a call back? It's about Grem."
Cryptic, right? I called them back immediately, of course.
And let me tell you, I have never been more shocked and grateful in my life. A man named Bart, who had always seen me come to visit Grem when I had a chance and ask about him, had watched the exchange when I brought Grem back bawling. After I left, he talked to a few coworkers and decided that he was going to pitch in for the adoption fee. Three more people jumped on board with him, and then they called.
"We saw how much you love him, and we think you'd be a great match for him. How much of the fee do you think you can raise?"
I said $40. Remember, I was fifteen. I didn't exactly have a lot of money.
"How about you get $40, and we'll cover the rest?"
My CPS worker ended up paying that $40 and driving me there to pick him up. As a minor, Shelley had to sign the paperwork -- but they allowed me to take the paperwork home and bring it back later. Which the shelter coordinator had a cow about because um, apparently you're really not supposed to do that.
Six months into having him back, I found clicker training. He had learned to pull like a truck on leash, and he wore a choke chain for walks. It didn't do a bit of good, he was choking himself on it, and nothing was working. Clicker training was the lightbulb that clicked for us -- and we've never gone back.
Almost six years later, he knows over forty behaviors, his recall is damn near rock-solid, he walks well on leash, he listens, he adores training time, and I can teach him whatever I please as long as he's physically sound to do it.
We ditched punishment and we never went back.
We took a drive over to meet a guy about buying his trailer, and that was the day I noticed something. A tiny, fluffy, golden puppy was staring at me from the dirt road. Later, I found out that her name was Top Pocket, but on that day, she was just a small, golden pup.
She tottered off, back to her own home turf, and that was when I spotted the canine who would change my life forever. I didn't see much -- a white streak and gray-and-tan fur was about all I could decipher. A few days later, we came back to WildWood, and this time stayed a while. I ended up on another camp space, all of which were open without fences, and sat down with the litter of puppies I'd seen before. The gold one and the one with the stripe --what I affectionately called a "Mohawk"-- tottered right up to me, and the four others of the litter followed suit. Mama dog, a Pug/Chow mix named May-May, was hot on their heels, and I soon had seven dogs fawning over me for attention.
Their owner, a man in his forties, offered me pick between the two oldest boys -- "Mohawk" and another pup who looked similar but had a black mask. It was the absolute worst time to get a puppy, but I was thirteen and I didn't think about that. My mother allowed it, and we decided on the "Mohawk" puppy. I suggested calling him Mohawk, and I'm so glad that my mother came up with another suggestion. At four weeks old, he couldn't sound less ferocious if he tried, and his play-growl honestly sounded like one of the gremlins. And so, we called him that -- Gremlin, Grem for short.
Three days later, I realized that May-May's owner was treating the entire litter horribly, and that I couldn't stand to see my pup in that situation. At just under five weeks, I asked to take him early, and his owner jumped at the opportunity to get rid of one of his "hellions."
I had no idea what I was doing. He was my first dog, and all the reading in the world can't prepare you for reality. I leaned on other dog owners in the park for advice, and got quite a bit. Within a few months, I had taught him sit, down, shake with both paws, high five with both paws, and the beginnings of "play dead," which I thought was impressive for a first-time dog owner. Unfortunately, I had also been given the worst advice imaginable for house training and behavioral training.
Be the alpha! Be dominant! Don't let him disrespect you! If he does something wrong, bite his ear. Alpha roll him if he bites you. Spank him if he barks. Use the end of the leash to swat him on walks so you can keep moving. I tried to follow that advice to a T, and it seemed to work. I felt terrible about it, but assumed that he felt "guilty" and that's why he gave me such a pitiful expression.
I was with him constantly. When I needed to get away from our trailer because there were too many drunks or drug addicts (WildWood was not a nice place), I clipped on his leash and off we went. The park was surrounded by trees and placed far out of town, so there were an endless supply of trails and hills to hike around. Sometimes I would let him off leash, but he usually refused to come back... and when he did, he was punished, because I didn't know any better and thought he'd understand why he was being punished. I learned that it was best not to let him off leash at all.
Top Pocket's owner died of an overdose six months after adopting Grem, and we took her in after finding her wandering the park, lost and frightened. The company was good for Grem, and they got along famously, despite having had little contact since they were young. We worried about accidental puppies; neither dog was speutered, and we couldn't afford the price.
