Jackie Pritchard Dog Training

01/04/2026

This came up in my memories today.
I am still very proud and honoured by this 🙏🐾❤️

01/03/2026

Aggression cannot be resolved with training. Aggression is communication. The dog is having some BIG feelings. A well planned out behaviour modification program under the guidance of a qualified trainer or behaviourist is the best course of action.

Aggression Is Not a Training Problem

When aggression shows up, the conversation almost always moves quickly toward training plans, tools, and techniques.
What cues should we teach?
What skills should we strengthen?
What’s the fastest way to stop the behavior?

That response makes sense. Training feels actionable.

But aggression isn’t actually a training problem.

It isn’t a lack of cues.
It isn’t stubbornness.
It isn’t a dog “blowing you off.”

Aggression is information. It reflects how a dog is experiencing their environment, their relationships, and their internal state at that moment.

When we focus only on obedience, we risk missing critical pieces of the picture: emotional regulation, stress, context, overall welfare, and even pain.

Skills can sometimes change how behavior looks on the surface, but they don’t resolve fear, discomfort, or conflict on their own.

Lasting change starts when we slow down enough to understand why a behavior exists before deciding how to address it.

01/01/2026

✨"There is a cycle of love and death that shapes the lives of those who choose to travel in the company of animals. It is a cycle unlike any other. To those who have never lived through its turnings or walked its rocky path, our willingness to give our hearts with full knowledge that they will be broken seems incomprehensible. Only we know how small a price we pay for what we receive; our grief, no matter how powerful it may be, is an insufficient measure of the joy we have been given."✨

~Suzanne Clothier~



01/01/2026

No means no…no explanation required.
If you have worked with me, I talk about how our dogs look to us as their guardians to keep them safe. I cannot count the times that I have worked with fearful dogs and some goof says, “I know dogs, they all like me”. When they choose to not give us space after they have been clearly asked to do so, I will defend the dog every single time. If it turns into a shouting match, so be it. My dogs, the dogs and their people whom I work with know that we will always, always keep the dog safe…even against entitled bullies.

I didn’t know how much rage I was holding back until I saw a stranger’s hand reaching for my dog, and I realized—with terrifying clarity—that I was ready to bite him myself.

We were sitting on the patio of The Daily Grind, a generic, overpriced coffee shop that had popped up in my neighborhood during the last wave of gentrification. It was one of those crisp, bright Tuesday mornings that feel aggressive in their cheerfulness.

Under the metal table, Babel was doing his best to become invisible.

Babel isn’t the kind of dog you see on dog food commercials. He’s a Greyhound mix, likely crossed with something wiry and ancient like a Saluki. He is all elbows, ribcage, and nervous energy. I adopted him two years ago from a hoarding situation in rural Ohio. He doesn’t understand toys, he flinches at the sound of a dropped spoon, and his eyes—large, liquid, and perpetually worried—seem to hold the weight of a thousand disappointments.

Babel is a creature of boundaries in a world that hates them.

I was sipping my oat milk latte, scrolling through the news on my phone. The headlines were the usual American cocktail of anxiety: debates over who controls whose body, billionaires building bunkers while the housing market imploded, and Op-Eds about why my generation is too sensitive. I felt that low-level hum of exhaustion that everyone I know seems to live with lately. The feeling that we are all just commodities, waiting to be consumed.

Then, a shadow fell over the table.

"Well, aren't you a unique looking thing?"

The voice was loud, projecting the kind of unearned confidence that usually comes with a tax bracket I’ll never reach. I looked up. Standing there was a man in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt tucked into khakis and expensive loafers. He had a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a smile that felt less like an expression of joy and more like a demand for compliance.

Babel shifted against my shin. I felt his muscles tense, turning hard as wire. He tucked his long, needle-nose snout under his paws. The universal sign for: Please, I am not here.

"He’s a rescue," I said, offering the polite, tight-lipped smile I’ve been trained to wear since kindergarten. "He’s very anxious. We’re just working on exposure therapy today."

It was a clear dismissal. A boundary drawn in the sand.

The man didn’t even look at me. His eyes were locked on Babel. "Nonsense," he boomed, stepping closer. "Dogs know good people. Animals love me. My brother has a Golden Retriever, loves to wrestle."

