Over the years, I noticed a heartbreaking pattern in the dog world: traditional training often fails the dogs who need help the most. The dogs with big feelings, complicated histories, and high-stress responses don't just need more obedience drills—they need to be understood from the inside out.

That realization changed everything about how I work. Today, I am proud to be the strategist for the dogs that other people misunderstand, avoid, or give up on.

My approach is rooted in a simple but powerful truth: I don’t separate behavior from biology.

With a deep background in nutrition science, advanced behavioral work, and trauma-informed handling, I help families look at the whole picture. We examine stress, environment, daily routines, and nutrition together because that is where lasting, life-changing transformation actually happens.

But I didn't learn this just from textbooks or certifications. I learned it in the trenches, from the greatest, most challenging teachers I’ve ever had: the dogs I have shared my life with.

In 2011, during my final years in the Army, I finally got one of my own: Walther. I wanted a dog to run trails with and train in protection work. I did the research, I put in the hours, and he became an amazing partner. But more than that, he became my lifeline during a highly abusive marriage and a traumatic divorce. To protect myself from physical harm, I ultimately had to make the gut-wrenching decision to leave Walther behind with an ex-husband who kept him purely to hurt me. It was a heartbreaking loss that shattered my world. (Don’t worry, Walther’s story doesn't end here—but the years without him fundamentally changed me.)

After getting out of the Army in 2012, I moved to Hawai'i. Still grieving the loss of Walther, I refused to get another dog. I couldn't bear the thought of going through that pain again.

But then, a close Army friend reached out. He had a German Shepherd named Daisey, and she was simply “too much” for his family to handle. He asked if I would take her because of my experience with the breed. I was reluctant—especially facing the massive logistics of flying a dog to Hawai'i—but I felt an undeniable pull to say yes. Daisey wasn't just a rescue; she was redemption. Taking her in was a fresh start for both of us. But more importantly, she became my first real lesson in what it means when the world labels a dog as “too much.”

Because of Hawai'i's rainy days, we couldn't always go outside to run. I didn't want a muddy dog in the house, so I bought a Kong Wubba toy, put her in a "sit/stay" at the bottom of the stairs, and hid the toy on the second floor. No matter where I hid it, her nose found it. That simple game taught me one of the most foundational pillars of how I work with dogs today: Working the mind is just as important as working the body.

Through that intense structure and boundary work, we saved each other. She healed my heart, and I healed her anxiety. She became such an incredible, stable partner that I successfully trained her to be my PTSD service dog.

As much as Daisey thrived with her new "job," I knew she needed a social outlet. In Spring 2014, we went to the Humane Society and found Zedd. He was a 5-year-old German Shepherd mix (likely part Lab) who had been dumped by a military family who didn't want to pay to fly him back to the mainland.

Zedd was the absolute loudest dog in the shelter. He barked non-stop and had endless, chaotic energy. Naturally, I was sold.

I brought him home, and this is where my second massive revelation in dog psychology happened. Zedd was wild, but once he acclimated to our strict structure, boundaries, and limitations, he chilled out completely. But the real magic wasn't just my training—it was Daisey. She taught him the rules.

That summer, our pack expanded again when I agreed to foster a puppy named Lola for a local rescue.

Watching Daisey and Zedd with Lola was a masterclass in canine communication. I realized I didn't actually have to do much of the heavy lifting. Daisey did the bulk of the teaching. She corrected Lola appropriately, enforcing the rules of the house, while I simply stepped in as the high-praising cheerleader when Lola made the right choices.

Daisey became my ultimate "assistant trainer." Even before I had a formal business, I spent the next several years helping other owners with their dogs, relying heavily on Daisey to model calm, stable behavior. She taught me that sometimes, a dog's best teacher isn't a human with a leash—it's a balanced, confident dog.

I always want to be honest with my clients: I know what it means to be in the trenches.

