Learning to advocate for Riley has been one of the most challenging and rewarding parts of our relationship.

I’ve learned to say, “No,” firmly, unapologetically, and not back down.

I’ve learned to step away and create space even when it is awkward or uncomfortable.

I’ve learned to step in front of her and be a physical barrier to potential threats to her safety – physical, mental, and emotional.

I have learned to set boundaries for her, for myself, and for other people.

And all of this practice advocating for and protecting her while giving her space and time to grow and increase her threshold for different stressors has taught me to do the same for myself.

Learning to recognize and honor her needs – not as a vague or generic thing, but as a fluid, situational reality; paying attention to what she is telling me with her body, her eyes, her voice; has taught me to be aware of and honor my needs, to recognize when I need space and when I need engagement.

Tonight, Riley and I were walking around the apartment complex. It was a hot day and it was almost 10pm before it cooled off enough to safely walk her.

On the walk we encountered a couple young mothers walking with their children. One child was on a scooter with interesting reflective lights and the other was a toddler who was pounding on car bumpers and running up to everything.

Riley was on high alert, first from the scooter and then the squealing toddler pounding on things. She has not had much exposure to children and they make her nervous, as do loud sounds and unexpected movements. All of which were coming at us as the mothers approached us.

I saw her body language. Hackles rising, body tensing, chest puffing out, but scared eyes. So I actively led her in a different direction and allowed her to move quickly. Showing her it was okay to create space and also providing an outlet for the adrenaline she was feeling.

Even with that the toddler saw her and started running, unbalanced and wild, right for us. I had one choice because of where we were. I put her in a sit, and stepped in front of her. I said, very clearly, firmly, and kindly, “No. She is afraid of children.”

The mother came to get her child and apologized for letting him run up to us.

I told her it was fine, and Riley and I did a short little jog to burn off that energy that had built up.

I’ve learned that in situations like that even if stillness is briefly required, movement and speed help change her mindset and get her back to a state of calm curiosity and engagement.

I was proud of her. She stayed focused on me, even with the tension. She sat and didn’t budge, lunge, growl, or react. She did well.

But, I didn’t like it.

And I want you to hear this.

I did not like telling a mother that my dog doesn’t like children. It doesn’t make me happy that kids scare her and that she’s not the kind of dog a toddler could randomly run up to.

I would love it if she were that happy-go-lucky dog that didn’t see an off-balance, unpredictable, high-energy, tiny human as a threat; but that’s not my reality. And it’s my responsibility, and my honor, to advocate for the dog I have not the dog I wish I had.

That’s not saying I wish I had any dog other than Riley, but there are things I wish were different, easier. And there’s nothing wrong with that – so long as my wishing doesn’t make me put her in situations where she feels threatened or unsafe. As long as my wishing, doesn’t make me push her too far, too fast when we’re working on something new; or blind me to what she’s clearly trying to communicate to me.

When I adopted Riley, I was incapable of really advocating for her and I definitely didn’t know how to establish my own boundaries and advocate for myself. But because she is the dog she is, I have learned this valuable lesson that has impacted every area of my life and I am grateful that I had to learn it. Grateful that I get to practice it regularly. Grateful that today, because I’ve learned to stand up for my dog, I can say “No,” without guilt or shame, and without rehearsing it for days, weeks, or months afterward.

Yes, I used to be that person.

The person who felt so bad about saying, “No,” that I would tremble and shake, and think about it even after I had done it. Before Riley, advocating for myself was something I could only do from a place of anger, blowing up after not establishing boundaries for myself that I desperately needed.

Here’s an example:

I used to hate making noise. It terrified me. This included making noise for safety purposes, such as honking the horn on my car.

One day I was driving down the road, getting ready to get on the freeway. It was rush hour and the road I was on was very busy.

Suddenly, the driver of the pick-up truck beside me decided to pull into my lane. He almost ran me off the road and I, for maybe the 2^nd time in my driving life, honked my horn.

