Kimberly Artley

12/24/2025

When I was building and operating PackFit, it was just my pack and me.

I spent every birthday and holiday alone with them. They were my family. My everything.

For years, I didn’t decorate for Christmas. I mean… what was the point?

I love the holidays—don’t get me wrong. I love what they represent and how they seem to bring out the best in people. The warmth. The smiles. The reconnections.

But for a long time, those things felt distant—like they were just out of reach for me.

Building and running my own business was arduous—but over time, and after more face-plants than I can count… obstacles, blood, sweat, tears, denaros, and countless hours… it finally reached a place that felt steady. Self-sustaining. Seamless. Something that could breathe without me holding it up every second.

So I’d buy a little tabletop tree (this one was from 2018).

There was never anything underneath it—except special toys for the dogs. It was warm, but it also served as a quiet reminder of how alone I was in life. Estranged from “family” for years, I poured every ounce of energy into building my business—my livelihood, my purpose. Whatever energy I had left, I gave to the dogs.

Our holidays were simple, but sacred. Morning hikes on our favorite trails. Big batches of home-cooked food we’d share together—turkey and dog-friendly sides for Thanksgiving; ground grass-fed beef, organic butternut squash, peas, garlic, ribboned kale, turmeric for Christmas (nothing I’d feed every day—just on special, big-batch holiday occasions).

We had our rituals. We had each other.

And I was blessed. Truly.

We had a lovely little home—our sanctuary. The Mini Pack Leaders and their families. Our favorite hiking trails. Healthy, clean food. Comfort. Peace. Our humble little home. Each other. I had a purpose I was serving, an impact I was making, and a business I built from the ground up—one I was deeply proud of, and that made a difference in the lives of others (on both ends of the leash).

Still, the holidays can be a stark reminder of how alone someone can feel.

Now, things are very different. And I'm savoring and treasuring it all.

I treasure the people in my life—Steve, his family, our dogs. The holidays, birthdays, and everyday moments now carry a whole new meaning.

The holidays are special, yes—but they can also be tender for many.

We take so much for granted and don’t truly understand the
value of something (or someone) until it’s | they're no longer there or easily accessible.

So if there’s one thing I’d offer this season, it’s this: bring warmth, love, and kindness to someone’s day—especially someone who may be quietly riding out a hard season. Check on those who may be sheltering in place emotionally. Take stock.

Give thanks for the blessings you may have once longed for… and the ones so familiar they fade into the background—until they’re no longer there.

I’m still waiting to hear how Winnie, Ava, and Cowboy are doing. I hold them in my heart and my prayers every single day.

Releasing them was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—but I trust they’re exactly where they’re meant to be, surrounded by the love and care they deserve. When I do hear back about them, you’ll all be the first to know.

So from my heart to yours— wishing you and your loved ones a magical, warm holiday season filled with love, connection, laughter, delicious, nourishing food… hope and faith.

www.kimberlyartley.com

12/21/2025

12/20/2025

Still searching for a meaningful Christmas gift?

If you’re still looking for a gift for the dog lover in your life, "The Human End of the Leash: Dog Training’s Missing Link" is available worldwide — with FREE delivery by December 24 on Amazon.

This book is not about quick fixes or surface-level training tips. It explores what truly shapes behavior — emotional state, nervous systems, leadership, and the unseen dynamics between humans and dogs.

A thoughtful gift for dog parents, trainers, rescue advocates, and anyone who wants to understand the why behind behavior.

Available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other major retailers.

Wishing you and yours a peaceful, wonder-filled, blessed holiday season 🫶

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12/17/2025

I want to share a little context as I begin posting some of this content here.

Since May, I’ve been collaborating with Long Run VIP Pet Care as their Director of Pet Health & Longevity, where I’ve been developing and leading a program I coined called Whole Pet Wellness (WPW).

Whole Pet Wellness is an integrated framework that supports pets across three essential dimensions: physical health, emotional health, and mental well-being — all within the context of environment, which continuously influences and shapes each domain.

WPW is grounded in the understanding that behavior is never just “behavior,” health is never just “physical,” and longevity is about far more than adding years — it’s about improving quality of life.

Supporting one area without the others leaves gaps.

This program is being built intentionally from the ground up to reflect how pets actually live, feel, adapt, and age, with a strong emphasis on education, prevention, nervous-system awareness, and truly integrated care.

