You're a New Facility Dog Handler. Now What?
Updated: Aug 31
You've got your dream job.
You're excited. Really Excited. You have the dog. You have the vest. You have the training. You have the opportunity to do something you have probably dreamed about for a very long time.
I know because I was 23 years old when I started handling my first facility dog partner.
Twenty-three.
Looking back, I smile (and cringe) a little at how much I thought I knew.
I loved dogs. I had experience with them. I knew how to train a bit. And I was stepping into a job where I genuinely believed we could do something meaningful together.
I was handed a puppy who was described as being “bred for this job.” And I thoroughly believed that.
I believed that if the dog was bred for the work, appropriately trained, and capable of doing it, then our job was to teach her how to be successful and then go help people. It seemed pretty straightforward.
And honestly, I think that's exactly how many new handlers begin. You're so focused on doing a good job that you don't realize there is an entire education ahead of you that you don't even know you need yet. You know you need to train the dog. You know you need to understand the job. You know there will be policies, procedures, schedules, and expectations.
But nobody can really prepare you for everything that happens on the other end of the leash:
You have to learn your dog.
You have to learn the environment.
You have to learn the people.
You have to learn how to create structure and boundaries that allow your dog to be successful.
You have to learn how to advocate.
You have to learn when to say yes and when to say no.
You have to learn how to explain what your dog is communicating to people who may not speak “dog.”
And eventually, if you're paying attention, you may find yourself asking questions you never even thought to ask when you started.
That's what I wish someone had told me. Not because I regret becoming a facility dog handler. Quite the opposite.
Being a facility dog handler was my dream job.
It changed my life. It shaped so much of how I look at dogs, people, relationships, and the complicated space where all of those things meet. But it also taught me that sometimes the biggest lessons aren't the ones you expect to learn when you walk into the job.
*A quick note before we begin
There are many different ways to structure and operate a facility dog program, and there isn't one model that works for every organization, every handler, or every dog.
My experience was within a diamond model, where the dog, handler, professional, and client or student are all considered part of the working team. Many handlers operate within a triangle model, where the handler, dog, and client or student form the primary team.
Neither model is inherently “right” or “wrong.” They simply create different dynamics, responsibilities, and challenges for the people and animals involved.
So as you read this, keep in mind that I'm sharing what I learned from my own experience as a facility dog handler and later director of our department, not prescribing one particular way of doing the work.
Take what is useful to you, question what isn't, and most importantly, keep thinking critically about what works best for your dog, your students, your team, and your program.
What I would tell my 23-year-old self
Or really, what I would tell any new facility dog handler just starting out:
It is still going to be your dream job. I promise.
There will be hard days. There will be moments when you question yourself, moments when you have to advocate for your dog, and moments when you realize just how much you still have to learn. There will be things nobody thought to tell you.
There will be questions you didn't know you needed to ask. And there will probably be a few moments when you look around and think, “Wait...how exactly am I supposed to navigate this?” But there will also be moments that make you understand exactly why you wanted this job in the first place:
You'll watch a student light up when your dog walks through the door.
You'll see a child who struggles to communicate find a way to connect.
You'll sit beside someone having a really hard day and watch your dog quietly make the room feel a little safer.
You'll laugh.
You'll cry.
You'll learn more about dogs than you ever thought possible.
And you'll learn just as much about people.
Being a facility dog handler can be an extraordinary privilege. It can also be complicated.
So, if I could sit down with that 23-year-old version of myself—or with any new handler just beginning this journey—these are some of the things I'd want you to know.
Let's dive in.
Train your dog for the job. Then realize that's only the beginning.
Training is the obvious place to start, and it absolutely matters. Your dog needs the skills to navigate the environment, settle appropriately, respond to you, and safely interact with the people around them. But living with a dog and working with a dog are two very different things.
My first partner was a really nice dog. She was calm, well trained, socially neutral, and incredibly safe around people. She tolerated interactions beautifully. But she didn't particularly need people. She wasn't the dog who was going to drag me across the room because someone walked in. She was calm and aloof. She was perfectly happy to coexist with people without necessarily seeking them out.
At the time, I was focused on making sure she could do the job.
Could she follow her cues? Could she settle? Could she navigate a busy environment? Could she tolerate the things a school might throw at her? Could she interact appropriately with students?
Those were important questions.
But eventually I realized there were other questions I needed to be asking.
