There is a squirrel situation.
There has always been a squirrel situation.
When Izzy and I first started working on this together, it didn’t matter where the squirrel was — under a bush right in front of us, in a tree across the street, or sprinting across the sidewalk directly in our path. The location was irrelevant. The result was the same.
Her whole body would go: BOING! SQUIRREL ACTIVATION! SQUIRREL ACTIVATION!
Full stop. Completely stiff. Locked in. And then — in a split second — we’d go from stillness to jumping, hopping, twirling, screeching. All The Things, all at once. People would stop and stare, then quickly move along, just in case.
Now, just to set the scene: I’m not the tallest person. When Izzy stands up on her hind legs, she is basically my height. So from the outside, it probably looked like I had a completely out-of-control, crazed dog.
And honestly? In those moments, she kind of was.
I tried giving her a treat right at the start of the spiral. She’d take it — and then it would literally fall out of her mouth. A Lab. Dropping food. Because she was too activated to even register that food was in her mouth. Calling her name didn’t work. Talking to her didn’t work. Her nervous system was fully on that prey-drive train, and there was no getting through.
Between the “BOING” and the full spiral into chaos, there is a split second. That’s where everything started to change.
🐿️ The Work That Happened When Nothing Was Happening
While the squirrel chaos was playing out on walks, we were practicing something else entirely — at home, on the porch, in the yard, on quiet streets where nothing was happening.
A really simple game: the collar grab. Gently take the collar, say “cookie,” deliver a treat. Over and over, with no pressure and no expectations. Just building one association — I come towards you, you hear this word, good things happen.
I started using that cue in the split second between the “BOING” and the spiral. Right in that tiny gap.
And at first? Nothing. Cookie falls out of her mouth. No response. No awareness.
But then — something very small started to happen.
I’d say “cookie” — and one ear would twitch.
Just slightly. Her ears would be locked forward, fully in squirrel mode — and then one ear would flick back toward me. Just for a second. And then forward again.
That was it. That was the moment I knew I was getting through.
The ear flick. The half-second of awareness. The ability to process anything else outside of the squirrel. Those were the wins.
Eventually she’d take the cookie. Maybe not smoothly. Maybe with a delay — squirrel, voice, cookie, chew. And then yes, she’d still go scream at the squirrel. Because obviously, someone has to keep them in line.
But if you were watching from the outside? It probably looked like nothing. Like I was doing all this work and nothing was changing. Still reactive. Still loud. Still chaotic. – Or worse – That I was rewarding her “bad behavior.”
Underneath, though? Everything was changing.
🧠 This Is How the Nervous System Actually Learns
Progress with a reactive or overwhelmed dog doesn’t look like a switch flipping. It doesn’t look like a before-and-after transformation. It looks like tiny moments, stacking quietly on top of each other, until one day you realize things are different.
The nervous system learns through repetition and safety — through repeated experiences of “I can come back,” “I can hear you,” “I can stay connected, even a little.”
Those micro-moments aren’t the precursor to the real progress. They are the real progress.
Now, Izzy and I can see a squirrel on a walk. She notices it. She might get excited — we might even chase it up a tree together for a second. She might bounce and do her little coonhound thing. But it’s not frantic. It’s not overwhelming. She’s in it, but she’s also still with me. And the most important part? She can move on. She can continue the walk.
To someone watching, it might still look a little chaotic. But I know what’s actually happening. And so does she.
💛 The Thing I Had to Learn Too
There’s a layer to this story I don’t want to skip over.
In the beginning, I was very aware of everyone else watching. What they were thinking. What it must look like — this big, loud, reactive dog jumping and spinning and making all kinds of noise, and me standing in the middle of it.
It felt exposed. Like we were being judged. And that added pressure made everything harder — for me and for her.
But as I started to understand what was actually happening underneath her behavior — as I started to see the small shifts, the real progress — what other people thought started to matter less. Because I knew… I knew we were moving forward. I knew she was learning. I knew we were building something real.
When that clicked, I didn’t need to explain it anymore. Or justify it. Or make it look a certain way to anyone else. I could just be in it with her.
That’s the part that doesn’t get shown enough. Not the before. Not the after. The in-between, where it still looks messy — but something real is starting to take shape.
🐾 What to Actually Look For
If you’re in a place where it feels like nothing is changing — where you’re putting in the time and the effort and you can’t see any progress — I want you to start looking for the smallest possible things.
The ear flick. The pause before the reaction. The half-second where they glance back at you. The slightly quicker recovery after a trigger. The moment they take the treat instead of dropping it.
Those are not small.
Those are everything.
Because those are the moments where your dog’s nervous system is learning — and where your relationship is being built.
And one day, those tiny almost-invisible shifts become something you can’t miss.
🔎 Not Sure What Your Dog Needs Right Now?
If you’re in the in-between and you’re not sure what to focus on first, the Find Your Path Quiz can help you figure out where your dog actually is — and what kind of support will make the most difference right now.
Take care of your dog’s nervous system — and your own. We’re healing together — one regulated moment at a time. 💛