After living in Tennessee and Missouri, life brought me back to New Jersey in 2015. Following an amicable separation, I found myself going through severe financial and personal hardship. Before I swallowed my pride and moved into my mother's house to sleep on a mattress on the floor, Daisey, Zedd, and I lived in my car for a very brief period. I did what I could, with what little I had, to ensure they were taken care of and fullfilled.

I know the sheer panic of facing homelessness with large dogs, and I deeply understand the owners who feel like they are out of options. This is also why I am such an advocate for organizations like The Dog Stays here in Springfield, MO.

In April 2017, I received the phone call that changed my life.

Walther's microchip had been scanned in Illinois. My ex-husband had been arrested for manufacturing drugs, and Animal Control had Walther. My only thought was: "This is my chance."

Within three hours of that call, I borrowed money, grabbed a friend, and hit the road. We drove 12 hours straight to Illinois, picked him up, and drove 12 hours straight back. I didn't care what it took; he was coming home.

The reunion was incredibly emotional, but the reality of his condition broke me. He was emaciated, his nails were overgrown, and his legs were covered in sores. Once again, I relied on Daisey. I needed her stable energy to assess Walther and help him decompress. He was finally safe, but the battle wasn't over.

Getting Walther back triggered a wave of harassment and threats from my ex-husband's girlfriend and family. But they severely underestimated me. I was getting my confidence back, I was healing from years of psychological abuse, and as a two-time war veteran, nothing they did could frighten me anymore.

I took Walther to the vet, who confirmed his sores were likely chemical burns. I immediately emailed that veterinary report to Animal Control in Illinois so they could tack animal abuse charges onto my ex-husband's rap sheet. When the local police were unhelpful with the harassment I was receiving, I stood my ground, issued my own boundaries, and refused to back down. I became fiercely protective of my pack. Again, they were healing me in ways they never knew.

With Walther safely integrated, a terrifying new problem emerged. Walther and Zedd began displaying random, severe aggression toward one another.

I tried everything. I used every tool, every strategy, and every behavioral protocol I knew, but nothing worked. To prevent physical harm, I had to separate them and temporarily rehome Zedd with a trusted friend.

It was there that we discovered the devastating truth: Zedd had a brain tumor.

This was the most heartbreaking but profound "lightbulb moment" of my entire career. It cemented the core philosophy of SPK9. Not all bad behavior is a training issue. Sometimes, it is deeply, physically medical. You cannot train away a brain tumor, and you cannot obedience-train a dog whose biology is failing them.

Zedd eventually crossed the rainbow bridge in 2018 while I was on a contracting assignment in Afghanistan. He taught me the heaviest lesson of all: Behavior and biology are forever linked.

After spending two years on contract in Afghanistan, I finally came home in 2020. My very first stop was Louisiana to reunite with Daisey and Walther, who had been staying with close friends while I was deployed. 

A few months before I returned, my friend told me she had intercepted a litter of puppies from a horrific situation—someone was planning to drown them over an "accidental pregnancy." (If you ever want to know why I advocate so fiercely for spay and neuter programs, this is exactly why. I surround myself with people who won't hesitate to step in and save a life.)

She sent me pictures of the rescued litter. Most of them were a deep red-brown, looking heavily like German Shepherds, but one puppy stood out. She was tri-colored, completely different from the rest, and absolutely adorable. Even though I typically gravitate toward German Shepherds, something immediately drew me to her. I claimed her on the spot and named her Freyja.

Bringing a puppy home wasn't exactly easy. I was staying at my dad's house at the time, and he was completely against me having three dogs under his roof. He had every right to be outspoken about it, but I knew Freyja had a specific, vital purpose.

Daisey was now nine years old and had endured two TPLO (knee) surgeries. As much as her heart was still in it, her body simply couldn't handle the physical demands of being my active service dog anymore. It was time for her to retire and enjoy her golden years.

But I knew I couldn't train her replacement without her. Daisey had one final, crucial job to do.

Just as she had done for Zedd and Lola years ago, Daisey stepped into the role of mentor one last time. I needed to train Freyja to take over as my service dog, and I needed Daisey to show her the ropes.