How does she feel about this?
What does she look like when she's comfortable?
What does she look like when she's uncertain?
What does she do when she's had enough?
How does she tell me she needs space?
How quickly does she recover from something stressful?
What does she look like when she's tired?
And what does she look like when she's genuinely enjoying an interaction versus simply tolerating one?
Those distinctions can be incredibly subtle. Your dog may not dramatically pull away, growl, or try to leave. Sometimes the communication is much quieter: a lip lick, a head turn, a change in posture, a hesitation, a little more distance. None of those things, on their own, automatically mean your dog is stressed. Context matters. That's why knowing your dog matters so much. You need to know their normal before you can recognize their different.
And this is where one of the biggest transitions happens for a new facility dog handler.
You stop thinking only about what your dog can do. And you start paying attention to what your dog is telling you. Because those aren't always the same thing.
A good dog isn't just a well-trained dog.
Training matters enormously. But a facility dog needs more than a great obedience foundation. You need a really sound, predictable dog who is well suited to the work.
And you need to become a really skilled handler who knows that dog inside and out.
Those things work together, because mistakes will happen.
Even with a fantastic dog. Even with an experienced handler. A student will do something unexpected. Someone will miss a cue. The environment will change. Your dog will make a choice you weren't expecting.
Your dog doesn't have to be perfect. But you do need to be prepared. If your dog becomes uncomfortable, you need to notice. If something goes wrong, you need to know how to intervene. If you misread a situation, you need to be willing to acknowledge it.
And if you don't know what to do?
Ask.
That doesn't make you a weak handler. It doesn't make you inexperienced. It means you understand that this is complicated work. There is always going to be something you haven't seen before. There is always going to be something you can learn. There is no prize for figuring everything out by yourself. Find people who know more than you. Take continuing education. Talk to other handlers. Work with qualified professionals when you need help.
Say, “I don't know. Let me find out.”
I've been working with dogs for nearly two decades, and I've spent the last 13 years immersed in animal-assisted interventions—first working directly on the front lines, and more recently working at the program level, consulting, and continuing to train and care for dogs. And I still learn something new all the time.
I hope I always do.
Because the day I think I know everything there is to know about dogs is probably the day I should stop working with them.
Let your program evolve, too.
One of the things I'm most proud of isn't where our program started. It's how much it changed.
As I gained experience—and as our handler team gained experience—we started asking more questions. We didn't just want to keep doing things the way they had always been done. We wanted to understand what the field was learning, what other programs were doing, and whether there were better ways to support our dogs, our students, and our handlers.
My handler team and I really put our boots on the ground. We researched best practices. We attended conferences and continuing education opportunities. We talked with other professionals. We sought out information from organizations doing this work at a higher level. And when we learned something that made us question one of our own practices, we were willing to have the conversation.
That meant our program changed.
Sometimes we changed policies. Sometimes we changed how we structured the dogs' work and rest. Sometimes we introduced new training techniques. Sometimes we reconsidered how we approached activities or requests from outside the program. Sometimes the answer was simply, “We hadn't thought about it that way before.”
And that was okay.
As I eventually moved into a leadership role, this became something I valued deeply: creating space for those conversations with our handlers, therapists, and administrators. We didn't always agree. We didn't always have perfect answers. But we were willing to listen, research, question our assumptions, and adapt when we believed something could be done better.
Looking back, I think that willingness to evolve was one of the greatest strengths of our team. I don't look at the program I left and think it should have looked exactly like the program I walked into.
I'm actually proud that it didn't.
Because if we had spent those years doing everything exactly the way we had always done it, without questioning, learning, or adapting, I don't think we would have served our dogs—or our students—as well as we ultimately did.
That, to me, is part of responsible AAI work.
You don't have to have everything figured out on day one.
You just have to be willing to keep learning.
And once you really start paying attention to your dog, you can begin building something else that will make the entire job easier: structure.
Structure and boundaries will make your life easier.
When you first start, it can be tempting to think that a facility dog should be available whenever someone needs them.
After all, isn't that why they're there?
The answer is...not exactly.
Your dog may be incredibly social. They may love people. They may be perfectly happy to say hello to everyone they pass. That still doesn't mean everyone should have access to them all day. One of the best things you can do for your dog—and honestly, for yourself—is establish some structure and boundaries early:
When does your dog work?
