American Canine Training, LLC

03/27/2026

Just so you know…

The wolf never eats corpses, neither animals, nor people; it spends its whole life with a partner, it does not mate with its mother or sister; it is a monogamous animal, it does not deceive.
If a partner dies, the wolf remains alone; it knows its young ones well: it is the only animal that helps their parents after deep old age and brings them food.
When you kill a wolf, it looks you in the eye until its soul gives out; it's 25% smarter than the smarter dog.

03/13/2026

This is a great read.

We adopted Barnaby to die.
I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.

He was 15 years old. A senior white brindle Boxer with cloudy eyes, stiff joints, and a slow, careful step.
The shelter paperwork said “Hospice Foster.”
His previous family surrendered him because he “slept too much” and was “getting old.”

So we prepared for goodbye.

Orthopedic beds in every room.
Ramps instead of stairs.
Quiet evenings. Gentle mornings.
We thought we were giving him a soft place to land for his final weeks.

Barnaby had other plans.

Week 1: He slept. The kind of deep, uninterrupted sleep that only comes when you finally feel safe.
Week 2: He realized he wasn’t going back. This wasn’t temporary. This was home.
Week 3: He found the stuffed bear.

Not brand new.
Not expensive.
Just a worn little teddy bear—and suddenly, it was everything.

He carried it from room to room like it was treasure.
Held it close with both paws when he sat.
Fell asleep with it tucked under his chin.

That’s when the “dying” Boxer disappeared.

The dog who “could barely walk” started trotting proudly through the kitchen, teddy bear clutched in his mouth like a trophy.
The dog who “slept too much” began waking us up at sunrise, bear in hand, ready for breakfast.
At night, he sits just like this—holding it tight, as if he’s afraid joy might vanish again.

That’s when we understood.

Barnaby wasn’t dying.
He wasn’t fading because of age.
He was tired from loneliness.
From cold floors. From feeling unwanted.

Now he’s 15 years old.
He steals pizza off the counter.
He beats me to the backyard door.
And he still carries that same stuffed bear—proof that comfort turned into hope.

We failed at hospice fostering.

But we succeeded at something better.💓

We gave a senior Boxer a reason to hold on—and he showed us that sometimes, love doesn’t just extend a life…

It brings it back.

02/18/2026

Just for fun… since one of our mascots is a Bouvier des Flandres

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/17acys953n/?mibextid=wwXIfr

02/05/2026

Did you know? Dogs must be 24 months or older for OFA Hip and Elbow certification, and 12 months or older for Cardiac, Patellas, and Thyroid certification. There is no age minimum for eye certification, nor for DNA, since DNA does not change as the dog ages.

The OFA also does Preliminary evaluations on hips and elbows before 24 months of age. However, they will need to be re-evaluated again for a final certification once the dog reaches 24 months.

For more information, visit https://ofa.org/

01/27/2026

The Martinez family lived in a suburb. They had a Pitbull named "Roxy."
Neighbors would walk by and say, "Be careful. That’s a dangerous breed."
One night, a faulty wire in the attic sparked a fire. The smoke alarms didn't go off immediately.
The house filled with silent, deadly smoke.
Roxy was sleeping in the parents' room. She woke up coughing. She realized the danger.
She didn't run out the doggy door to save herself.
She jumped on the bed and barked ferociously. She nipped at the dad’s hand until he woke up.
"Roxy, stop!" he groaned. Then he smelled the smoke.
"Fire!" he yelled.
He grabbed his wife. They ran to the hallway. But Roxy wasn't with them.
Roxy had run down the hall to the toddler’s room. She was throwing her body against the door, barking.
The dad ran in, grabbed the baby, and they all ran outside just as the roof caught fire.
The firefighters arrived. They saw the "dangerous" Pitbull sitting on the lawn, shaking, leaning against the toddler to keep him warm.
The firefighter petted Roxy’s head. "She's not a pet," he said. "She's a hero."
Roxy proved that it’s not the breed that matters; it’s the heart.

01/27/2026

Show us some of your snow days pictures! This is Tickle Me Fancy a Bouvier des Flandres puppy. She loves this weather! Fancy is owned by Master Trainer Mel Elliott.

01/14/2026

This is worth reading!

My daughter is alive tonight because of the **German Shepherd** I planned to surrender this morning.

I won’t sugarcoat it. In an overcrowded city shelter, a six-year-old German Shepherd with “behavior notes” doesn’t get rehomed. They get a needle. I knew that. I just tried to bury the truth under a pile of practical excuses.

My name is Maya. I’m 34, a single mother living in a drafty apartment in a town where the local economy has been on life support for years. I work back-to-back warehouse shifts just to keep the lights on. If you’re living through times like these, you know the feeling — like the walls are slowly closing in.

Last week, everything cracked at once. Rent went up. Groceries became absurd. And then the letter arrived.

“Notice to Tenant: Unauthorized Breed on Premises. German Shepherd–type dogs are no longer permitted. You have 14 days to remedy the situation or face eviction.”