For the time being, I’ll also be the one writing and sharing their social content. My hope is that you find it helpful, grounding, and genuinely supportive — content designed to inform, empower, and meet both pets and their people where they are.

This work brings together everything I’ve spent decades studying, teaching, and living at the human end of the leash. I’m incredibly proud of what we’re building — and grateful to be doing this work alongside a team that understands that wellness is not one-size-fits-all. ❣️

12/17/2025

A Note on Nervous Systems (My New Focus), Dogs, Armchair Judgment, and the Arena

I’ll be the first to admit it — I completely lost myself in this rescue effort.

I was advocating for beings who don’t have a voice, and I was all in.

Beings who are 100% reliant on every decision we make.

Who absorb the consequences when humans opt out, burn out, or look away.

I didn’t begin this rescue effort because I could.

I did it because no one else would.

Time was running out.

Their lives were on the line.

Waiting for a “better option” would have meant waiting too long.
(And it did, anyway.)

I was trying to protect these dogs from falling through cracks that are wide and unforgiving.

Trying to keep them out of the shelter system.

Trying to keep them safe in a world where the level of quiet — and not-so-quiet — atrocity toward dogs is staggering.

And somewhere along the way, while carrying responsibility that was never meant to be held by one nervous system alone, I disappeared.

That’s the part people miss.

I am HUMAN.

And I challenge the notion — especially in the dog world — that being a trainer or behaviorist should somehow make someone immune to being human.

Skill does not cancel biology.

Expertise does not override nervous-system limits.

Titles, degrees, and certifications do not grant immunity from grief, stress, pressure, or depletion.

Dogs don’t respond to credentials.

They respond to STATE.

They respond to nervous systems before technique.

They respond to environment, energy, and regulation — over everything else.

I didn’t just understand this intellectually.

I watched it play out in real time.

Cowboy and Winnie were still young, impressionable, and highly sensitive — still figuring out life, still deeply shaped by environment.

Ava is exquisitely attuned — observant, responsive, and sensitive to subtle shifts.

And yes — each of them was responding to my state.
That doesn’t make me incompetent.

It makes me human.

Nervous systems shape everything.

They shape how dogs perceive the world.

They shape whether dogs feel safe, comfortable, and secure following our lead.

They shape whether dogs trust that the human in front of them can handle pressure, uncertainty, and whatever life brings next.

This is what influences how a dog’s energy, drives, characteristics, and traits express themselves.

Skill alone doesn’t override this.

Love alone doesn’t override this.

Experience alone doesn’t override this.

I’ve been transparent throughout this entire effort — not for sympathy, not for validation — but for AWARENESS.

I have always used my lived experience to shed light, to teach, and to expand understanding.

Not from a pedestal — but from inside the work.

And I want to be clear about armchair judgment and the Arena.
I’m not interested in feedback, criticism, or hindsight analysis from people who are not — and have not been — in the Arena.

If you were not living the logistics, the responsibility, the risk, the constant decision-making, the sleepless nights, the financial exposure, and the emotional weight, then what you’re offering is speculation — not insight.

It’s easy to judge from the sidelines.

It’s easy to replay moments with certainty when you weren’t carrying the consequences.

It’s easy to comment when you weren’t holding lives in real time.
Theodore Roosevelt said it best: the credit belongs to the one who is actually in the Arena — whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who errs while daring greatly, and who spends themselves in a worthy cause.

That was me.

And I’m not taking direction from voices who were never willing to step in, stand beside me, or share the weight.

This isn’t about silencing conversation.

It’s about discernment.

Right now, my focus is shifting — personally and professionally — toward nervous-system healing and regulation.

This is a critical — and often overlooked — ingredient in canine behavior.

Because this is what dogs respond to.

And that’s what this decision was all about.

Hard, but necessary.

The dogs are doing exactly what we hoped they would do once space, support, and stability were restored:

• Cowboy has been neutered and is recovering, slowly decompressing

• Ava is living with another happy-go-lucky dog — the best possible energy for her (as Ronin once was)

• Winnie is beginning to come out of her shell

They are safe.

Supported.

Regulating.

And so am I.

And yes — I miss them.

More than words can say.

This separation was very, very hard.

I miss Ava’s steady presence — her resilience, her deep emotional attunement, her strong spirit.

