How tunnel command training became a lesson in confidence, creativity, and going at your own pace
When Lady Priscilla began training as a service dog, we started thinking ahead. Specifically: How in the world were we going to get her on an airplane?
She’s a big girl. Long legs. Strong body. A tight fit under a plane seat, to say the least.
So we recreated the space using our dining room chairs. Two rows, aisle-style, with about two feet between them. I sat at the far end of the back row like a passenger, and Dad guided her toward me.
The first few tries were a hard no. She wouldn’t even start down the aisle. No way. Not happening.
But over the course of a couple of weeks—and with lots of patience—we widened the aisle, gradually narrowed it again, and finally, she stopped backing out. Eventually, she made it to the front and settled on the floor between us, right in front of the center chair. Hard-earned confidence gave way to success.
And somehow (don’t ask us how), the word we landed on for that cue was: “Tunnel.”
Tunnel, Defined by Lady Priscilla
Once she got it, she really got it. She generalized the concept quickly—and beautifully.
Now, “Tunnel” means:
- Navigate tight shopping aisles
- Squeeze between parked cars in a busy lot
- Even wriggle confidently between humans at a crowded theme park
It’s become one of her most valuable real-world commands, as well as a way to demonstrate her growing confidence. “Tunnel” is her way of saying, I can do this. I know how to find the path.
And Then Came Agility
When we started agility class, we thought she’d sail through the agility tunnel. After all, she has turned basic tunnel command training into a default concept that she uses all the time.
But it was not to be.
She’s aced everything else: the A-frame, the tire, the bar jump, the weave poles, even the narrow dog walk. But the agility tunnel? Two paws in. Maybe. On a good day.
It’s not fear exactly—it’s more like wariness. That strange surface, the darkness, the echo. It’s unfamiliar. It doesn’t feel like her version of “Tunnel.” And that’s okay.
What She’s Taught Us
We named the cue. But she gave it meaning.
For her, “Tunnel” doesn’t mean plastic hoops and competitive timing. It means trust. Precision. Moving with purpose, even when it’s tight or crowded or strange. It means: I know what’s expected, and I’m brave enough to try.
So yeah—she tunnels everywhere… except the tunnel.
And honestly? That was fine by us—until months later, when she surprised us all, running the tunnel on her own terms and earning her first AKC title in a single joyful session. We knew she’d get there eventually…and eventually is now.
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