I don’t approach dog training as a collection of techniques—I approach it as a system.
That didn’t come from theory. It came from a moment I couldn’t explain.
“I’m coming in.”
Three words that changed everything.
I was working a young dog whose obedience was, by all accounts, solid. She knew her commands, responded reliably, and looked good—until we stepped into the arena. Then everything fell apart. She was fast, frantic, and running circles around me.
“I’m coming in.”
That’s what Cathy Sumeracki said as she reached for the gate latch. She stepped in, said nothing to my dog—and everything changed.
My dog’s mind settled.
Her flanks opened.
She became thoughtful, balanced, powerful.
Cathy, the dog, and the stock started to move together. It wasn’t control—it was clarity.
And it exposed something I couldn’t ignore:
The difference wasn’t the dog.
It was me.
That moment forced me to look deeper—not at what I could get my dog to do, but at what my dog responded to: a believable leader who fairly used pressure and release to communicate crystal clear expectations of behavior.
Dog's rise to the level of our expectations.
My willingness to look deeper didn’t start with dogs.
Earlier in my life, I was drawn to immersion—learning through experience. I studied abroad extensively in order to learn Spanish by living inside the language, not just studying it. Herding felt the same. Dogs aren't primarily verbal —they live inside the language of pressure and release. To understand them, you have to step into it.
Shortly after college, I faced a major health crisis and decision. I could manage symptoms long-term, or I could look for the root cause. I chose root cause. That path led me into years of work in functional nutrition and lifestyle--learning how small, foundational inputs shape long-term outcomes.
Later, my husband and I built Tierra Vida Farm, a regenerative farm grounded in the same principle: if you improve the system at its foundation, everything downstream improves. Soil health affects plant health. Plant health affects animal and human health.
You don’t fix outcomes—you fix what creates them.
That pattern carried into my work with dogs.
It took a couple of years after that moment in the arena to fully understand what I was missing. People call it different things. I call it leadership. It's not about control. It's about being someone the dog finds believable. It's about learning to speak their language in order to build a relationship based on respect and trust.
That realization became the foundation of my work.
Because most dogs today are managed, not led.
They are cued, redirected, bribed, and reminded how to behave—often constantly. And yet many remain anxious, reactive, pushy, or aggressive.
Because obedience is not the same as stability.
Working dogs taught me something different.
They are not micromanaged.
They live inside expectation.
They understand:
And because those things are clear, they become stable.
That understanding is what allows me to work with reactive, aggressive, and fearful dogs.
These behaviors aren’t random. They’re strategies. Dogs escalate, or shut down, because it works—usually by creating space or controlling pressure.
My background in stock dogs gives me an edge here, because pressure isn’t something to avoid—it’s something to understand and respond to appropriately. Pressure is information.
Pressure communicates.
Release teaches.
When both are clear and fair, dogs become more thoughtful, more stable, and more accountable.
This isn’t about controlling dogs.
Whether I’m working stock or working through reactivity, aggression, or fear the goal is the same:
Clear leadership.
Fair pressure.
Consistent expectation.
Because when those pieces are in place,
behavior doesn’t have to be constantly managed.
It changes at the root.
That didn’t come from theory. It came from a moment I couldn’t explain.
“I’m coming in.”
Three words that changed everything.
I was working a young dog whose obedience was, by all accounts, solid. She knew her commands, responded reliably, and looked good—until we stepped into the arena. Then everything fell apart. She was fast, frantic, and running circles around me.
“I’m coming in.”
That’s what Cathy Sumeracki said as she reached for the gate latch. She stepped in, said nothing to my dog—and everything changed.
My dog’s mind settled.
Her flanks opened.
She became thoughtful, balanced, powerful.
Cathy, the dog, and the stock started to move together. It wasn’t control—it was clarity.
And it exposed something I couldn’t ignore:
The difference wasn’t the dog.
It was me.
That moment forced me to look deeper—not at what I could get my dog to do, but at what my dog responded to: a believable leader who fairly used pressure and release to communicate crystal clear expectations of behavior.
Dog's rise to the level of our expectations.
My willingness to look deeper didn’t start with dogs.
Earlier in my life, I was drawn to immersion—learning through experience. I studied abroad extensively in order to learn Spanish by living inside the language, not just studying it. Herding felt the same. Dogs aren't primarily verbal —they live inside the language of pressure and release. To understand them, you have to step into it.
Shortly after college, I faced a major health crisis and decision. I could manage symptoms long-term, or I could look for the root cause. I chose root cause. That path led me into years of work in functional nutrition and lifestyle--learning how small, foundational inputs shape long-term outcomes.
Later, my husband and I built Tierra Vida Farm, a regenerative farm grounded in the same principle: if you improve the system at its foundation, everything downstream improves. Soil health affects plant health. Plant health affects animal and human health.
You don’t fix outcomes—you fix what creates them.
That pattern carried into my work with dogs.
It took a couple of years after that moment in the arena to fully understand what I was missing. People call it different things. I call it leadership. It's not about control. It's about being someone the dog finds believable. It's about learning to speak their language in order to build a relationship based on respect and trust.
That realization became the foundation of my work.
Because most dogs today are managed, not led.
They are cued, redirected, bribed, and reminded how to behave—often constantly. And yet many remain anxious, reactive, pushy, or aggressive.
Because obedience is not the same as stability.
Working dogs taught me something different.
They are not micromanaged.
They live inside expectation.
They understand:
- who controls space
- who determines direction
- how transitions are handled
- when it’s time to work
- and when it’s time to settle
And because those things are clear, they become stable.
That understanding is what allows me to work with reactive, aggressive, and fearful dogs.
These behaviors aren’t random. They’re strategies. Dogs escalate, or shut down, because it works—usually by creating space or controlling pressure.
My background in stock dogs gives me an edge here, because pressure isn’t something to avoid—it’s something to understand and respond to appropriately. Pressure is information.
Pressure communicates.
Release teaches.
When both are clear and fair, dogs become more thoughtful, more stable, and more accountable.
This isn’t about controlling dogs.
Whether I’m working stock or working through reactivity, aggression, or fear the goal is the same:
Clear leadership.
Fair pressure.
Consistent expectation.
Because when those pieces are in place,
behavior doesn’t have to be constantly managed.
It changes at the root.