Like Barbra Streisand in the movie Yentl, Lady Priscilla stepped carefully, nose lifted to catch the wind.
The air smelled like everything she’d never known—salt and distance and sky. Her paws shifted in the sand, testing the give beneath her toes. One small shell crunched. She paused, curious, uncertain, breathing in long and slow like she needed time to understand it all.
This was her first road trip. Her first beach. The first time the world had stretched farther than the sidewalks of the city. (We covered that road trip in a 4-part series starting here.)
She walked to the edge of the surf, let the ocean roll over her feet. Then she took a step back—not afraid, just thoughtful—and stood there in silence, gazing at the horizon.
The sky was impossibly wide.
The Movie Yentl — and What It Has to Do with Dog Training
The movie Yentl, directed by and starring Barbra Streisand, tells the story of a young Jewish woman who disguises herself as a man to pursue religious study. But beyond its plot, Yentl is a story about longing, identity, and the quiet courage to reach for more than the world says you can have.
That moment on the beach — Lady Priscilla breathing in a future she hadn’t dared to imagine — was her Yentl moment. The moment the world cracked open just enough to let a bigger life slip through.
This post is part of a larger literary arc exploring how transformation begins not with force, but with trust—and the courage to want more. From finding her voice in O Captain, My Captain to reclaiming joy on her own terms in Stick It, each reflection captures a different moment in Lady Priscilla’s growth. You can explore the full collection of rescue dog stories here.
What Is the Movie Yentl About?
The 1983 film is based on a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and follows Yentl, a Jewish girl living in Poland in 1904 – a time and place where women are forbidden from studying. After her father’s death, she cuts her hair, assumes a male identity, and enrolls in a yeshiva to pursue the knowledge she was never supposed to have.
Unlike the short story, in the movie, Yentl enjoys an ending full of possibility — boarding a ship to America, letting go of what she thought she had to be, and choosing to become something new.
What Does Yentl Mean Emotionally?
The emotional core of the movie Yentl is found in its music — especially the songs “A Piece of Sky” and “This Is One of Those Moments.” It’s about the first breath of freedom. The terrifying beauty of possibility. The shift from obeying to becoming.
And that’s where this story begins — not with a lesson in obedience, but with a dog who stood at the edge of the water and saw something bigger.
From My Window I Could Only See a Piece of Sky
Lady Priscilla didn’t start out afraid of the world. But by the time we met her, she already had good reason to be.
We didn’t raise her from a puppy. She came to us at two years old — a Dutch Shepherd with sharp eyes, a quiet spirit, and the kind of flinches you don’t fake. Somewhere before us, she had learned to brace for impact. Hands meant pain. Doors meant danger. People meant power over her.
She loved noise. She loved life. But she didn’t trust what it might do to her.
She had windows, once — physical and emotional. She could watch the world go by, see people move through it, hear the sounds of dogs barking, feet on sidewalks, cars passing. But she never truly stepped into it. Not really. Not with confidence or hope. Nor with the sense that it might welcome her.
She stayed close to home in those early months with us. Her radius was small. Her leash stayed short. Even when she began to trust us, she didn’t yet trust the rest of what might lie beyond.
That’s what trauma does. It teaches you to keep your world small, to settle for safety instead of growth.
But it doesn’t take much to crack the window a little wider.
A road trip. A beach. A sky so big it makes you blink.
The world didn’t feel safer that day, standing on the sand with her paws in the surf. But it felt possible. And for the first time, she looked out into something she hadn’t seen before — and didn’t flinch.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t freeze.
Instead, she just stood there, breathing in more of the sky.
I Stepped Outside and Looked Around
We didn’t expect her to walk far.
The plan was just to let her take it in — the breeze, the salt, the texture of sand between her toes. But Lady Priscilla had other ideas. She moved forward slowly, carefully, but without needing to be coaxed. Not toward anything in particular — just outward.
Step by step, she widened her own circle.