Every time I drove past that onramp for the next three or four YEARS, I thought about it, and felt anxious and nervous. I wondered if it had startled them, if it had made them uncomfortable. I wondered if they thought about me honking at them whenever they went by the onramp like I did.

I didn’t get over that feeling; that sense of dread and shame and guilt for honking my horn, even though it was a serious situation, until I adopted Riley and started advocating for her.

She is the reason I understand that sometimes you have to make noise to protect yourself, your loved ones, and others. Sometimes you have to do uncomfortable and unpleasant things to establish boundaries and ensure safety. Whether that’s honking a horn or saying, “My dog’s afraid of kids.” It’s good and okay and appropriate to advocate, to set boundaries, to be aware of your limits and your dog’s limits, and navigate through them together.

I’m grateful Riley hasn’t been an easy dog. I’m grateful for the challenges and the things I’ve had to learn to make our life together work. I’m grateful for all the things I’ve learned and continue to learn every day – and for the freedom we both gain because I actively put that learning into practice.

Let me give you another example:

I was doing some training work outside my local Trader Joe’s with Riley. It was early in the morning, but the store was open. We were working on calmly navigating a busy parking lot while maintaining a heel and not getting freaked out by cars, carts, or people.

As we got close to the entrance to the story a lady came out with her little dog in her arms.

Riley’s a hunting dog. Particularly, a dog that trees prey. So a little squirmy dog held up in the arms of its owner can really wind her up.

I felt her body tense. I saw her face go from relaxed to prey drive. I could see that she was losing focus on me. I couldn’t move forward because the lady was coming toward us. I couldn’t go backward because there was a car backing out.

The woman was in a huff and she assumed that I was there to take Riley into the store, so she starts saying, very loudly, “They just told me I had to take my dog to my car. She’s not welcome in the store.”

I hoped that would be the end of it and she would just go on her way. I wanted to just move forward, and this was before I’d discovered the power of movement and speed in helping Riley work through tense situations.

Instead, she came right towards us.

Riley was barking at this point, and it was work getting her to calm down. All she could see was this woman walking towards us quickly with a whining dog wrapped in a blanket, squirming around. The woman was indignant about what had happened in the store and I think she wanted me to commiserate with her but I had one concern, and only one, Riley.

The woman was oblivious to the work it was taking to keep her behind me.

I said, “Please stop approaching.”

She kept talking and coming closer.

So, I squared my shoulders, got Riley in a sit, stepped in front of her, looked the woman in the eyes, and very loudly and firmly said, “Ma’am, please stop approaching us with your dog.”

She was taken aback and turned around and went to her car in a huff.

Here was what blew my mind, Riley and I just continued on our way. I didn’t feel bad or guilty. It was almost an hour later when I realized what I had done and that I hadn’t even thought about it once since it happened. And, when I did think about it, it was in a positive way. There was no guilt, no shame, no worrying about hurt feelings.

I had not been rude. I was kind but firm. I did the right thing, and I knew it. This was the moment I knew all my practice had paid off. The moment I knew that something fundamental in my heart and identity had changed.

Yes, I said practice. Lots and lots of practice.

I practiced saying, “No” out loud. I practiced stopping and stepping in front of Riley, having her sit, and saying, “No, you can’t pet my dog.” I practiced in the apartment and on walks – with no one anywhere around. I even practiced without Riley so I could get used to the pattern.

I don’t think we talk enough about the importance of advocating for our dogs; of learning what they need and how we can best be that buffer for them in a world that is sometimes overwhelming and full of unrealistic expectations.

Do you advocate for your dog?

How do you advocate for them?

Are there places or situations in which your dog needs you to be their advocate and protector but you’re not comfortable doing that yet?

Thinking about those situations, what would advocating for your dog look like?

Are you willing to practice when no one’s looking so you can be the leader and friend they need you to be when those situations do arise?

How do you think actively advocating for your dog might impact other areas of your life?

If you don’t know where to begin, consider talking to a trainer who can help you decipher your dog’s unique needs and body language so you can be all they need you to be.