Pebbles: The dog who raised me (Rogr Coryell/Sonoma County Gazette)

It was 1987. Vermont. I was young, dumb, and living with a woman whose Rottweiler was very pregnant.

We had a whelping box set up in the house. A whelping box is basically a low wooden pen with rails along the inside, designed so newborn puppies don’t get squashed when their exhausted mother flops down. It’s not fancy. It’s practical. Like a lot of things involving dogs.

Because this was her first litter, and because Rottweilers don’t do anything halfway, we were watching her in shifts. Someone was always on duty. Sleeping lightly. Listening.

At about three in the morning, on my watch, things started happening.

One pup. Two. Three. Six.

The last one out was tiny. Alarmingly tiny. She wasn’t breathing.

So we did what you do. You hold them upside down, rub them hard with a towel, stimulate the lungs, jump- start the system. It feels like forever, even though it’s seconds.

Then she coughed. Just a little cough. And she was back.

That was Pebbles.

It takes puppies about ten to fourteen days to open their eyes. Pebbles didn’t wait. She was the first one. Of course she was.

She was also the first to figure out mobility. While her siblings were still a warm, squeaking pile of confusion, Pebbles learned she could climb them. Scale the heap. Then dive in like a mosh pit to get to a nipple.

Feisty. Very feisty.

Her real name was Gibraltar, because she was a rock. A tiny one. But Pebbles stuck.

She was the first to break out of the whelping box. The first to tumble—literally—down the stairs to my office. And then she planted herself there.

Standing guard.

Her person. Dammit.

The other pups were still trying to understand the world. Pebbles was already protecting me from it. And, more importantly, from myself.

Too many beers? I got a look. Came home too late from DJ gigs? Lecture. Feeling low? Mandatory, enforced puppy cuddle therapy.

She came to work with me at the radio station once. During the morning show, she got behind the control board and chewed through the main transmitter link cables.

Good thing I was the boss.

Another time, I left her in the van while I was on the air. When I came back out, the sliding door was wide open. Pebbles had let herself out and invited a beagle inside. They were having a great time.

That same week she crawled under the dashboard and chewed more wires, just to keep things consistent.

Eventually, Pebbles and I packed up the van and headed for California. If we stayed anywhere more than one night, she let me know about it. Miss Travel Dog did not like delays.

Outside Detroit, some guys tried to break into the van. Pebbles left dents in the side panels—from the inside —trying to get to them. They left.

In Albuquerque, I stopped to look up an old flame. While I was there, I got offered a really good job. Out of the blue. Solid opportunity. Pebbles wasn’t having it.

So the next day I called the job people and the old flame and said, “Sorry. The dog won’t let me stay.”

We crossed into California after a full cross-country run with zero law enforcement hassles enroute. But about a mile into the Mojave, CHP flagged me down. Apparently, single guy in a black van fit a profile.

Pebbles handled it.

She turned on the full Rottie charm. Butt wiggle. Ear presentation. Hypnosis. The officer spent ten minutes scratching her ears and sent us on our way.

In San Francisco, I accidentally fell into a career-making job. Pebbles approved. I think she liked the Bay Area. She did not like my DJ friends.

Too loud, she informed me, before stalking out of one party entirely.

That dog did more to keep me sane, upright, and moving in the right direction than I can ever fully explain. She raised me as much as I raised her.

And she single-handedly turned me into a certified crazy dog person, lifelong Rottweiler loyalist, and someone who will always listen when a dog says, “No. We’re not doing that.”

Pebbles knew things. I learned to trust that. I miss her every day.