She sniffed the tide line, crunched a shell underfoot, paused to watch a distant gull skim the waves. Her eyes tracked everything. Her body stayed loose. There was tension, yes — but it wasn’t fear. It was wonder. Like her world had grown three sizes in a single breath.
This wasn’t training. No leash work, no heel position, no obedience cue.
Just a dog stepping out of a narrow life and into the beginning of a wide one.
She didn’t know yet what she wanted from the world. But for the first time, she seemed to know she was allowed to ask.
Even Though It Seemed at Any Moment I Could Fall…
By the time we started agility class, she had already taken a few brave steps into the wider world. The beach was behind us. Her body made more sense now. Stairs no longer confused her. Movement was becoming less of a mystery and more of a tool.
But agility class was different.
The room was full of dogs — barking, bouncing, straining at leashes. And she was expected not just to tolerate them, but to work around them. To move, to try, to focus, to leap.
She didn’t stumble or freeze.
She stepped forward — cautiously, deliberately — and gave each obstacle a chance.
Her first attempt at the A-frame took a trail of treats just to get her halfway. She paused, thought about it, and came back down. No panic. No shutdown. Just: not yet.
A few tries later, she climbed all the way up and over — slow, steady, choosing her steps — then trotted back to her spot with a grin that lit up the entire room. Her next run was pure doggie joy, as she realized how free her body could feel.
She nailed the narrow dog walk next. Then the tire. Then the bar jumps. Each one started with hesitation and ended with joy.
It wasn’t graceful confidence. It was something rarer: visible courage.
Every time she stepped up to a new challenge, you could see the calculation. The risk. The flicker of fear.
And every time, she stepped anyway.
I Felt the Most Amazing Things
She had done crowded places before.
Hospitals. Grocery stores. Group classes with half a dozen other dogs. She had learned how to stay composed, how to ignore sudden noises and movement, how to focus when things got overwhelming.
But this was something else entirely.
Epic Universe wasn’t a training exercise. It was a revelation.
She walked the park with a smile in her eyes and a bounce in her step — not wild, not over-stimulated. Just quietly, absolutely thrilled to be there.
She took her time. Examined everything. Sniffed every planter. Watched the walkaround characters like they were part of the story and she was trying to understand her role in it.
When children ran past, she didn’t flinch. She just turned toward the laughter, tail swaying, like she was glad they were having fun.
It wasn’t about holding a stay or walking politely — although she did both. It was the way she carried herself. The gentle glow in her eyes. The stillness in her body that came not from control, but from peace.
And when it was time to go, she looked over her shoulder at the gates behind us. Not panicked. Not confused.
Just… longing.
Like she wasn’t ready for the adventure to end.
That’s when we knew.
She wasn’t just tolerating the world anymore. She wanted it.
Though It’s Safer to Stay on the Ground…
If there was ever a class designed to push every one of her buttons, it was CGC.
She had to walk in sync with other dogs. Greet them face-to-face. Hold a polite position while strangers touched her ears, her paws, her tail. Stand still while someone examined her ears and paws, then ran their hands down her sides. Stay calm while another dog walked right past her.
Each of those things — on its own — would’ve sent her into overdrive not long ago. Back then, a stranger reaching for her ear might have earned a bark. A nose-to-nose greeting? She would have bolted.
But now?
She was ready.
She moved with quiet grace. Allowed the greetings. Held the stay. Let the hands come and go without flinching. Met each challenge with focus and self-control.
She wasn’t just “behaving.” She was composed. Present. Capable.
The test wasn’t easy. The room was full of dogs. There was pressure, expectation, unpredictability. But she never once looked like she needed to escape.
And when she passed — truly passed — it wasn’t with just obedience. It was with dignity. With pride. With tail held high.
She had learned how to stay grounded.
And in that moment, she proved she could fly through anything.
There’ll Be Memories That Tug at My Sleeve…
She doesn’t hide from thunderstorms anymore.
