A Note on Nervous Systems (My New Focus), Dogs, Armchair Judgment, and the Arena
I’ll be the first to admit it — I completely lost myself in this rescue effort.
I was advocating for beings who don’t have a voice, and I was all in.
Beings who are 100% reliant on every decision we make.
Who absorb the consequences when humans opt out, burn out, or look away.
I didn’t begin this rescue effort because I could.
I did it because no one else would.
Time was running out.
Their lives were on the line.
Waiting for a “better option” would have meant waiting too long.
(And it did, anyway.)
I was trying to protect these dogs from falling through cracks that are wide and unforgiving.
Trying to keep them out of the shelter system.
Trying to keep them safe in a world where the level of quiet — and not-so-quiet — atrocity toward dogs is staggering.
And somewhere along the way, while carrying responsibility that was never meant to be held by one nervous system alone, I disappeared.
That’s the part people miss.
I am HUMAN.
And I challenge the notion — especially in the dog world — that being a trainer or behaviorist should somehow make someone immune to being human.
Skill does not cancel biology.
Expertise does not override nervous-system limits.
Titles, degrees, and certifications do not grant immunity from grief, stress, pressure, or depletion.
Dogs don’t respond to credentials.
They respond to STATE.
They respond to nervous systems before technique.
They respond to environment, energy, and regulation — over everything else.
I didn’t just understand this intellectually.
I watched it play out in real time.
Cowboy and Winnie were still young, impressionable, and highly sensitive — still figuring out life, still deeply shaped by environment.
Ava is exquisitely attuned — observant, responsive, and sensitive to subtle shifts.
And yes — each of them was responding to my state.
That doesn’t make me incompetent.
It makes me human.
Nervous systems shape everything.
They shape how dogs perceive the world.
They shape whether dogs feel safe, comfortable, and secure following our lead.
They shape whether dogs trust that the human in front of them can handle pressure, uncertainty, and whatever life brings next.
This is what influences how a dog’s energy, drives, characteristics, and traits express themselves.
Skill alone doesn’t override this.
Love alone doesn’t override this.
Experience alone doesn’t override this.
I’ve been transparent throughout this entire effort — not for sympathy, not for validation — but for AWARENESS.
I have always used my lived experience to shed light, to teach, and to expand understanding.
Not from a pedestal — but from inside the work.
And I want to be clear about armchair judgment and the Arena.
I’m not interested in feedback, criticism, or hindsight analysis from people who are not — and have not been — in the Arena.
If you were not living the logistics, the responsibility, the risk, the constant decision-making, the sleepless nights, the financial exposure, and the emotional weight, then what you’re offering is speculation — not insight.
It’s easy to judge from the sidelines.
It’s easy to replay moments with certainty when you weren’t carrying the consequences.
It’s easy to comment when you weren’t holding lives in real time.
Theodore Roosevelt said it best: the credit belongs to the one who is actually in the Arena — whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who errs while daring greatly, and who spends themselves in a worthy cause.
That was me.
And I’m not taking direction from voices who were never willing to step in, stand beside me, or share the weight.
This isn’t about silencing conversation.
It’s about discernment.
Right now, my focus is shifting — personally and professionally — toward nervous-system healing and regulation.
This is a critical — and often overlooked — ingredient in canine behavior.
Because this is what dogs respond to.
And that’s what this decision was all about.
Hard, but necessary.
The dogs are doing exactly what we hoped they would do once space, support, and stability were restored:
• Cowboy has been neutered and is recovering, slowly decompressing
• Ava is living with another happy-go-lucky dog — the best possible energy for her (as Ronin once was)
• Winnie is beginning to come out of her shell
They are safe.
Supported.
Regulating.
And so am I.
And yes — I miss them.
More than words can say.
This separation was very, very hard.
I miss Ava’s steady presence — her resilience, her deep emotional attunement, her strong spirit.
I miss Winnie’s sassiness — her joie de vivre, her sharpness, her “let’s do this” spark.
And I miss Cowboy’s quiet ways — his trusting nature, his sensitivity, his love of small circles, his gentle introversion.
It hurts that I couldn’t give them what they needed most in that moment: regulation.
Steady, consistent, pressure-free living.
The kind of environment my old crew and I shared for a long time — spacious, predictable, grounded.
My life looks different now.
I share my home, my days, and my moments with others (and those I deeply care about and dearly love).
Missing them doesn’t mean the decision was wrong.
It means the bond was real.
And I also believe this is why the Divine Intervention happened.
There were prayer warriors holding us from afar.
And there were my own daily, tearful prayers — begging for help, support, signs, and guidance.
For a way forward that protected us all.
And this was the answer.
Unexpected.
Unbelievable.
Miraculous.
Not the one my Ego wanted.
Not the one my Attachment hoped for.
But the one my nervous system, my health — and theirs — needed.
This was the Miracle.
Help arriving in a form that required release.
Support that came with grief woven into it.
An intervention that restored safety, regulation, and possibility — even though it asked something painful of me in return.
I know this to be true.
Everything aligned in ways I could not have orchestrated.
The timing defied logic.
This wasn’t abandonment.
It was protection.
It was Spirit stepping in where my nervous system could no longer carry the weight alone.
And accepting that help — even when it hurt — was part of the work.
That’s the work I’m doing now.
Healing.
Regulating.
Listening.
My work with people and dogs is shifting — yet again — toward nervous-system health and regulation.
Toward the ever-important factor of STATE —
because dogs respond to STATE more than anything.
This isn’t theory.
It’s lived experience through the many years of living and working with dogs.
I am living this work.
Moving through it.
And one more thing I want to share.
As you know, I’ve been chronicling this entire journey since day one. There is a great deal of material — moments of heartbreak, hope, faith, failure, resilience, and grace.
I recently submitted a script treatment to four production management companies here in California. I fully expected that if I heard anything at all, it would be months down the line.
I was surprised — and deeply grateful — to hear back from one just yesterday.
So this, too, will be something I’m working on.
My first script — beginning slightly before the rescue effort.
This story is incredible, insightful, and educational.
It dances delicately across the entire emotional spectrum.
I’m calling it "The Long Way Home."
For now, this is where I am.
Present.
Honest.
Healing.
And deeply Human.
More to come.
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For those wondering, here's a brief transparency note:
A significant portion of the funds raised went directly to the rescue that took in Cowboy, Winnie, and Ava, to support their ongoing care and transition.
The remaining funds were used for the logistics required to move multiple dogs safely across several states — including securing Airbnbs along the route, preparing the Jeep for long-distance travel, their food and road essentials, boxes, tape, bins, moving blankets and other moving supplies, and the moving pod.
Every dollar was used in service of the same goal: ensuring their safety, stability, and long-term wellbeing. This is exactly what we did — even as the outcome ultimately unfolded differently than planned.
