Teaching Kona How to Exist

When we first got Kona, she had already lived with two different owners. Her first was a college student who kept her kenneled for most of her first year of life. Her second was a foster home with two dogs, two cats, and more than a dozen children—where, once again, Kona spent much of her time in a kennel.

By the time she came to us, she had spent roughly the first eighteen months of her life confined. Because of that, she had no real understanding of how to simply exist in a home. Her baseline level of excitement was much higher than a typical dog, and when she became excited, it escalated quickly and intensely.

That intensity showed up most clearly with our cats.

Kona would chase them in what she thought was play. The cats didn’t see it that way. They responded defensively, and situations could turn ugly fast. So we separated them—not for weeks or months, but for over a year and a half.

All of this happened in a tiny two-bedroom house.

We got creative. We jokingly called it “rodeo.” Our bedroom had two doors, which allowed us to let the cats out through one while bringing Kona in through the other. They weren’t face-to-face for more than a year, but they could smell each other under doors and throughout the house. That mattered. They learned this wasn’t just their home—it was shared—while still staying safe.

Instead of waiting for me to remove her bowl, she just gets comfy with it.

Kona’s kennel had always been a safe place for her. It was all she really knew in the beginning, so we leaned into that. We covered her kennel when eye contact with the cats became too much. We kenneled her before guests arrived—and still do—so she could see and smell people before meeting them. She learned that she wouldn’t be bothered while she was in there, that if she’d had enough cuddles or attention, she could retreat and be by herself. It wasn’t just used to keep everyone safe. It became her little oasis.

After about a year and a half, we reached a small but significant milestone. Kona could be in her kennel in the living room while the cats were free. They could see each other. Everyone stayed safe. From there, we took the next step—Kona on leash, cats loose, and a lot of careful observation.

We worked on “leave it.” We worked on “settle.” But more than anything, we worked on reading body language—hers and theirs. Because training dogs also means training humans. We learned subtle stress signals, when to step in, and when to give space. And yes, we trained the cats too. If they got too spicy or ornery, they went back to the bedroom to cool off.

We expected a lot from Kona. But that also meant expecting a lot from ourselves—and from the cats.

It took two years to reach this point, and even five years later, we’re still paying attention—still watching body language, still reading cues, still prioritizing safety for everyone.

Along the way, Kona changed in ways that mattered. She went from almost knocking people down to calmly walking out of her kennel to greet them. She went from scaring people with her intensity to friends and family commenting on how she’s “such a great dog.” That never stops feeling good. Knowing someone else can see the great dog we knew she was all along feels incredible.

Over the years, I’ve heard criticism that we suppressed her or didn’t let her “be a dog.” But the truth is, we were teaching her how to be a dog in a home with other people and animals. Structure didn’t take anything away from her—it gave her the ability to relax.

And just as importantly, we made sure she still got to be a dog.

That’s why she gets leash-free runs. That’s why she gets to run, sniff, chase, and move through the world without constant rules. She gets space to be wild and untamed—and she also gets to curl up on the couch, under a blanket, with one or both cats resting right next to her.

That’s the cue of a happy animal.

They don’t have to love each other. They don’t even have to be friends. But they’ve learned how to coexist, how to relax near each other, and most importantly, how to feel safe.

I know most people don’t have the ability to restructure their lives around a dog with needs as high as Kona’s. That’s a reality worth acknowledging. But even when you can’t do everything, the small successes matter. And when those moments come—when the work clicks, when the tension fades, when your dog finally exhales—it is so worth it.

Calm isn’t something you demand from a dog—it’s something you help them feel.