She used to. Even the soft patter of a gentle rain would send her retreating to the crate, tail tucked, ears back, eyes wide. The crash of thunder — the sharp crack of lightning — those weren’t just sounds. They were echoes.
She couldn’t tell us what they meant. But her body remembered.
Last night, the storm was a loud one — the kind that rattles the windows and makes the air feel sharp. Lightning flickered across the sky like it was being torn apart, and hail clattered against the balcony rails.
Dad and I stood outside, watching the storm roll in. And Lady Priscilla?
She came with us.
Curled up right between our feet, tail tucked, body pressed gently against the wall — as far from the railing as she could get. She didn’t tremble or hide. She was scared, yes. But she stayed.
She chose to stay.
She refused to go back inside until we did.
That’s the thing about healing — it doesn’t erase what came before. It just gives you more options when the old fears come calling.
There are memories that tug at her sleeve. Always will be.
But now, just like the title character in the movie Yentl, she tugs back.
There Are Certain Things That Once You Have…
She earned her Trick Dog Novice title first.
It wasn’t just a cute certificate or a handful of clever behaviors. It was her first public declaration that she could learn — not just survive, not just manage, but try new things with joy.
Each trick was simple on paper: paws up, leave it, cross the dog walk. But every single one was an act of trust. She offered them freely, her eyes bright, her tail soft, her heart completely in it.
A week later, she passed the Canine Good Citizen test.
We held the certificate in our hands — crisp, official, impossible — and realized it wasn’t a reward.
It was proof.
Not proof that she could heel or stay or ignore a dropped hot dog. But proof that she had become something else entirely.
From fearful to focused. Reactive to responsive.
From someday, maybe… to Eventually Is Now.
She didn’t become perfect.
She became herself.
And no one can take that away from her.
Not the storm that built her, not the people who broke her, not the whispers of fear that sometimes still call from the edges.
She earned her place in the world.
And it is hers to keep.
Why Is It That Every Book I Buy, Every Bookseller Has the Same Old Argument?
That recall was perfect.
She held the stay like a pro — twenty feet away, eyes on her grandpa, alert but steady. She waited for the cue. Watched his hands. Listened.
When he called her, she ran straight to him. A flawless return.
And then… she just kept going.
Trotted right past him and around the corner to greet two very confused Lowe’s employees, tail wagging, head high, absolutely radiant.
Lady Priscilla didn’t break. She expanded.
She had followed the rules. Passed the test. Played the game.
And then she rewrote the ending.
Not long ago, the dog training experts, like the booksellers in the movie Yentl, insisted we go slower. Take fewer risks. Accept less.
“She’s a rescue,” they’d say. “She’s not ready.”
But Lady Priscilla had already read the books.
She just decided she wanted to write a better one.
Papa, Watch Me Fly
She doesn’t need permission anymore.
She still checks in, still stays close, still listens. But she’s not waiting to be told who she is. She already knows.
She leads with softness now. Moves with purpose. Trusts herself in places where she once curled in tight and waited for the world to pass her by.
We still keep track of the milestones — every single one.
We blog them. Post them. Celebrate them.
Not to prove anything.
Just to remember.
To mark each time she chooses courage over caution.
Each time she says yes to the world instead of maybe later.
Each time she channels the movie Yentl and looks up at the sky to see more than just a sliver.
She’s not a perfect dog or a finished product.
She’s Lady Priscilla.
Wiser. Braver. Freer.
The kind of dog who once stood on a beach and breathed in the salt and the sky — and now walks through the world like she belongs in it.
Because she does.
None of this happened by accident.
It happened because we listened. Because we honored fear without feeding it. Because we taught slowly, gently, and on purpose.
It happened because of the Method.
The Lady Priscilla Method isn’t about obedience.
It’s about becoming.
And Lady Priscilla is living proof of where that kind of training can lead.
This is what the Method was made for.
Stories live in echoes—some soft, some unshakable.
Meet the soul behind the eyes, browse our content, explore her biggest triumphs, or subscribe to never miss an update.
Leave a Reply