When are they off duty?
Where do they go to rest?
What does a break look like?
Who can interact with them?
How do people ask?
What happens if your dog walks away?
These things don't have to feel restrictive. In fact, I found the opposite to be true.
When everyone knows the expectations, you don't have to constantly make decisions in the moment, and your dog doesn't have to either.
Take something as simple as petting. I always wanted students and staff to ask before touching the dog. Not because the dogs were fragile. Not because they couldn't handle being touched. Because asking gives the dog a predictable experience—and it teaches people to recognize that the dog isn't automatically available simply because they're standing there.
I would often explain it to students by asking them to imagine someone walking up and touching them whenever they wanted.
Would you like that?
No.
Would you walk up to another person and just touch them because you wanted to?
No.
That would be weird, right?
So we ask.
And for some of our students, particularly those who struggled with social skills, personal space, or impulse control, this was a much bigger lesson than simply learning how to pet a dog. The dog made the concept real. Ask before touching. Wait for an answer. Respect the answer. And if the dog walks away? Let them walk away. Don't chase them. Don't follow them around trying to get them back. Don't convince them to come over for “just one more pet.” Walking away is communication. It doesn't necessarily mean your dog is terrified or miserable. It may simply mean they're finished with that interaction. Either way, we can respect it.
And here's where getting your staff to buy into your boundaries becomes so important.
Because the kids are watching. If they see the adults ask before petting, they'll learn to ask. If they see the adults respect the dog's space, they'll learn to respect it. If they see the adults accept a “not right now,” they'll learn that too. You don't have to make every interaction into a lesson. Sometimes you can simply model the behavior.
You're walking through the building on your way to a session and you pass a class coming out of the bathroom.
Of course everyone wants to pet the dog.
“Can we pet Cali?”
“Sorry, not right now, guys. Cali has to go to the bathroom! But thanks for asking. Great job!”
And you keep moving.
That's it. No big explanation. No one did anything wrong. The kids asked appropriately, you answered, and the dog got to continue on to where she needed to go. Those little interactions add up. Eventually, the boundaries become part of the culture. And when that happens, you aren't the only person responsible for protecting the dog's space. You've created a community of people who understand how to interact with them.
Get to know the humans, too.
Your coworkers are going to be a huge part of your dog's life. Get to know them. And when it comes to your dog, explain things to them friend to friend. You don't need to become the person who is constantly correcting everyone. You don't need to give a lecture every time your dog licks their lips. Context matters, and you're going to learn that not every little behavior means the same thing.
But when you see something worth explaining, explain it. Maybe someone is brushing Sage and you notice him lick his lips and turn his head when they reach toward his face.
You might simply say:
“I don't know if you noticed when Sage licked his lips and turned his head after you reached toward his face with the brush, but that's actually a subtle sign that he was a little uncomfortable. He didn't necessarily hate what you were doing, but maybe next time we can stay a little farther away from his face and see if he feels more comfortable.”
That's a very different conversation from telling someone they're doing something wrong. You're giving them information. You're helping them understand your dog. And you're building a relationship at the same time. The more your coworkers understand your dog's communication, the more people you have looking out for them. You're not the only one watching anymore. You've built a team. And that matters.
Remember why the dog is there.
There's another question I think we should be asking constantly, and it has nothing to do with whether the dog can participate.
Does involving the dog actually benefit this student, this class, or this session—and help them meet their goals?
Because not every session needs a dog to be an effective session. Not every student benefits from working with a dog. And sometimes, the dog can actually be a distraction. This can be a surprisingly fine line to navigate. A student may absolutely love the dog. The class may light up when the dog walks through the door. Everyone may be having a wonderful time. But is the dog helping accomplish what you came there to accomplish?
Sometimes the answer is yes.
Sometimes the answer is no.
And sometimes it's somewhere in between.
That's where your relationships with your coworkers become so important. Listen to their concerns. Ask what they're trying to accomplish. Collaborate on activities. Be willing to hear that something isn't working the way you imagined it would.
Maybe the dog would be very helpful assisting with the activity.
Maybe the dog can assist by being present but not actively involved.
Maybe it's best for the dog to stay in the office that day.
That doesn't mean the dog failed or the program isn't worthwhile or effective. The opposite is true.
It means you're making a thoughtful decision about what is best for everyone involved.
I think that's one of the biggest shifts that happens as you gain experience.