Remedy the situation. A clean phrase for something cruel.

His name is Buster.

We adopted him during the pandemic, when the world felt fragile and uncertain. My daughter Ava was five then. She had night terrors so bad she’d wake up screaming, soaked in sweat, terrified of shadows that weren’t there. The first night Buster lay beside her bed, the nightmares stopped. Just stopped.

Buster is big. Broad-chested. Sharp-eared. He looks intimidating to people who don’t know him. But at home, he’s gentle, patient, and endlessly watchful. He sleeps with one eye open. He positions himself between Ava and the door. He doesn’t play guard — he is one.

But love doesn’t override insurance policies.

This morning, I did the math. The savings account was empty. The eviction notice sat on the table. I booked an intake appointment at the county shelter for the next day. I already had the lie prepared for Ava. That Buster was going to a farm. That he’d be happy.

The attack happened hours later.

We went to the small park near the interstate. One last walk. Ava played near the swings. Buster lay at my feet, his head heavy on my knee, sensing something was wrong. I was deleting photos of him from my phone because I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing them later.

Then he stood up.

His ears locked forward. His body went rigid. A low growl rolled out of him — not loud, not frantic. Controlled. Serious.

I followed his gaze.

A man was walking a large, unrestrained dog across the field. The owner was on his phone. The dog saw Ava and charged. No warning. No bark.

Everything slowed.

I saw Ava turn, clutching her doll. I saw her eyes widen. I tried to scream. I couldn’t move.

Buster moved.

He exploded forward with a force I didn’t know he had. He didn’t bark. He didn’t hesitate. He put himself directly between my daughter and that dog. He collided with it hard enough to knock it sideways, taking the impact meant for her.

The sounds were terrifying. Growls, snapping teeth, bodies slamming into the ground. The other dog was bigger. Stronger. But Buster did not retreat. He held. He absorbed every bite, every lunge, every blow.

The owner finally looked up and ran, dragging his dog away.

When it ended, Ava was under a bench, shaking — untouched.

Buster collapsed.

Blood soaked his fur. His breathing was shallow. I dropped beside him, sobbing, apologizing for everything — for the appointment, for the doubt, for ever thinking of him as disposable.

I drove to the emergency vet like nothing else mattered. I handed over a credit card already maxed out and told them to save him.

It’s 3:00 AM now.

We’re home.

Ava is sleeping on the floor beside him, refusing to leave his side. Buster is stitched, bandaged, wearing a cone, medicated but alive. When I walked past him just now, his tail thumped once. Twice.

I tore the eviction notice in half. I canceled the shelter appointment. I blocked the landlord’s number.

We may have to move. I may have to work nonstop. I don’t know how the math will work anymore.

But I know this.

Society called him a risk. My landlord called him a liability. My bank account called him a burden.

Tonight, I see the truth.

He is a German Shepherd who stood his ground.
A protector who didn’t flinch.
A guardian who chose my child over his own life.

I almost threw away a hero.

I won’t make that mistake again!

12/25/2025

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, from our house to yours!

12/23/2025

12/18/2025

In 1952, Macy's formed a canine security corps at their flagship Herald Square department store. Six Doberman Pinschers were introduced. They were provided by John Behan, a dog trainer who had been in the Army’s K-9 Corps during World War II.⁣⁣⁣
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Once customers left for the day, the dogs took over. They worked as night security guards, patrolling Macy’s two million square feet of retail space from the sub-sub-basement to the twentieth floor. They prowled the aisles at night, inspecting shipping bays, looking under counters, and sniffing every corner of the store. Each dog was taken out on a leash, but at certain points, they were released and told to “search.” They were on the look out for burglars and thieves, stragglers caught after hours, and indications of fire or water leakage.⁣⁣⁣
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One time, two young girls were reported missing and traced back to Macy’s enormous store. They were found by a Doberman guard dog who, to the surprise of his handler, licked the girls’ hands to put them at ease.⁣⁣⁣
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The dogs were looked after by a staff of nine. They slept in the penthouse, and hung out in four fenced-in dog runs, each with its own large, heated and air conditioned doghouse. They were bathed weekly in the summer, and bi-monthly in the winter. The dogs ate a special diet and saw a veterinarian twice a year, along with regular pedicures and dentals. They even put on demonstrations at the Madison Square Garden horse show.⁣⁣⁣
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Most of the Dobermans were 7, and tended to work until they were 10 or 11 years old. After that, they were sold or given away for less-demanding work.⁣⁣⁣
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Anthony Nicola, Macy's VP of Security, explained "This building has 2 million square feet. We have alarms and sensors, but they fill in the gap. Their sense of smell is terrific. You can't buy an alarm that does what they do."⁣⁣⁣
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There's record of Doberman security guards at Macy's as late as 1998. (A History of Dogs)

12/11/2025

Slugger and Max want to say “it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!”