I miss Winnie’s sassiness — her joie de vivre, her sharpness, her “let’s do this” spark.

And I miss Cowboy’s quiet ways — his trusting nature, his sensitivity, his love of small circles, his gentle introversion.

It hurts that I couldn’t give them what they needed most in that moment: regulation.

Steady, consistent, pressure-free living.

The kind of environment my old crew and I shared for a long time — spacious, predictable, grounded.

My life looks different now.

I share my home, my days, and my moments with others (and those I deeply care about and dearly love).

Missing them doesn’t mean the decision was wrong.

It means the bond was real.

And I also believe this is why the Divine Intervention happened.
There were prayer warriors holding us from afar.

And there were my own daily, tearful prayers — begging for help, support, signs, and guidance.

For a way forward that protected us all.

And this was the answer.

Unexpected.

Unbelievable.

Miraculous.

Not the one my Ego wanted.

Not the one my Attachment hoped for.

But the one my nervous system, my health — and theirs — needed.

This was the Miracle.

Help arriving in a form that required release.

Support that came with grief woven into it.

An intervention that restored safety, regulation, and possibility — even though it asked something painful of me in return.

I know this to be true.

Everything aligned in ways I could not have orchestrated.

The timing defied logic.

This wasn’t abandonment.

It was protection.

It was Spirit stepping in where my nervous system could no longer carry the weight alone.

And accepting that help — even when it hurt — was part of the work.

That’s the work I’m doing now.

Healing.

Regulating.

Listening.

My work with people and dogs is shifting — yet again — toward nervous-system health and regulation.

Toward the ever-important factor of STATE —
because dogs respond to STATE more than anything.

This isn’t theory.

It’s lived experience through the many years of living and working with dogs.

I am living this work.

Moving through it.

And one more thing I want to share.

As you know, I’ve been chronicling this entire journey since day one. There is a great deal of material — moments of heartbreak, hope, faith, failure, resilience, and grace.

I recently submitted a script treatment to four production management companies here in California. I fully expected that if I heard anything at all, it would be months down the line.

I was surprised — and deeply grateful — to hear back from one just yesterday.

So this, too, will be something I’m working on.

My first script — beginning slightly before the rescue effort.

This story is incredible, insightful, and educational.

It dances delicately across the entire emotional spectrum.

I’m calling it "The Long Way Home."

For now, this is where I am.

Present.

Honest.

Healing.

And deeply Human.

More to come.

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For those wondering, here's a brief transparency note:

A significant portion of the funds raised went directly to the rescue that took in Cowboy, Winnie, and Ava, to support their ongoing care and transition.

The remaining funds were used for the logistics required to move multiple dogs safely across several states — including securing Airbnbs along the route, preparing the Jeep for long-distance travel, their food and road essentials, boxes, tape, bins, moving blankets and other moving supplies, and the moving pod.

Every dollar was used in service of the same goal: ensuring their safety, stability, and long-term wellbeing. This is exactly what we did — even as the outcome ultimately unfolded differently than planned.

(Ava, Winnie, and Cowboy in their own, separate foster homes)

12/13/2025

I can see the full arc now in a way I couldn’t while I was inside it.

This rescue didn’t resolve in spite of the community — it resolved because of it.

Had the move not happened, we would never have ended up in Phoenix.

Had we not ended up in Phoenix, I would never have met the woman who quite literally changed the course of all our lives.

And that meeting didn’t happen by accident — it happened because every single person who showed up before that moment made it possible for me to be there at all.

Phoenix wasn’t a detour.

It was a convergence point.

This entire outcome was shaped by a collective — by donations, messages, encouragement, prayers, trust, shared resources, and the willingness of so many people to say yes when it mattered most.

And above and through all of it, I know this was guided by God and my divine support team. Even when the road looked chaotic, confusing, or heartbreaking from the outside, it was being carried by something far greater than any one of us.

What unfolded was nothing short of divine intervention — a true miracle. I know this without question.

As I’m working on a film treatment outline and processing both gratitude and grief, I’m learning that miracles don’t erase loss — they often sit right beside it.

Receiving this outcome has brought deep thankfulness, and also letting go, surrender, and the quiet mourning of what could not come with me.

Divine intervention doesn’t always arrive gently; sometimes it arrives through heartbreak and trust beyond logic, asking us to release what we love while being carried toward what is meant.