At first, it's easy to think:
“How can I get the dog involved?”
Eventually, you start asking:
“Does the dog need to be involved?”
Those are very different questions. And the second one will make your program better.
The harder part: when the needs don't line up. This is where facility dog work can become complicated in ways that are difficult to explain from the outside. A school may genuinely love its dogs. The students may love them. The staff may love them. Administrators may love them. The community may love them. And there can be very good reasons for that.
Dogs can bring enormous value to a school. They can create connection, motivation, comfort, engagement, and opportunities that might not otherwise exist.
But once a program becomes successful, the expectations surrounding it can grow.
The dog becomes part of the culture. People begin to see possibilities. And sometimes those possibilities become bigger than what the dog, the handler, or the program can realistically sustain. This isn't necessarily because anyone doesn't care about the dog.
In fact, the opposite can be true.
The organization may genuinely want good things for the dogs. But organizations have budgets. They have fundraising goals. They have boards and supervisors and expectations. People's jobs and paychecks are tied to the success of the organization. Publicity matters. Community support matters. And when something is working—really working—it can be very difficult to slow it down.
That's where pressure can become complicated.
Administrators are carrying an enormous amount of responsibility themselves, and they may not always understand the silent pressures that can trickle down to a handler.
Pressure runs downhill. Often unintentionally. An administrator may ask for something because they see an opportunity. A teacher may ask because they know how much a student loves the dog. A fundraiser may want the dog involved because the community responds to them. A family may specifically choose a school because of the facility dog program. And suddenly the handler is standing there thinking:
Can my dog actually do all of this?
Is this safe?
Is this too much?
How do I say no?
Because here's the difficult part:
You want to be a good employee.
You want to be a team player.
You want your program to succeed.
You want to help students.
You want your supervisor to trust you.
You want opportunities.
You want raises.
And, yes, you probably want to keep your job.
So when someone above you asks you to do something with your dog, saying no can feel enormous.
Especially when the person asking genuinely believes the request is reasonable.
But sometimes your answer still has to be no.
Learn how to say no.
Your administrators or supervisors may ask things of you as a team that simply aren't possible, realistic, or safe. Part of your job is learning how to explain that with as much diplomacy and tact as possible. Because no one wants to be told no. And telling a superior no can go a couple of different ways.
All you can really do is make it clear that you have the school's best interests in mind.
You love the program.
You love the people you work with.
You want the program to succeed.
And you also have your dog's best interests in mind.
In fact, it is your job to have your dog's best interests in mind.
Your administrator or supervisor can't possibly see everything you see.
They aren't walking beside your dog all day.
They may not notice the subtle changes in your dog's behavior. They may not know what happened earlier that day, what your dog has already experienced that week, what they're recovering from, or what you know is coming next.
That's not a criticism. It's simply the reality of different roles.
Your job is to know your dog.
And sometimes that means saying:
“I understand what you're hoping to accomplish, and I want to help us get there. I'm concerned that this particular approach isn't something my dog can safely or successfully do right now. Here's what I'm seeing, and here's another way I think we could accomplish the same goal.”
That's not being difficult. That's handling. That's understanding dog behavior, recognizing your dog's individual limits, and protecting your partner before they become overwhelmed or burn out.
It's also protecting the program.
The last thing any of us wants is a dog who has been asked to give more than they comfortably can, whose subtle communication has gone unnoticed for too long, or who ultimately needs to step away from the work because the demands became too much.
When you advocate for your dog, you're not working against your organization. You're working for it.
You're protecting the longevity of the program, the safety of the people involved, and most importantly, the well-being of the partner who makes the entire program possible. From the outside, it can be hard to see that. The excitement of new possibilities often takes center stage—and that's understandable. Everyone wants the program to grow and succeed.
As the handler, though, you have a perspective that no one else has. You're the one walking beside that dog every day. You're the one noticing the small changes, the subtle communication, the moments that everyone else misses. Trust what your dog is telling you. And don't be afraid to help others understand it, too.
You're not saying no because you don't care.
You're saying no because you do.
And sometimes, despite all of those thoughts about being a good employee, getting a raise, being liked, or keeping your job, you have to make the uncomfortable decision that your dog's safety matters more. That's a scary place to stand. But it's part of the responsibility you accepted when you took hold of that leash.
And then there are the questions nobody warned you about.