Just before they turned a year old, Pocket came down with Parvovirus. I've never seen a dog go from healthy and happy to sick and dying so quickly. By the time we got hold of a local organization that helps fund emergency vet bills, it was too late. The treatment --fluids and antibiotics-- was administered, and we tried, but she was too far gone and didn't make it. I cried, but I felt the worst for Grem. He had no idea what was going on, where Pocket had gone -- nothing. The only thing that saved him from it was his initial shot. He never had all of his first vaccines, but he did get the first round, and I'm sure that's the only reason he didn't come down with it, too. Immediately after that, I went outside and hugged him, and told him, "You're not going anywhere. I don't care what I have to do, you are not dying."
My mother tried to use the $10 I had to buy cigarettes -- I snapped and screamed and told her my dog's life was more important than her tobacco, and found a ride to town to buy a booster shot from the pet store. A friend administered it for me, and I have no idea if it actually helped, but it gave me peace of mind and he never came down with Parvo.
We lost our trailer a few months later, and after dealing with the freezing cold of northern California in a car, I jumped at the opportunity to have a warmer place to stay; a parked Chevy Suburban with a heater plugged in so that I could have some warmth. The woman who offered me a place to stay was Martha, a twenty-five-year-old living with her boyfriend and their seven dogs. I was grateful for a warm place to stay and some food.
Not long after, Martha and her boyfriend Ashton built a bed into one side of their trailer, and we moved into that.
A few months into living with them, I made the hardest decision of my life. I decided to give Grem up to the animal shelter.
I bawled when I left him. I bawled like a baby. I had no money of my own, so I took him there in the dead of night and tied him outside the shelter with a blanket to lay on and a note explaining his name, age, known breeds, personality, obedience, and a home description I thought he'd fit best with. I said my final goodbyes and my heart broke when he started crying as I left him.
I saw him periodically at the shelter. The few occasions I went to check up on him, the staff told me they adored him. One in particular, a man in his forties, especially liked him -- he claimed Grem was an amazing dog, a quick learner, and a huge attention hog. He had a buddy -- a black-and-white spotted dog named Dottie. I wish I knew who ended up adopting her and if they lived around here still, because the two were great friends. I saw them together, and they were such a perfect match. They'd share a kennel, share water, share food... total lovebirds.
Fast forward nine months. CPS decided enough was enough, I went into foster care, and school was in full swing. Over a break, on a whim, I called the shelter to see if they still had a "Grem" there. Imagine my surprise when yeah, they did! I went out to see him and take him for a walk the next day, and it was like nothing had changed. He barked, briefly, when I took him from his kennel... but the second he realized who I was, he was 45 lbs of love and excitement jumping all over me again.
My foster mom had three dogs of her own, and she agreed that we could try a test run with Grem to see if everyone got along. I brought him home and introduced everyone one at a time. For three days, he was at the house, and it was bliss. But three days isn't a long time, and I was broke. I explained to the staff that I just didn't have enough for his adoption fee, and tried my damnedest not to break down as I left him for the second time.
The next morning, I found a voice mail on my cell phone. "Hey, Jade, this is the Humane Society calling. When you get a chance, could you give us a call back? It's about Grem."
Cryptic, right? I called them back immediately, of course.
And let me tell you, I have never been more shocked and grateful in my life. A man named Bart, who had always seen me come to visit Grem when I had a chance and ask about him, had watched the exchange when I brought Grem back bawling. After I left, he talked to a few coworkers and decided that he was going to pitch in for the adoption fee. Three more people jumped on board with him, and then they called.
"We saw how much you love him, and we think you'd be a great match for him. How much of the fee do you think you can raise?"
I said $40. Remember, I was fifteen. I didn't exactly have a lot of money.
"How about you get $40, and we'll cover the rest?"
My CPS worker ended up paying that $40 and driving me there to pick him up. As a minor, Shelley had to sign the paperwork -- but they allowed me to take the paperwork home and bring it back later. Which the shelter coordinator had a cow about because um, apparently you're really not supposed to do that.
Six months into having him back, I found clicker training. He had learned to pull like a truck on leash, and he wore a choke chain for walks. It didn't do a bit of good, he was choking himself on it, and nothing was working. Clicker training was the lightbulb that clicked for us -- and we've never gone back.
Almost six years later, he knows over forty behaviors, his recall is damn near rock-solid, he walks well on leash, he listens, he adores training time, and I can teach him whatever I please as long as he's physically sound to do it.
We ditched punishment and we never went back.
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