That wasn’t an advertisement.
That was my father’s business plan.
When I was a student at the Assistance Dog Institute in California, one of the best parts of our training wasn’t in the classroom—it was out in the real world.
We were encouraged to take our dogs everywhere.
Restaurants.
Airports.
Hotels.
Grocery stores.
Every new experience helped prepare them for a lifetime of working beside a person with a disability.
During school, I often flew home to Michigan with Otto.
Otto was a big, long-legged Labrador Retriever with an even bigger personality. He wasn’t a finished service dog. In fact, he was still very much a goofy young Lab who loved people and occasionally forgot that he was supposed to be working.
Everyone loved Otto.
Especially my dad.
Dad had spent years training Master Hunter retrievers. He understood dogs better than almost anyone I knew. Watching him work with a hunting dog was like watching an artist paint.
After a few days of watching Otto travel everywhere with me, he finally asked the question.
“So…how much does a dog like Otto cost?”
“About a thousand dollars,” I answered.
He looked at Otto.
Then he looked back at me.
“I could go to the animal shelter tomorrow, find a hundred Labs that look just like him, and sell every one of them for a thousand dollars.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
“I could teach them what Otto knows in about a week.”
Dad honestly believed it.
He wasn’t trying to be funny.
From his perspective, a well-trained hunting dog and a service dog weren’t all that different.
I tried to explain.
“Dad, you don’t just train a dog.”
“You match the right dog with the right person.”
He nodded politely.
“I know lots of disabled people.”
“No,” I said. “I mean people whose disabilities require a service dog.”
“I know lots of old people.”
I smiled.
“Dad…old isn’t automatically a disability.”
He wasn’t convinced.
A few days later he announced,
“We’re going to the senior center.”
“Why?”
“People would love Otto.”
He was right.
They absolutely did.
While I spoke about service dogs, Otto wandered through the room introducing himself to everyone. At one point I looked up and discovered he had climbed onto a chair and was sitting with the audience, looking as though he was listening to the presentation himself.
Then I noticed my father.
He was sitting at another table.
There was a line of people waiting to talk to him.
I remember thinking that seemed a little odd.
When the presentation ended, we packed Otto into the car and headed home.
As soon as we walked through the front door, Dad reached into his pocket and handed me a stack of checks.
“There you go,” he said proudly.
Every check was written for one thousand dollars.
“What are these?”
“Deposits.”
“For what?”
“The service dogs.”
“What service dogs?”
“The ones we’re going to get from the shelter.”
I stared at him.
“Dad…”
He smiled.
“Looks like we’re in business.”
I held up the checks.
“I don’t even own Otto.”
The next several days were spent calling everyone to return their money.
Some laughed.
Some didn’t.
One woman insisted she had been first in line.
Another said,
“I don’t want my money back. I want the dog.”
Eventually I explained that there wasn’t a dog to sell and tore up every check.
Looking back, I laugh every time I think about that week.
But it also reminds me of one of the biggest misconceptions people have about service dogs.
People think they’re buying a dog.
They’re not.
They’re investing in years of careful planning.
Temperament evaluations.
Puppy raising.
Socialization.
Public access training.
Task training.
And perhaps most importantly, matching the right dog with the right person.
The dog is only half of the partnership.
The partnership is what changes lives.
There’s one more part of Otto’s story that I love.
Despite all of our training, Otto never became a service dog.
He became a facility dog at a foster care center for teenagers.
His goofy personality, endless enthusiasm, and ability to make everyone smile turned out to be exactly what those young people needed.
He wasn’t the right dog for one job.
He was the perfect dog for another.
Dad eventually joined our service dog agency. He taught obedience classes, worked with our puppy raisers, and became an important part of our program. Even then, I don’t think he ever completely gave up the idea that, with enough training, he could turn almost any good Labrador into a service dog.
Our agency taught me something different.
Training is incredibly important.
But training doesn’t replace temperament.
It doesn’t replace careful selection.
And it doesn’t replace finding the right match between one remarkable dog and one remarkable person.
As for my father’s service dog business…
It never did get off the ground.
Probably because I tore up all the deposit checks.