When Ava and the puppies first came into my life, I was in the process of launching a new podcast called "The Human End of the Leash" and wrapping up my book, "The Human End of the Leash: Dog Training’s Missing Link" (https://a.co/d/c602XNE). Both of those projects immediately took a backseat when they arrived.

Six months later — with Ava steadily and supportively by my side as my muse and co-creator — I found my way back to the book. Every day, she sat beside me for hours on end as I wrote. She’s even featured in its pages.

Now, as I circle back to the projects and initiatives that were paused to make space for the rescue, I can see how this experience punctuated, highlighted, revealed, taught, deepened, refined, reshaped, and clarified everything I believed I already understood — about behavior, nervous systems, love, responsibility, surrender, and the emotional, ethical, and practical realities of what responsible rescue truly requires — and how much it asks of everyone involved, often in ways that aren’t visible or talked about.

It’s my hope that the transparency of this effort helped deepen awareness around the sacrifices involved — the financial costs, the emotional toll, the complexity, and the quiet challenges that accompany doing rescue responsibly.

They were never just dogs I was helping.

They were teachers — and they made the work truer.

To anyone who financially supported our journey over the course of the last year, I would love to offer you a digital copy of the book as a small thank-you. If you’d like one, simply reply here or send me a message ([email protected]), and I’ll be happy to share it with you.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for being part of the village — both seen and unseen — that made this miracle possible.

With love and deep appreciation,

K.

12/12/2025

An Update: Grief & Gratitude, Nervous Systems, Letting Go — and a New Script

I watched a video this morning — one I’d shared eight days ago in the GoFundMe updates, just after we landed in Phoenix.

Sitting here, sipping tea. That familiar lump in my throat. Tears streaming down my face.

I won’t be sharing the video on social media; I’ll leave it in the GoFundMe updates.

But the contrast between the woman in that video and the woman in this photo of Ava and me from just a year ago — when she and the puppies first came to us — is astounding.

One is hopeful. Grounded. Full.

The other is undone. Overwhelmed. Worn thin.

That contrast tells the story better than any explanation ever could.

This was one of the greatest fights of my life — the fight for them.
And now… the fight for me and my recovery.

The sacrifice this rescue required was immense. Financially. Physically. Emotionally. Neurologically. It was intense then — and it’s still quite intense now.

I need to say this out loud, even if it’s uncomfortable.

I’m really struggling with letting go.

I understand the idea of “no news is good news.”

I know people are busy.

I know it’s only been a week.

I know everyone is carrying their own responsibilities, pressures, and lives.

And still… questions and reach-outs often go unanswered.

When you invest all you are and all you have — your finances, your time, your attention — when your community invests alongside you, too — and it costs you your body, your nervous system, your heart, your life — being forced to turn it over makes the not-knowing excruciating.

What’s hardest isn’t even the lack of updates.

It’s the lack of response.

Even a simple “no updates yet” would matter. Because regardless of time, I will always care.

This family — these dogs — I gave everything I was and am to.

And when there’s silence, it can feel like that depth of care isn’t fully understood. Or worse, that it’s invisible.

This is why I struggled so very hard to come to the decision to release them.

Because once you do, you learn something difficult: most people are focused on their own lives.

And that’s human.

I understand that.

But it also means they may never fully grasp the level of vigilance, attunement, and responsibility that came before — the way loving these dogs wasn’t something I could compartmentalize. It was a full-body, full-life commitment.

This is one of the reasons I wanted to see this all the way through myself — to remain present, responsive, and attuned until the very end. To ensure they found others ready and willing to do the same.

But I couldn’t do that and choose my family, my home, my health, and my life. At some point, something had to give.

This photo of Ava and me is from the beginning — when she first came to us and was nursing her babies. I spent so much time in there with all of them.

Our bond was beautiful. Loving. Trusting. Respectful. Deep. We were highly, highly attuned to one another.

And I know — in my bones — that the level of stress I was under toward the end impacted her. It impacted all of them. And that knowing hurts in a way I don’t have words for.

At the same time, I also know this to be true:

They all needed to be separated.

They needed their own spaces.

They needed to go on and live their own individual lives.

Healing is needed — for them, and for me.

I also want to share an observation from these photos —

While Ava looked more relaxed her first day in foster, she looks more stressed about a week in (rigidity and tension in her body language, dilated pupils, drooling).

