When I think of “press the button,” I think of dramatic, irreversible choices. But the button I’m thinking about today is seemingly small: the send button on a text message—written in advance, hovering on my screen—while I watch a dog on Zoom who is home alone.
There’s a moment in almost every alone-time reassessment when my heart goes still and I have to decide: do we keep going, or do we stop? My text is already written. I can end the alone time session at any moment by pressing Send. And the outcome of that decision affects everyone involved.
In my work with separation anxiety, most of my clients spend the week practicing carefully planned alone-time exercises on their own, following the daily plan we’ve meticulously created together. Once a week, we meet on Zoom for a reassessment which is an opportunity to check in and see what has shifted, what has improved, and what still needs support. Sometimes we’re reassessing duration. Sometimes we’re looking at a different piece of the puzzle entirely. But very often, we’re answering one central question:
Has the needle moved?
During these reassessments, the dog stays at home with a camera on them, and I watch the live video while the guardian steps out. The guardian keeps their phone with them so I can reach them immediately, and they’re typically close by, able to return quickly as needed.
And right from the beginning, I have one simple text already typed and waiting, ready to send in an instant. It says, “Please come back.”
When working with separation anxiety, I often have to remind myself that it is the human who is my actual client. Yes, they have come to me to help their dog, but in the end, the human is the one carrying the pressure, the schedule, the worry, and the hope. They want their freedom back. They want the training to not take so long that the financial requirements soar. And they want to know that they did right by their dog.
And I also recognize that the dog doesn’t care about timelines or budgets. The dog only knows whether they feel safe.
And then there’s me—watching a timer, watching a dog, and hovering over one small send button that can change everything.
Have you ever counted from 1 to 10 slowly and realized how long ten seconds really is? In this work, ten seconds can feel like everything: hope for the guardian, potential pressure for the dog, and an important decision that rests with me.
Because I get to know a dog’s nuanced body language, I can often predict when things are going to start to unravel. Sometimes it’s as subtle as a lip lick, or a shift from a hip rolled to one side into a sphinx position. Sometimes it shows up in the pace of movement. Other times it becomes apparent in the cadence of the dog’s breathing.
There’s always the opportunity to see what happens next. Will the dog settle again, or will the behavior increase? Can I gamble a little, or would that greed for just a bit more time create a crack in the dog’s trust that alone time is safe?
The decision weighs heavily on me every time, especially knowing that the guardian’s contentment is resting firmly on my choice, too. The longer we stay, the more the guardian relaxes. And sometimes, that relief can be intoxicating.
As I watch carefully, the seconds on my timer tick by. Rarely is the dog motionless, so I write copious notes about what the dog is doing, with what body part, and in what direction with each passing moment.
Looks left. Looks right. Ears perk. Brow furrows. Two sniffs toward the door.
These are the micromovements I compile, and they help guide my decision-making.
I don’t press the button because I’m afraid. I press it because I’m listening. I’m listening to the dog’s nervous system, to the story the body is telling, and to the part of me that still believes safety is where progress begins.
The guardian comes back. I counsel when needed and cheerlead when appropriate. Pushing the button is a constant thread in my daily work, and while dramatic and life-altering results are not the result, I still hold these decisions with enormous care.
