Before I learned to arrive

As a puppy, Makenzie entered rooms as if they had been waiting for her.

Puppy Works Seattle felt almost ceremonial the first time we walked in. A double gate separating the reception from the padded floor ensured no puppy would accidentally escape. Chairs lined along the walls, and low partitions divided the confident from the cautious. Toys were scattered around for puppies to grab. It was a bright space that seemed designed for possibility.

We were told to remove Makenzie’s harness and carry her to the “shy puppy” side. To sit down there and place her under our chairs. And to expect nothing from her. Most puppies, the trainer explained, stay close at first and observe. It would usually take a few sessions before daring to initiate play. We were assured that not participating wasn’t failure. It was quite normal.

I had already begun preparing the version of myself who would gently reassure, anchor, encourage Makenzie. But as usual, she went in the opposite direction. She didn’t hesitate. There was no hovering, and no checking back in. She slipped out from beneath the chair and went straight into the cluster of puppies as if she’d been expected. Within minutes, a trainer moved her to the confident side of the partition. She played there easily, adjusting to be softer with softer pups, bolder with bolder ones. Makenzie was entirely at home. I had imagined she might need us, just a little. I had imagined she might look over her shoulder before choosing the world. Instead, she belonged immediately.

Because Puppy Works felt easy, I signed us up for puppy class starting within two weeks. Our class had eight humans with their puppies of between 10 and 16 weeks old spaced across mats, treats ready and instructions layered carefully. The atmosphere carried a quiet promise: follow the steps and you will get a well-behaved dog. I wanted that promise more than I realised. Not because I cared about having the “best” dog, but because I was afraid of raising her wrong. Afraid of accidentally shaping an angry, unsocialised Shiba Inu. Afraid our lives would narrow into constant management. I had heard enough stories about unmanageable, tragic Shiba Inus to know how quickly narratives form around this breed. And I desperately didn’t want to become one of them.

In class, Makenzie was no longer the happy and sociable puppy girl. Instead, she was alert to everything: the other puppies, the treats, the movement. Gone was Makenzie, the social butterfly. She looked at me, then at another dog, then at the treat pouch of the woman beside us. Her body leaned forward and her little hackles began to show. I shortened the leash, and naturally, she resisted harder.

Around us, puppies folded neatly into position. Owners marked and rewarded with clean timing. Feeling the pressure, I adjusted things that didn’t need adjusting — her collar, my stance, the space between us instead of focussing on her. I kept her close so she wouldn’t disrupt anyone else. The more I tried to contain her, the more she seemed to press outward.

What I wanted in that room was simple. I wanted her to respond. If she listened, maybe I wasn’t failing. If she performed then and there, maybe we would be okay. I thought obedience might protect us from regret.

And yet, somewhere in those same weeks filled with chaotic puppiness, there was a walk. She was still tiny then, and with under 20 weeks and insufficient vaccinations, she was not allowed into the dog parks yet. As usual, we would either just sit down every 2 metres, or she would zigzag at the end of the leash, nose down, stopping abruptly when I started moving and surging forward when I paused. We were entirely out of rhythm. Irritations rose quickly in both of us, her shoulders tightened while she pulled forward, mine while I tried to hold her back. She kept pulling harder and we stopped and started like two people arguing without words. Why did leash walking a tiny puppy have to be so difficult?

I stopped out of pure despair, not wanting either of us to drag along the other, even if only around the block we lived on. It took me a moment to calm myself down, and take the one slow conscious breath. While exhaling deeply I tried to let go of my frustration. Why did I care what we looked like? Why not just start over again and try to understand what she wanted in that moment? As soon as that thought passed through my mind she shifted. The tension seemed to drain out of her as much as out of me. And we moved forward together, aligned for several steps.

In class, I had been trying to manufacture this moment of alignment, trying to create synchrony through correction and control. But on that pavement in that moment, it happened when I stopped bracing against her. I couldn’t recreate it reliably, especially not in any high-tension spaces like puppy class. The pressure of being watched and judged pulled me back into focusing more on myself than on the relationship we were building. And Makenzie met that tension every single time. We were exquisitely sensitive to each other, even when I didn’t yet understand what was happening.

Looking back, I can see how much energy I poured into preventing a future catastrophe, scanning for signs of aggression, for proof that I was shaping her incorrectly, for reassurance that I hadn’t made a mistake becoming her person.

I focused on outcomes and appearances, wanting to do this the right way. All the while, she was responding to something simpler: whether I was there.

Puppy Works showed me a dog who did not need to cling in order to feel secure. Puppy class showed me how quickly fear makes me reach for control. And that walk showed me that alignment wasn’t something I could force. It arrived the moment I stopped bracing.

Five years on, I would say we are very much in sync, not only on our walks. I still tighten the leash sometimes, not to control her reactions but the input she reacts to. And of course she notices.

We are still finding our rhythm. Raising her “right” has far less to do with perfection than I once believed. It has much more to do with whether I am willing to arrive fully in the moment we are actually in.