"He’s not a Golden Retriever," I said, my voice hardening slightly. "He’s scared. Please give him space."

The man chuckled. It was a patronizing sound, wet and heavy. "You’re projecting, sweetheart. You’re making him nervous with all that negative energy. He just needs a firm hand and a friendly scratch."

He began to bend down.

In that slowed-down moment, a thousand memories fired in my synapses. I remembered the uncle who demanded hugs at Thanksgiving even when I pulled away. I remembered the boss who rested his hand on my shoulder while critiquing my spreadsheets, telling me to "relax" when I stiffened. I remembered the way politicians discussed healthcare, talking over the people actually living in the bodies they were legislating.

I realized it wasn’t about the dog. It’s never just about the dog. It was about Entitlement. The belief that if something is in public—a woman, a child, an animal, a park—it belongs to the public. It belongs to him because he wants it.

"Sir, do not touch my dog," I said. This time, I didn't smile.

He paused, looking at me with genuine annoyance. "You don't have to be a bitch about it. I'm just being friendly. It’s a compliment."

It’s a compliment. The catchphrase of the boundary-crosser.

"He doesn't want your compliment," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He wants to be left alone."

"He’s a dog," the man scoffed. "He doesn't know what he wants."

And then, he did it. He ignored my voice. He ignored Babel’s trembling ribs. He ignored the whale-eye Babel was giving him—the whites of his eyes showing in sheer terror. The man reached out his fleshy, broad hand to pat Babel’s head, claiming his right to touch.

Babel didn't bite. He didn't attack.

He snapped.

It was an air-snap, a loud CLACK of teeth inches from the man's fingers, accompanied by a guttural, vibrating growl that came from the depths of his survival instinct. It was the sound of a creature who had been cornered and had no words left.

The man je**ed back as if he’d been shot. He stumbled, knocking into an empty chair.

"Jesus!" he shouted, his face turning a mottled red. "That thing is vicious! He almost bit me!"

The coffee shop went silent. Heads turned. I saw the judgment in their eyes—the fear of the 'unpredictable animal.'

"You need to muzzle that beast!" the man yelled, his embarrassment curdling into aggression. "If you can't control your animal, you shouldn't have him in public. I could sue you! I could have him put down!"

I stood up. My legs were shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline dump of a lifetime. I looked at Babel. He was cowering now, pressing himself into the concrete, waiting for the punishment he thought he deserved for protecting himself.

I looked at the man. And I saw him for what he was: a bully who was used to the world bending to his whims, shocked that a frightened animal hadn't read the script.

"He didn't bite you," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, carrying across the silent patio. "He told you 'No' in the only language he speaks. And he only did that because you refused to listen to me when I told you 'No' in English."

The man sputtered. "He—he’s aggressive."

"He is not aggressive," I stepped between him and Babel. "He is autonomous. He is a living being with feelings and fears, and he is not here for your entertainment. He is not public property."

I looked around the patio, meeting the eyes of the onlookers. A young woman with a laptop gave me a tiny, imperceptible nod. An older lady frowned, but she was listening.

I turned back to the man. "You felt entitled to touch him. You prioritized your desire to feel like a 'good guy' over his feeling of safety. And now that he’s set a boundary, you’re playing the victim. It’s a classic move. But it’s not going to work today."

"You're crazy," the man muttered, adjusting his polo shirt, unable to hold my gaze. "Another hysterical liberal woman with a dangerous cur."

"And you," I said, dropping my voice so only he could hear, "are the reason women choose the bear."

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned on his heel. He stormed off toward his oversized SUV, muttering about how the neighborhood had gone to hell.

I sat back down. My hands were trembling as I reached under the table. Babel looked up at me, his ears flat, expecting a scolding.

"It's okay, buddy," I whispered, stroking the velvet fur behind his ears. "You’re a good boy. You’re a very good boy."

He let out a long, shuddering breath and rested his head on my knee.

I looked at my cold latte. I thought about how many times I had stayed silent to keep the peace. I thought about how many times I had let people touch my hair, or interrupt me, or explain my own job to me, just to avoid being called "difficult" or "crazy."

Babel hadn’t worried about being called crazy. He cared about being safe.

We sat there for another twenty minutes. I didn't leave immediately. I wouldn't let that man chase us out of our space. When we finally got up to leave, the young woman with the laptop looked up.