Under Daisey's watchful eye and experienced guidance, Freyja made truly incredible progress her first year. She successfully completed her first year of obedience training with flying colors, demonstrating her sharp intelligence and eagerness to learn. It was amazing to see how quickly she picked up on many of the essential tasks she needs for her new role, building a strong foundation for her service work.

Freyja had taken to her job beautifully, showing that she was indeed meant for this purposeful path. The connection and understanding between Daisey and Freyja was undeniable, proving that sometimes, the best teacher is another experienced dog. 

In this photo, you can see them appearing to have one of their serious "mentorship conversations," both sitting patiently (Freyja in her special birthday bandana) as they wait for their release command to eat.

In 2021, on the morning of Walther’s 10th birthday, tragedy struck in a way I never saw coming.

Freyja had recently gone into her first heat. Even though Walther was neutered, the scent triggered immense anxiety for him. I was packing the truck to take him to my mom’s house for a quiet, calm day. I had just texted her that he was going out to potty one last time before we hit the road.

While outside, Walther suddenly began dry heaving, bringing up a thick, marshmallow-like foam. He was pacing frantically, and his breathing sounded tight, almost like someone blowing up a helium balloon. I knew something was terribly wrong and rushed him to the emergency vet 15 minutes away.

They diagnosed him immediately: Gastric Dilatation-Volvulus (GDV). His stomach had flipped.

The surgery would cost $9,000, with absolutely no guarantee that it wouldn't happen again. Heartbroken and overwhelmed, I called my dad—my ultimate voice of reason. Together, we had to look at the hard biological facts. Walther was 10 years old. He already battled severe allergies that required weekly injections, and he had existing kidney issues. (In fact, his kidney diagnosis is what originally launched my deep dive into canine nutrition, forcing me to learn how to properly source nutrients without relying on $70 bags of prescription kibble).

Putting an older, medically compromised dog through a massive surgery with a grueling recovery simply wasn't fair to him. We made the agonizing decision to let him go. To this day, I still carry guilt for taking my time packing the truck that morning, but it was yet another harsh, unavoidable lesson in life, biology, and canine health.

Losing Walther devastated me, but it completely broke Freyja.

She was deeply bonded to him. When I came home without him, Freyja spiraled into a severe, three-month depression. She refused to eat, walk, play, or train. Even with Daisey there, Freyja was lost.

This became my ultimate, real-world crash course in dog psychology. People can hang all the certificates they want on their walls, but until you live through it in real life, you don't truly know how to guide a dog through that level of grief.

I quickly realized that my dogs were depending on me. If I was a mess, they were going to be a mess. Dogs feed directly off the energy we emit. I had to put my own crippling grief aside and focus entirely on pulling Freyja out of the dark before permanent behavioral issues set in. Through immense patience, unshakeable consistency, and a strict return to our schedule of exercise and boundaries, we slowly healed each other.

Our fresh start in Missouri brought new opportunities, but it also brought a new set of challenges. I took a new job, but when I needed an accommodation to have Freyja—my fully trained service dog—with me during large events, I met severe resistance.

Instead of working with me, a former boss looked at me and said, "Maybe you should look for a new career."

At the time, I didn't know ADA rules and regulations as deeply as I do now. I only knew that he shouldn't have said something like that. Today, I would have reported the discrimination immediately. But looking back, that boss gave me the greatest push of my life. He was absolutely right. I did need a new career. It was time to stop hiding my expertise and start building something of my own.

I realized I had been doing this work for years. I had rehabilitated trauma, managed complex biological needs, mentored other owners, and built a pack of balanced, working dogs. Why wasn't I doing this professionally?

I started by reopening a Rover account I had maintained since 2016, but I knew I wanted to offer more than just basic pet sitting. I wanted to provide true care with a behavioral and developmental twist. By that summer, I took the leap. While still working a full-time night job, I legally established my own business.

It was a slow, exhausting start, but for the first time in my life, I felt truly free. Shark & Paws K9 (SPK9) was officially born. I have all of the dogs in my life to thank for this, with the honorary mention going to Miss Daisey.