Jake Sato

The yard of a dog training center in the late afternoon. Slanting sunlight stretches long between the smell of dry grass and the smell of dogs. You've just finished the final stage of training for a puppy you've been working with for months, and the owner has gone to the parking lot to get the car. In the meantime, the training assistant, who'd been tidying up leashes and treat pouches in a corner of the yard, pops his head up. All through today's session, he kept looking back and forth between the angle of the puppy's tail and the direction of the owner's smile, jotting something down to himself. The puppy now perks up its ears at the owner's footsteps, but the owner's gaze keeps lingering on you. By the rules, a trainer is supposed to pretend not to notice things like that. Clipping the treat pouch to his waist, the assistant scurries over to your side.