29/07/2026
Every dog that comes into our lives arrives with a curriculum. Not a neat, linear syllabus, but a living, breathing course in relationship, humility, and the quiet art of paying attention. Rarely is the lesson just about ādogsā. More often than not, itās about us, about how we listen, how we assume, how we try to control, and how willing we are to let go of the story we wrote before the dog ever set foot in our home.
Those lessons are only available if we truly listen. And listening is hard
Every dog that comes into our lives teaches us something new. Itās rarely just one lesson, neatly packaged and obvious. More often, itās a series of quiet revelations, about dogs, yes, but just as much about ourselves. Those lessons are only available if weāre willing to listen. Really listen. Itās painfully easy to get lost in our own egos, in the urge to prove what we know or feel special for āgetting it rightā, and miss the message entirely.
Nira is already an extraordinary teacher.
She arrived with a story attached to her: a dog who had lost one of her homes because she growled, a dog who ātakes a long time to trustā. So we did what we always do with dogs like that. We gave her space. We didnāt engage without consent. We turned our bodies away, kept low, stayed at a distance. We were ready for the guarded dog, the slow burn of trust, the careful dance around her boundaries.
And then Nira did what dogs so often do: she reminded us that our expectations are just that, ours.
She took a while to feel safer with my mumās partner, Harry, but she became part of the family far more quickly than weād prepared ourselves for. She is incredibly affectionate. We already have those soft, luminous moments of eye contact, her nose gently exploring my breath, her head leaning in for a kiss. She adores my mum; that bond was almost instant. Now she gets excited to see all of us. The ātakes a long time to trustā dog has, in many ways, trusted faster than we did.
Niraās biggest lesson so far has been about safe spaces.
Safe spaces are something Iāve talked about for years, but she has cemented how I feel about them and, honestly, made me more assertive in that mindset. We created a beautiful safe space for Nira: a cabin all of her own, with a cute picket fence around it. It looked perfect. It felt like the right thing. But it became clear very quickly that this was not where Nira chose to feel safe.
As has always been done, we lured her into the house at night with food, to āput her to bedā, a pattern thatās been repeated for years in the shelter. And hereās where we forget how complicated food can be. Coercion is not compliance. Conditioning a dog to go into a space is not the same as emotional safety or genuine choice.
Think about advertising. You see the same brand, the same message, over and over again. Eventually you āchooseā that product. It feels like your decision. You might even defend it. But that choice has been shaped, nudged, reinforced so many times that itās hard to call it pure autonomy. Youāve been conditioned to feel that way. It doesnāt mean the product is bad, but it does mean your sense of choice has been influenced.
The same can happen with dogs and beds, crates, cabins, āsafe spacesā. If a dog is constantly rewarded for going into a particular place, they may āchooseā to go there for the rest of their lives. On the surface, it looks like safety. It feels familiar. But if the dog never had the opportunity to say, āNo, I donāt want this,ā then it canāt be true autonomy. Itās comfort built on conditioning, not on genuine emotional security.
Nira has also reminded me how important connection is for all social mammals. She has found people she can make strong connections with and she does not want to give that up. She is conflicted: my mum is in the house, and Nira is beginning to go in, but outside, in the grass, in the open air, is where her nervous system settles. That is her safe space. So now we have to navigate how to give her both: the connection she craves and the environment where her body feels at ease.
We can already see the beginnings of separation distress. (very common in newly adopted dogs and not the same as clinical SA). She wants to be outside, but she wants to be with people. She has us now; she doesnāt want to lose that. Last night, she was left outside with the doors open to both her hut and the house so she could come in if she wanted. She howled for a while, so my mum went out, walked her around a little, then came back to bed. Eventually everyone slept. This morning, Nira was standing in the kitchen.
In many situations, the āsolutionā would be for my mum to sleep on the sofa for a few weeks, staying physically close until Nira feels safe indoors. But my mum cannot sleep outside. So Nira will have to go through her own process of deciding what makes her feel safe. And she will, if we stay consistent, keep all other contexts as stable as possible, and are there to comfort and support her when she needs us.
Over the years, very few rescue dogs have behaved the way the rescue told us they would. The same is true of my clientsā dogs. Itās not because rescues lie; itās because dogs are different in different contexts. The environment changes everything. Even in homeātoāhome transfers, the dog is stepping into a new world: new smells, new routines, new humans, new emotional weather.
So we have to think critically. We have to work out what choices we can genuinely offer and, sometimes, what decisions we need to make to help them adapt to their new home without breaking their sense of safety. We have to be willing to question our own assumptions, our own āthis is how itās doneā, and listen to what the dog is actually telling us.
The one thing I know, without doubt, is that Nira is home. She knows she has found her people. Our job now is to support her as she finds her place, on the grass, in the kitchen, in the spaces between our expectations and her truth. And if we keep listening, sheāll keep teaching.
