Dogs are my life. People sometimes joke that dogs are someone’s “whole personality”—and in my case, it’s probably true. I spend my days at the training center surrounded by other people’s pups (usually with one of my own tagging along), and then I go home and I’m greeted by my three waiting for me there. It’s dogs pretty much 24/7. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But even in a life so full of wagging tails and wet noses, there have been seasons where joy and struggle sit quietly beside each other. I’ve faced big medical challenges in the past—including cancer—and more recently, I’ve been navigating a chronic condition that has reshaped what daily life looks like. Some days my body cooperates, and some days even basic things take extra effort. And the hardest part hasn’t just been the discomfort itself. It’s been the guilt.
I’ve often found myself worrying that I’m not giving my dogs everything I want to give them. That I’m somehow “less than” as a guardian because I can’t always provide the big adventures, the long walks, or the endless enrichment activities I encourage for others. On my toughest days, that inner voice whispers:
“They deserve more. You should be doing more.”
But here’s what my dogs keep showing me—over and over, whether I want to accept it or not: they don’t measure love in miles walked or in perfectly structured activities. They measure love in presence.
To them, snuggling through a rough day isn’t a consolation prize—it’s connection.
A frozen Kong absolutely counts.
Five minutes of “find it,” a couple of tossed treats, or a quiet moment brushing their coat matters deeply.
A nap together is enrichment of the heart.
What feels small to us often feels huge to them. Our relationships with our dogs aren’t built on the days we get everything right—they’re built on being there, however we’re able.
When Scoop joined our family a little over a year ago, he added another layer to this lesson. Scoop is reactive, and that alone brings challenges—but in this profession, that challenge comes with a spotlight. There is a very real (and sometimes unfair) pressure that trainers must have “perfect” dogs. That if they bark, lunge, or struggle, someone, somewhere, is ready to judge.
So here’s the honest truth many trainers hesitate to admit: I haven’t worked with Scoop as consistently as I would encourage my clients to work with their own dogs.
Not because I don’t care—because life and chronic illness get in the way. Because some days I simply can’t. And yes, there have been moments I’ve felt like I was letting him down.
But Scoop has been one of my greatest teachers. His progress hasn’t been linear—sometimes we take big steps forward, sometimes we circle back—and that mirrors my own journey. Learning to give him grace has taught me to give myself grace, too. And that has made me a more empathetic trainer, a more grounded consultant, and a more compassionate human being.
Because the truth is: progress is never linear—for our dogs or for us.
Guardians everywhere are juggling real-life challenges: health struggles, family responsibilities, financial stress, grief, burnout, or the simple exhaustion of being human. And yet, through all of that, their love for their dogs remains steady and enormous.
Everyone is doing the absolute best they can with the tools, time, and energy they have in that moment.
As trainers and behavior consultants, that’s where our focus has to be—not on perfection, but on support. Meeting people where they are. Celebrating the tiny victories. Reminding guardians (and ourselves) that love isn’t measured by productivity.
So yes—we celebrate the big adventures and the breakthrough moments. But we also honor the quiet, ordinary ones:
The soft sigh of a dog settling beside you.
The gentle lean during a brush.
The wag that says, “I’m happy you’re here.”
The peace of a snuggle when that’s all the day allows.
Because at the end of the day, this journey isn’t about being the “best.”
It’s about being there.
It’s about being kind—to our dogs, to each other, and to ourselves.
And if today all you could offer was a snuggle, a frozen Kong, or a few minutes of connection?
To your dog, that is love. And it is enough.