"He's a beautiful dog," she said softly.

"Thank you," I replied. "He's very selective about his friends."

"Good for him," she said. "We all should be."

As we walked home, the city noise seemed a little less oppressive. Babel trotted beside me, his head held a little higher. He had defended his space, and the sky hadn't fallen.

The lesson wasn't just for the man in the suit. It was for me. It was for anyone who has been told that their discomfort is less important than someone else's ego.

Consent isn't just a legal term. It’s a culture. And if a nervous Greyhound mix can demand it against a world that wants to consume him, then maybe, just maybe, I can too.

A 'No' is a complete sentence. It doesn't require a smile, an apology, or an explanation to be valid. Whether it comes from a woman, a child, or a dog—listen to it the first time.

01/01/2026

Wishing all my furry friends and their people a very Happy New Year 🐾❤️
Thank you to all my clients, past and present for your unwavering support 🙏
Stay tuned, we have some exciting things planned for 2026.

12/31/2025

The Dog World Grieves Sarah Fisher's Passing.

I did not know Sarah Fisher. I don’t need to know her to understand what an extraordinary person she must have been to be so cherished by so many. We do know from her work that she was a great friend to both humans and dogs; profoundly impacting countless lives. It is an immense loss for all. We extend our condolences to Sarah’s family and friends.

After launching our ban shock collars website, she kindly sent us a quote to add to our comments page. Here it is.

12/30/2025

Couldn’t love this post more. Brilliant 🐾❤️

Balance, Responsibility, and the Reality of Dog Training

There’s been a lot of discussion recently — debates, arguments, conversations, call them what you will — around dog training methodologies and whose approach is more effective or more appropriate. As a trainer, I’ve always been open about where I stand and the beliefs that guide my work. At the same time, I try to operate from a place of curiosity and good faith. I don’t believe most people in this industry are acting with ill intent. Most care deeply about dogs and genuinely want to help.

Where I think things start to unravel is when the conversation becomes less about responsibility and more about proving whose method “works,” often using the most extreme cases as the benchmark.

The dogs with the biggest behaviours.
The dogs with the highest risk.
The dogs whose stories provoke the strongest emotional reactions.

Those cases matter — but they are not the place to build ideology from.

I often think about this in the same way I think about learning to drive.

When you first get behind the wheel, everything feels overwhelming. You’re all fingers and thumbs. You have to consciously think about every movement — the clutch, the brake, the accelerator, the mirrors, the indicators, your position on the road. You stall. You misjudge distances. You overcorrect. It’s exhausting.

I certainly did. In my early years of driving, I made plenty of mistakes — not because I was reckless, but because I was inexperienced. I didn’t yet have the awareness or instinct that only comes with time.

With practice, things begin to flow. You stop consciously thinking about every action. You anticipate rather than react. You read the road more clearly.

I’ve now been driving for decades, in different countries, on different sides of the road, and over hundreds of thousands of miles. And even now, I still have to be mindful. If I’m tired, I stop. If I’m distracted, I slow down. I know that pretending otherwise is how accidents happen.

That awareness — that responsibility — only comes with experience.

And this is where I see a strong parallel with dog training.

When we talk about training tools or methodologies, we need to ask a difficult but essential question: who is actually using them?

Is it the person who is brand new to dogs — unconsciously incompetent, still developing timing, observation, and emotional regulation?

Is it the overwhelmed owner who is already anxious and exhausted, now being asked to apply techniques that require precision, neutrality, and emotional control?

Or is it the highly experienced professional who has spent decades refining their skill set and who still, despite that experience, makes mistakes?

Because mistakes are inevitable. And when they happen, it’s the dog who pays the price.

That reality should sit at the centre of these conversations.

I don’t often share the more complex cases I work with, largely because they’re deeply personal for the people involved. But I have shared some, including Dusty and her owner, Julie.

Dusty came with a significant history of reactivity toward both people and other dogs. Safety had to be the foundation of everything we did. This wasn’t about proving a method or winning an argument — it was about protecting everyone involved while giving Dusty a life that felt predictable and safe.

Through reinforcement-based training, thoughtful management, and skill-building, Dusty and Julie developed a way of living that worked. Dusty can now be walked in public, attend seminars, be around people and other dogs in controlled environments, and live a rich, fulfilling life.

