Page 13 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

"That sounds reasonable."

We're walking back toward the parking lot when I spot a family with a toddler heading our way. The little girl is running ahead of her parents, arms outstretched, making a beeline straight for Lucky.

"Careful," I call out, but it's too late. The child's sudden movement triggers Lucky's play response, and he lunges forward, barking excitedly.

Sean, caught off guard, loses his grip on the leash.

And just like that, Lucky is free.

"Lucky, no!" Sean shouts, but the puppy is already racing toward the little girl, who shrieks with delight.

"Stay calm," I tell Sean, immediately shifting into crisis mode. "Don't chase him, that'll just make it a game."

But Sean isn't listening. He's already sprinting after Lucky, calling his name with increasing desperation.

I roll my eyes and follow at a more measured pace. This is exactly what not to do when a dog gets loose, but Sean's protective instinct has clearly overridden his training.

Thankfully, Lucky isn't aggressive, just overexcited. He reaches the little girl and begins jumping up and licking her face while she giggles. Her parents arrive seconds later, looking more amused than concerned.

"Friendly dog," the father says as Sean reaches them, breathless and panicked.

"I'm so sorry," Sean apologizes, grabbing for Lucky's leash. "He's still in training."

"No problem," the mother assures him, though she does pull her daughter back. "Angie loves dogs."

“I teach the children I work with to always ask a dog owner before petting their dog. Some dogs are super sweet like Lucky here, but some of them… well, looks can be deceiving,” I tell the mother.

“Great advice!” the father says. “We will start working with her on it. Have a great afternoon!”

Sean secures the leash, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment and turns to me. "I'm really sorry about that," he says to me, voice tight. "I lost my grip."

"It happens," I say with a shrug. "No harm done."

The family moves on, the little girl waving goodbye to Lucky over her shoulder. Once they're out of earshot, Sean rounds on me.

"No harm done? He could have hurt that child, knocked her down and her head could have hit the sidewalk. He could have run into the street. He could have?—"

"But he didn't," I interrupt. "He played with a kid who was clearly delighted to see him, and now he's back on leash. Crisis averted."

Sean's jaw tightens. "You're not taking this seriously enough."

"And you're taking it too seriously. Lighten up, Sean. Lucky didn't do anything wrong. He was just being a dog." I suspect there is something more going on here. It doesn’t feel like normal Sean behavior. I wonder why he’s overreacting this way. Does this have anything to do with Lucky or is it because we’ve been ignoring the tension between us for the last two sessions? Have the roles reversed? Is he now pushing my buttons?

"A poorly trained dog."

I feel a flash of indignation. "Excuse me? We've been training for all of three weeks. He's making incredible progress. You're the one who dropped the leash."

"Because you said to practice in a public park with distractions before he was ready!"

"That's how dogs learn! By being exposed to real-world situations!"

We're facing off in the middle of the path now, both of us angry, both of us too stubborn to back down. Lucky sits between us, looking from one to the other like he's watching a tennis match.

"Your methods are too chaotic," Sean says, his voice low and controlled despite his obvious anger. "Too unstructured. You're setting him up to fail."

That stings, professionally and personally. "My methods work. They've worked for hundreds of dogs. Just because theydon't fit into your neat little control-freak boxes doesn't mean they're wrong."

"I hired you to train my dog, not to turn him into a public menace."

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