Winnie and Cowboy showed the opposite pattern — more stress upon intake, followed by visible softening and relaxation as the days have gone on.

This doesn’t mean anyone is “doing better” or “doing worse.”

Nervous systems don’t all respond on the same timeline.

Ava is highly resilient. Tough as nails. She takes change like a champ. And for dogs like her, this pattern actually makes sense.

Highly adaptive dogs often mobilize well at first — they cope, they function, they handle the transition — and then show stress later, once they feel safe enough to stop holding it together and start processing.

Early calm doesn’t always mean fully settled.

Later stress doesn’t mean failure.

It often means: “I’m safe enough now to feel this.”

Winnie and Cowboy process more externally. Their bodies showed stress first, then softened as routine and predictability set in.

Ava processes more internally. Her nervous system held steady through the initial change and is now doing the deeper work of decompression.

Different dogs.

Different nervous systems.

Different perceptions.

Different timelines.

And behavior — always — is information.

Even the backyard here tells this story. What was once lush and green was worn down to dirt over the past year. Barren.
Exhausted by too much, for too long.

And now… small green sprouts are beginning to appear. Quiet signs of recovery. Of life returning.

There’s something else that’s been heavy on my heart.

I offered help to the fosters and the rescue. Repeatedly.

No one has taken me up on it.

Free access to my masterclasses and courses — including content on influential behavioral ingredients not typically taught in the traditional dog-training world.

Direct access to me.

A free digital copy of the new book.

It’s hard not to take that personally.

But just because I wasn’t able to regulate at the end — just because my nervous system was overwhelmed — does not mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.

There is a difference between capacity and capability.

I have the knowledge.

The skill.

The experience.

I know what they needed. I know what they still need.

What I didn’t have was the capacity to provide it — not without losing my life, my relationships, my home, and my own safety in the process.

Without nervous system regulation — and without stabilizing support and full support in the mission — knowledge and skill cannot be effectively applied.

This is true for dogs.

It’s true for humans.

And it was painfully true for me at the end.

This wasn’t about capability.

It was about capacity.

This required more support than I had — and more capacity than was available.

And there were a lot of ingredients working against us — realities that compounded over time, both systemically and internally.

That reality breaks my heart.

There’s another layer of grief here — one that’s quieter, but very real.

Part of releasing them has meant releasing control over the kind of daily support their bodies, hearts, and nervous systems receive.

Letting go of the standards of care I lived by and advocated for — not because others don’t care, but because most systems are built around what’s fast, affordable, and considered “good enough.”

Clean, biologically appropriate nourishment.

Supporting the body from the inside out.

Titer testing in lieu of routine re-vaccination.

Listening to what the nervous system and immune system are actually communicating.

These choices aren’t the norm in the U.S. — and over-vaccination, poor nutrition, and reactive “sick care” approaches are very real issues in our pet world.

Humans get choice. Dogs don’t.

Releasing them has meant accepting that they may not receive the kind of whole-body, whole-being support they’ve known — not because anyone intends harm, but because the system itself isn’t designed for that level of nuance, care, and prevention.

That acceptance has been its own form of grief.

I’m a quality-of-life person. Always have been. I believe nourishment matters. Regulation matters. Prevention matters.

And stepping away from being able to advocate for that directly has been one of the hardest parts of all of this.

I was in no condition to do a cross-country road trip safely. The way things unfolded was, in many ways, a Godwink — an answer to prayers. Divine Intervention. Protection for all of us.

I don’t miss that. I see it clearly. I honor it.

And still… accepting that gift required something from me.

It required letting go in a way I was both ready and not ready for.

It required releasing not just the dogs, but my voice, my involvement, and my stewardship — at a time when love and care were still driving every instinct in me.

That grief has been harder than I expected.

It would be easier to release if the level of care I poured in was still being honored — if the depth of my love and responsibility was acknowledged and recognized, rather than treated as something to be shut out once the handoff was complete.

I would never cut someone out when love and care were the driving force and the intention behind their involvement.

Accepting that others may choose differently — even while I remain grateful — has been one of the quietest, hardest parts of this entire experience.

Gratitude and grief can coexist.

Grace can still hurt.

And miracles don’t always arrive without cost.

What hurts isn’t that I let go — it’s that I HAD to, while still caring just as much.