At some point, you may find yourself asking questions that weren't really part of the job description.
For me, those questions came gradually. At first, I was simply trying not to make mistakes. I wanted to make sure my dog was doing well, our program was doing well, and that we were helping as many people as possible.
As navigating the school became more natural, though, I had more space to think. I attended continuing education conferences. I listened to other professionals. I encountered perspectives I hadn't considered when I was 23.
And some questions surfaced that I couldn't unthink.
Is this ethical?
If you are being paid to work with your dog, where is the line between a working partnership and exploitation?
Is it fair to ask a dog to work?
If the dog willingly participates, does that answer the question?
If the dog doesn't actively resist, does that mean they're okay?
Who gets to decide how much is too much?
What does the dog get out of the relationship?
I didn't start my career thinking about any of those things. I was just trying to do a good job.
But once you start asking those questions, I don't think you can really go back to not asking them. And honestly, I'm glad I can't.
I don't have a perfect answer. I'm not sure there is one. I've seen dogs who seem genuinely excited about their work. Sage is a pretty convincing example. I can ask him, “Do you want to go see your kids?” and he'll literally spring out of bed, prance to the door, and get ready to put his work vest on.
That dog appears to have opinions about his career. And I think that matters.
But one dog's enthusiasm doesn't answer the question for every dog. Dogs are individuals.
Their personalities are different. Their communication is different. Their tolerance is different. What feels good on one day may not feel good on another.
And don't get me wrong—I don't think most dogs are going to walk into a room with Sage's level of enthusiasm.
A lot of dogs are much more subtle in how they communicate that they're enjoying something.
Sage was just...expressive. In everything. He wore his feelings all over his face and body. He was comical and relatable and incredibly easy for people to warm up to.
If Sage was happy to see you, there was really no question about it.
Other dogs I worked with showed their enjoyment much more quietly. They might become a little more animated when they realized where they were going. They might seek out a particular person, choose to re-engage with someone, or simply show a subtle but consistent willingness to participate.
They weren't Sage.
And they didn't need to be.
Of course I'm going to show my dog. He was my dog, after all. I had a special bond with him, and I knew him better than anyone. But I'm not suggesting that every dog needs to look like Sage to enjoy this work.
That's another thing I learned from working with so many different dogs and handler teams: there isn't one way for a dog to love the job.
The important part is learning your own dog well enough to recognize what their version of enjoyment looks like.
So maybe the answer isn't simply yes or no. Maybe the answer is that we have a responsibility to keep asking.
Not just:
Can my dog do this?
But:
Should my dog do this?
Does my dog enjoy this?
How much is appropriate?
Is my dog actually benefiting from this relationship?
And perhaps most importantly:
Is this still working for my dog?
Find your people.
If there's one thing I would tell a new handler to do before they ever really need it, it's this: Find your people.
Because more often than not, you are going to be the only dog handler in a sea of people who view you as someone who gets to bring their dog to work, walk them around all day, and let kids pet them.
It can look like a dream from the outside. And it is a dream in many ways.
But it is also a job that requires you to constantly manage another living being in an environment that was never designed around dogs.
Have you ever walked your dog into a gymnasium with basketballs bouncing and flying off the walls?
Have you ever had a fire alarm go off while you're standing there with your dog?
Have you ever had to sit with your dog in a corner during a lockdown drill?
Have you ever navigated a crammed staircase during the change of classes with your dog?
Have you ever brought your dog to the special education gymnasium Halloween party—with the lights off, 100 kids in costumes, and Pitbull blasting through the speakers?
Have you ever had emergency personnel come into the building to assist a student after an explosive outburst, while you were called in with your dog to help de-escalate—and suddenly you're sitting with that student as police officers and paramedics enter with stretchers?
Has your dog ever been accidentally stepped on, kicked, poked, or chased by strangers?
Has your dog ever had to safely exit a classroom where tables suddenly start flipping seemingly out of nowhere?
Has your dog ever sat beside a student who just lost their dad and was having a debilitating panic attack?
Has your dog ever shared space with someone experiencing a psychotic hallucination?
Has your dog ever navigated crash pads, swings hanging from ceilings, body socks, inchworms, scooters, obstacle courses, hands that don't quite know their own grip strength, and poppers coming at their face?
What about buses?
Cars?
Screaming children in distress?
Loud assemblies?
Student concerts?
