Cleo's Story

I don’t talk about this often. Only a few people know what happened to my first dog, Cleo. It’s not a story I like to share because, honestly, it’s my life’s biggest failure.

But in the spirit of keeping this blog real — the good, the bad, and the human — here it is.

Please read with empathy.

Cleo got hit by a car. 

I wasn’t there. 

And to this day, I still ask myself if I could’ve prevented it.

She was my very first dog — not just a family dog I grew up with, but mine. My parents got her for me one Christmas. That gift sparked something I didn’t know was there yet —

the start of what would become my life’s work.

She was adorable, smart, and had the kind of energy that makes you laugh and want to cry at the same time. She was my hiking buddy, my co-pilot on road trips, my snuggle bug. I honestly don't think I'd be so into hiking if it wasn't for her.

But she also couldn’t walk on a leash to save her life. She’d slip out of every harness,

(I specifically remember chasing her down the Asbury Park boardwalk after she slipped out of her brand new harness I had on her. A skateboarder had spooked her.)

She had zero recall, and her car anxiety was a disaster.

And still — I adored her.

I saw everything but the red flags.

We were constantly training. It helped, until it didn’t. When she started guarding me (I didn’t know that’s what was happening at the time), I was told to muzzle her… but then ghosted by the trainer who suggested it. It was around that time i truly felt lost with her behavior.

Eventually, I learned about the E-collar. Things were finally looking up. Cleo was making progress. I had just adopted Ringo, and somehow, they were starting to become friends.

Then one night, while I was working a bartending shift, everything changed. My dad, who helped let the dogs out when I worked late, called me over and over. When I finally answered, all he said was: 

“Come home. Now.”

Cleo had seen a dog across the street and bolted. My dad tried to stop her — he had the remote, but she wasn’t ready for that kind of freedom yet. The second she hit the road, a car came.

By the time I got home, it was too late. I remember laying next to her lifeless body, for what seemed like hours, until animal control arrived. Although I knew she was gone, I could have laid there with her forever.

I failed her. Not out of neglect — out of ignorance.

I should’ve trained her better before giving her that freedom. I should’ve taught my dad how to use the tools correctly. I should’ve been more of a leader for her and focus on a healthy relationship, not just obedience.

That day is the reason I train the way I do now. It’s the reason I don’t sugarcoat safety. It’s why I will always be brutally honest about off-leash reliability, structure, and leadership — because I never want another owner to learn the way I did.

Cleo is the reason I became a dog trainer. She’s the reason I have Ringo. She’s the reason I care so much about recovery, structure, and relationship.

She's the reason I have so much empathy for owners who mess up. The reason I can come from a perspective of actually understanding what owners are going through.

I like to think she’s out there somewhere — hiking mountains, running free, and keeping an eye on me while I do better for the dogs that came after her. Her accident wasn’t for nothing. I needed to learn that lesson, even if it broke me first.

So when I tell you to tighten up your structure, or to not rush off-leash work — know that I’m not saying it to be harsh. I’m saying it because I know exactly what it costs when we don’t.

Thank you for reading — and for holding space for Cleo’s story.

For anyone who’s ever learned the hard way — you’re not alone.