In the early moments of a first meeting, the young Aussie Doodle named Rye stands before us—just five months old, full of potential, and as yet unshaped by the world around him.

And so, I do what I often do when meeting a dog for the first time.

I reach for the flirt pole.

Now, it may appear simple—a rope, a tug, a stick—but in truth, it is something far more profound: a tool that taps into one of the oldest instincts of the canine mind. The desire to chase. To hunt. To catch.

At first, Rye doesn’t notice. I flick it again—jagged, sudden—like a fishing lure skipping across the surface of a still pond. And then—there it is. His eyes lock in. Movement has become meaning. He gives chase.

But I don’t let him catch it. Not yet.

I keep it just out of reach. Each miss builds more desire. I disappear it. He searches. And in a moment of stillness—he looks to me. Yes, I mark. And the chase begins again.

In this moment, something extraordinary happens: he begins to understand that looking to me activates the game. That I am the key to his joy.

This is the start of focus.

But he’s still young, and soon, his attention wavers. So, I place him back on the leash and bring out another dog—Cotton, an old hand at the game. As Rye watches, Cotton chases with drive, her eyes sharp, her turns tight. The game is alive.

Rye watches. He begins to feel it. Jealousy, maybe. Frustration, yes. Desire—definitely.

He wants another turn.

But now, he must wait.

He watches Cotton play. Then Rambo. And still he waits.

And when at last he is given the chance again, we release him—and something is different. He doesn’t just want the toy. He needs it. He’s faster. Sharper. The desire has grown.

Now he is chasing not just rope, but purpose.

And this is the moment that matters.

Because if we do not shape this desire, it will shape itself. It will find the wrong outlet—a car in the distance, a squirrel across the yard, a stranger on the path. Left untapped, this drive becomes a liability. But focused—it becomes a gift.

This is the foundation of real training.

We are not suppressing the dog’s energy. We are teaching him how to use it. How to turn it on, and when to turn it off. This is the on-off switch. This is learning to work while excited—a skill both rare and invaluable.

And it doesn’t take hours. Just minutes a day. A few times a week.

From that, we build something lasting. Something powerful. Something few people ever truly tap into.

A dog who lives to engage with you. A dog whose focus is forged through joy. A dog who can ignore the noise of the world—because the game lives with you.

It’s not about the rope on a string.

It’s about the bond you build with it.

And the skills you can teach from there? I’ve used this tool to teach everything—from police dogs to bird dogs to family pets—to do their jobs with purpose, focus, and drive.

All of it… sparked right here.