Galas?
Field days?
That's just a fraction of it.
And this is where the “dream job” can become surprisingly lonely. Because everyone in the building may love dogs. They may genuinely care about your dog. They may have owned dogs their entire lives. And because you're the dog person, everyone may also have an opinion about what your dog should be doing.
You know the conversation:
“I'm a dog person. I've had three dogs, so I know dogs.”
Okay, great, Larry. Appreciate you. 😂
And then there's the other classic:
“Wow. You have the dream job. I'd love to come to work and play with my dog all day.”
Insert flat smile here.
Yes, I walked a dog around a school.
Yes, people pet him. Yes - we played sometimes, too!
But have you ever had to navigate all of those things while simultaneously thinking about how your dog is experiencing them?
That's the difference. Your dog has to navigate the environment safely.
And you have to navigate it for them.
Sometimes the hardest part isn't the work itself. It's being the only person in the building who understands what you're watching. That's why finding other handlers mattered so much to me.
I had the privilege of working alongside other amazing handlers, and I will never take that for granted.
We weren't all the same.
Our dogs were different.
Our personalities were different.
Our handling styles were different.
But we were like-minded where it counted, and we trusted one another.
We talked about our wins.
We talked about our concerns.
We talked about the things we didn't necessarily want to broadcast to everyone who didn't understand what it was like to be on the other end of the leash.
We could bounce things off each other.
We could say, “This happened today. What do you think?”
We could say, “I don't know if I'm overreacting.”
And someone who understood could say:
“No. You're not crazy.”
Or:
“I see why you're concerned.”
Or even:
“I think you're okay here. Here's what I'm seeing.”
That kind of support is invaluable.
Having an AAI department was a luxury I will never take for granted. Those were my people.
They were the people I could talk dog with. And I appreciated them even more during transitions, periods of uncertainty, or the days when I was the only handler in the building.
It was good for the handlers' souls. And honestly? It was good for our dogs, too. Because handlers who have people to talk to are less likely to feel like they have to figure everything out alone.
They can question themselves without spiraling.
They can catch problems earlier.
They can hear another perspective.
They can advocate for their dogs with more confidence.
So if you're a new facility dog handler, find your people.
Don't wait until you're overwhelmed.
Don't wait until something goes wrong.
Connect with other handlers. Find people who understand AAI. Find people who have stood at the other end of a leash and had to make these decisions.
And if you find yourself sitting in your car after a hard day wondering whether you're being unreasonable, difficult, overly cautious, or just completely in over your head?
Email me. Seriously.
One of my favorite things about being a handler was having people I could reach out to when I needed someone to talk me off the ledge. I know how much that kind of support can mean, and if you're a new handler and don't have that person yet, send me an email. I'd be happy to help if I can.
Sometimes you don't need someone to solve the problem. You just need someone to say, “I get it.”
What I know now
Being a facility dog handler really was my dream job.
And I wouldn't change that for the world.
It changed my life.
It shaped my career.
It changed the way I look at dogs and people.
It gave me some of the most meaningful experiences I've ever had.
But it also taught me that loving dogs and wanting to help people with dogs is only the beginning.
There is so much more to learn.
You have to learn your dog.
You have to learn the environment.
You have to learn the people.
You have to learn how to communicate.
You have to learn how to advocate.
You have to learn when to say yes.
You have to learn when to say no.
You have to learn how to recognize when something isn't working.
And you have to become comfortable with the fact that sometimes there isn't a perfect answer.
If I could go back and talk to the 23-year-old version of myself who was just starting out, I wouldn't tell her to be less excited. I'd actually tell her to hold onto that excitement. The excitement is part of what makes this work so wonderfully beautiful.
I'd just tell her that the dream job is also going to become an education.
An education in dogs.
An education in people.
An education in relationships.
And an education in the complicated space where all three meet.
You will learn things you didn't know you needed to learn.
You will ask questions you didn't know you needed to ask.
And if you're doing it right, you'll probably finish the experience with more questions than you started with. I think that's okay. Maybe that's even the point.
Because the best facility dog handlers aren't the people who think they have figured everything out.
They're the people who keep watching.
Keep listening.
Keep asking questions.
Keep learning.
And keep making sure the work is serving the beings who are actually doing it.
Train your dog for the job.
Then spend the rest of your career learning how to listen to the dog doing it.
Comments