Top five leadership lessons I’ve learned from our dog

I’m not a captain of industry. I’m more of a field officer, developing people, making sure things get done and patients get taken care of safely, while advancing toward key objectives. I’ve been either residency director or neurosurgery chief for nearly 15 years.

We adopted Buddy about a year and a half ago. He responded to his name, so we kept it. He wasn’t a pandemic impulse at all. We’d considered carefully and felt ready as a family. He’s reminded me that teaching and learning go both ways. Here are some lessons Buddy has taught me about leadership.

There is an old behavioral theory that we have to establish dominance with dogs by scolding. The few times we scolded Buddy, he cowered. Like humans, it’s hard for dogs to learn when their brains are distracted by worry or fear. We wanted a confident dog, so we rewarded him when he did things we wanted and generally ignored bad behavior. This worked. Praise is good. Treats are best. At work, treats are, of course, a metaphor for compensation, but it can also be pastries or a midweek lunch order, or even just a fist bump.

Buddy was a stray from the South, but at some point, he was somebody’s dog — he has a microchip and a poorly docked tail with a tuft of hair that comes to a point, a kind of mullet. He has short, coarse black hair with rust-colored brows and face. The adoption agency billed him as a Rottweiler mix. He’s a bit smaller and very social, but still has a big dog bark and attitude.

He’s risked hunger, mortality, even cats, in search of a better life. He can’t tell us his past, but we’re sensitive to what it might have been. In my first job, I hired a woman to work the front desk. I learned that, in her previous job, she worked a lot of mandatory overtime and commuted an hour each way while trying to care for her toddler. I gave her time to adjust and made clear our expectations. She did a great job.

Buddy loves going for a leisurely evening constitutional, placing his head in the harness enthusiastically and wagging as I buckle him in. But he really hates rain. Ears tacked back, he regards it with grim determination in the doorway before stepping out. He moves quickly, does the business and leads me home, tiptoeing gingerly around puddles.

In neurosurgery, things can happen pretty quickly, at inconvenient hours, and it can be taxing for everyone, especially in a shorthanded world. In those times, we head collectively into the rain. When we’re done, I try to shoo everyone home as quickly as possible.

Buddy guards the house vigorously. He came to us like that. At first, we couldn’t have guests. He would stand at the door growling like a bouncer. The doorbell still triggers him, but if we say “friend” he hangs back, reluctant and suspicious, and checks how we interact with the intruder at the door. We ask the intruder whether Buddy can perform a check, too. It’s part of who he is, we love him for it, and have adjusted to accommodate this unique character trait.

I’ve mentored many residents, medical students, physician assistants, nurse practitioners and, as I’ve grown older, young attending surgeons, too. Each has unique core skills and personality traits that are suited to what they do. I try to understand what those qualities are and leverage them to their best use.

He’s become a great version of himself and now he shines as part of our family. He’s grown so much since we brought him home — he’s always happy to see us, loves to run and protects us, even our cat.

And we’ve modified our routines to adapt to his needs, too. Each in our family — mom, dad, older and younger daughter, dog and cat — brings unique attributes, just as everyone in our work group brings a unique light every day. I wish I could tell Buddy how much he’s taught me about leading hoomans. I think he knows.

Patrick J. Connolly is a clinical associate of neurosurgery at Penn Medicine and neurosurgery chief at Virtua Health.