She isn’t “fixed.” She was never broken.

What changed was the framework around her — the clarity, consistency, and understanding that allowed her to cope with the world without being overwhelmed.

When I look back at my early years with Scrunch, I genuinely shudder at some of the mistakes I made. Not because I didn’t care — but because I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Like many first-time dog owners, I had good intentions and very little understanding of what dogs actually need to thrive. We expected her to behave appropriately without first teaching her how. We expected resilience before we had built confidence. We expected understanding without providing clarity.

And Scrunch paid the price for that ignorance.

She struggled with recall. She developed resource guarding. She struggled with separation and with social interactions. At the time, we saw these as problems to fix, rather than information about a dog who was overwhelmed and under-supported.

We didn’t yet understand emotional regulation, stress thresholds, or how easily pressure — even well-meaning pressure — could shape behaviour. We didn’t understand that behaviour is communication, not defiance.

Looking back now, I can see how many of those struggles were a direct result of our lack of education rather than anything inherently wrong with her. She wasn’t difficult. She was trying to survive in an environment she hadn’t been prepared for.

That realisation reshaped everything for me.

I’ve now been training dogs for over 30 years. I’ve worked with tens of thousands of dogs and supported countless people through behavioural challenges ranging from mildly frustrating to deeply complex.

And I still make mistakes.

My timing can be off. A dog can respond faster than I anticipate. A moment can unfold differently than expected. The difference now is that I choose approaches that leave room for human error — because error is inevitable.

Working with dogs like Scrunch taught me that sensitivity, awareness, and humility matter more than control or certainty. They force you to look inward, to question your assumptions, and to own your impact.

The word “balance” gets used a lot in dog training. Often it’s shorthand for “mostly positive, but with corrections when needed.” That’s not how I understand balance.

For me, balance isn’t about tools — it’s about perspective.

It’s about holding the needs of the dog, the human, and the wider world at the same time. It’s about asking: have I met this dog’s needs? Have I provided clarity, structure, enrichment, and emotional safety? Have I taught this dog how to succeed before expecting compliance?

Balance means looking at the whole picture — not just the behaviour in front of you.

In my experience, when a dog’s needs are truly met, when they are mentally stimulated, emotionally secure, and given appropriate outlets for their instincts, the need for punishment or aversive tools often disappears entirely.

The spaniel that’s frantic and can’t recall doesn’t need punishment — it needs an outlet for its working brain.
The border collie chasing traffic doesn’t need correction — it needs appropriate channels for generations of herding instinct.
The Rottweiler who is wary of strangers doesn’t need force — it needs clarity, predictability, and help learning that the world is safe.

So often, what we label as “behaviour problems” are simply unmet needs.

When we fail to meet those needs, we reach for consequences. When we meet them, behaviour changes naturally.

That, to me, is what balance really means.

Not forcing compliance.
Not proving a point.
But understanding the dog in front of us, educating the human beside them, and creating a life where both can thrive.

And perhaps, if we spent more time doing that, we’d spend far less time arguing about methods — and far more time actually helping dogs.

12/30/2025

A great loss to our industry 😢 RIP Sarah Fisher 🙏🐾🩵

You might not know this woman, but your dog will.

Recently, Sarah Fisher passed away. If you're a dog professional, you're most likely in mourning. If you're not, you might not know her face. But she will have been instrumental in what you've done with your dogs.

Sarah's work across the canine and animal world cannot be understated. I have not personally done one of her courses, but every conversation and every talk I had with her filled me with a sense of vigour and peace.

She strongly advocated for observing dogs as they were, noticing their behaviour and physical needs. She was passionate about ACE Freework, an exercise in which a number of objects, surfaces, textures and enrichment toys are placed for the dog to explore. We've used variations of this in classes, workshops and training camps.

I cannot claim to know Sarah well. We only met twice, both at dog conferences. We sat together at breakfast one morning and talked about the state of the dog industry. This was in July.

Almost every dog trainer you follow on social media will have been influenced, directly or indirectly, by her work. She was a knowledgable waterfall, and every professional was downstream of her wisdom and knowledge. Her ethos is the same one we carry into Nosework classes - freedom, agency and choice. If you've worked with me, you've benefited from her.

She will be greatly missed, and my thoughts are with her family and closest friends.