03/10/2024
Nawa and I just returned from our first regional trial in South Africa in over a year. Getting there is never easy—it's a solid two-day drive, which gave me plenty of time to reflect on the weekend and how far we've come.
It was around this time last year, after that same regional trial, that Nawa was attacked by another dog, leaving him with a broken foreleg. That event was traumatic for both of us, and his physical and emotional recovery took much longer than I expected.In the past months, we slowly built our way back up, tackling longer courses and competing in a club trial.
Physically, Nawa was ready, and I thought our teamwork would naturally follow, even if we were a little rusty. But on day one of the trial, I realized something was different. Nawa was eager to play, thank goodness, and still friendly toward other dogs, which was a huge relief. But he wasn't himself. His confidence had taken a hit—more than I had realized.
He hesitated at obstacles, sometimes stopping right in front of jumps. He refused every weave entry, and at the end of each run, he seemed more interested in visiting the other dogs than playing with me. It was heartbreaking to watch because I knew it wasn’t about his physical ability. His spirit had taken a knock. I wanted to help him so badly. I visualized every run more intensely than I ever had before, identifying tricky spots and focusing on giving him clear cues.
But no matter how much I prepared, Nawa kept coming off his lines, refusing the weaves, and drifting away after each run. My goal for the weekend had never been to win or qualify; I just wanted us to have fun. But as the day wore on, I was consumed by sadness, disappointment, and guilt. It felt like my amazing dog had changed, and I couldn't help but feel responsible.
Thankfully, I have incredible friends who helped me stay grounded. They reminded me not to get lost in negative emotions. As I watched the videos of our runs, I realised that this wasn’t about skill, it was about confidence. The lack of obstacle commitment, the sniffing during warm-up and cool-down, his reluctance to tug ringside, the desire to be around other dogs—all signs that I would’ve recognized instantly in someone else’s dog, but was too close to see in my own.
On day two, I shifted my focus entirely. Instead of trying to run clear, I concentrated on building Nawa's confidence. If he missed an obstacle, rather than repeating I blamed my handling and let it go. I brought a toy into the ring, and rewarded him strategically. I stopped asking for weaves altogether. And with each run, something amazing happened—Nawa got faster, more engaged, and by the end of the course, he was eager to play, clearly proud of himself.
By the end of day three, we weren’t exactly back to where we had left off a year ago, but we had found something better—joy. We had fun, and Nawa nailed every start line! I stepped to the line each time knowing we would hit that start, and that certainty did wonders for my own confidence.
As I sit here now, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude—for my teachers whose guidance has helped me support my dog instead of blaming him, for my agility community who keeps me motivated, and for my dear friend Bronwyn, who always helps me see things clearly. This weekend reminded me that progress isn’t always a straight line, but with patience, love, and support, you can always find your way back to the joy of the journey.