I didn’t just release dogs from my care. I released stewardship. Agency. The ability to protect through presence. And for someone whose love shows up as responsibility, attunement, and follow-through, that loss cuts deep.

I’m holding gratitude and grief at the same time.

Relief and heartbreak.

Trust and fear.

I can know I did the right thing and still wish I could reach in and steady things.

This pain doesn’t mean the choice was wrong.

It means the bond was real.

And it means my care didn’t disappear just because my role changed.

This sacrifice I made for them wasn’t just me choosing myself.

It was also me choosing them.

Because my greatest, sincerest hope is that they go on to live happy, wonder-filled, love-filled lives — full of adventure.

Lives with people willing to go the distance for them the way I did. People who honor responsibility and commit to their commitments.

I did everything I could.

And everything I was able.

I know this was needed.

For all of us.

I’m turning this entire ordeal into a script — and likely into a book as well. Since I’ve been on couch arrest, healing from the deep gashes in my leg, I’ve been writing steadily, and I’m nearly finished with the script.

This feels like the natural next container for a story this big.
I didn’t just live an ordeal.

I lived an arc.

Steve and I both did.

What I’ve been describing all along — the timing, the convergence, the sacrifice, the nervous-system cost, the grace notes, the Godwinks, the letting go — that isn’t just a rescue story. It’s a human story, with dogs as sacred mirrors.

That’s why people keep saying, “You should turn this into a Hallmark movie.”

They’re not responding to sentimentality.

They’re responding to structure.

And I’m trusting — even on the hard days — that healing is still unfolding, whether I can see it or not.

12/10/2025

If this past week revealed anything, it’s that discomfort truly is the doorway — the place where breakdown becomes breakthrough, where we grow into who we’re meant to become.

And that’s at the heart of Chapter Nine.

It’s a truth that applies to us and to our dogs.

Discomfort isn’t punishment.
Discomfort isn’t failure.
Discomfort isn’t proof that we’re “not doing it right.”

Discomfort is information.
Discomfort is guidance.
Discomfort is the invitation.

It’s the soul’s nudge toward expansion.

The body’s signal that something needs tending.

The nervous system’s way of saying:
“There’s more here. Don’t turn away.”

This last year — and especially this last week — asked more of me than I felt I had.

It stretched me.

Exposed me.

Showed me my own edges and limits.

And it forced me into a level of discomfort I would never choose… but absolutely needed.

And the dogs felt every moment of it.

They responded to my overwhelm, my fear, my depletion, my hope — because dogs don’t respond to our words.

They respond to our state.

Let me say this again for the people in the back:

DOGS DON'T RESPOND TO OUR WORDS. THEY RESPOND TO OUR STATE.

That’s why this chapter matters so deeply.

For humans:

It reminds us that growth always requires stepping into what’s uncomfortable — emotionally, mentally, spiritually, somatically.

For dogs:

It explains why challenge, boundaries, structure, and healthy stress are essential to their development, confidence, and resilience.

Because comfort doesn’t build capability or capacity.

**Discomfort does.**

And when we avoid discomfort — in ourselves or in them — we unintentionally stunt the very growth we’re longing for.

Chapter Nine explores:

- why discomfort is a necessary catalyst

- how to lean into discomfort without becoming overwhelmed by it

- the difference between healthy stress and dysregulation

- why our tolerance for discomfort directly shapes our dogs’ behavior

- how emotional fitness is just like physical fitness — built through reps

- why breakthroughs often come disguised as breaking points

Just like the phoenix rising through fire, discomfort is the heat that reshapes us.

And after everything this past week brought to the surface, I see this chapter more clearly than ever.

Not as theory.

Not as teaching.

But as lived experience.

If you’re navigating your own uncomfortable chapter right now, I hope this reminds you:

You’re not doing it wrong.

You’re not failing.

You’re not breaking.

You’re *becoming.*

Sometimes — actually, every single time — we have to enter our own chrysalis and let old versions of ourselves fall away, so the metamorphosis of who we’re truly meant to become can finally unfold.

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"The Human End of the Leash: Dog Training's Missing Link" is the perfect gift for anyone, whether they share life with a dog or not.

This is a human self-help book… for dogs — one that shines a light on one of the most overlooked, yet most influential components of canine behavior and “dog training.”

Signed and unsigned copies of the book can be found here:
https://kimberlyartley.com/books-and-ebooks