I built two wholesale businesses. When I retired at 72, I volunteered to raise service dogs to keep myself on a routine.
The transition from running a business to retirement can feel like stepping off a moving train. For years, your days were shaped by deadlines, client calls, inventory checks, and the constant hum of problem-solving. Then one day, it all stops. No alarms. No emails. Just quiet. That silence can be deafening if you’re not prepared for it.
I didn’t want to fade into the background. After selling my second wholesale company — one focused on industrial cleaning supplies, the other on specialty food distribution — I found myself at 72 with more time than I knew what to do with. I tried golf. I tried reading. I tried napping. None of it stuck. What I missed wasn’t the money or the prestige. It was the rhythm. The sense that each day had a purpose, a task, a reason to get up and show up.
That’s when I heard about Guiding Eyes for the Blind. They were looking for volunteer puppy raisers. Not trainers. Not experts. Just people willing to open their homes and hearts to a young dog for 12 to 18 months, teaching it basic obedience, socializing it to the world, and preparing it for formal guide dog training. I didn’t know much about service dogs beyond what I’d seen in movies. But I knew I needed structure. So I signed up.
The first puppy I raised was a yellow Labrador named Scout. He was eight weeks old, all floppy ears and boundless energy. My wife laughed when I brought him home, saying I’d traded boardrooms for chewed-up shoes. She wasn’t wrong. Those first weeks were chaos. Scout wanted to play at 5 a.m. He pulled on the leash like he was trying to drag me to the next county. He barked at squirrels, startled at trash trucks, and once tried to eat a sock mid-walk. I felt like a novice all over again.
But slowly, things shifted. I started waking up at the same time every morning — not because I had to, but because Scout needed his breakfast and his walk. I began planning my day around his needs: training sessions after lunch, trips to the pet store for supplies, evening walks to tire him out before bed. I found myself noticing things I’d ignored for years — the way the light hit the sidewalk at 7 a.m., the rhythm of footsteps on the pavement, the kindness of strangers who stopped to ask about the puppy in the vest.
Raising a service dog isn’t just about teaching commands. It’s about exposure. You take the puppy everywhere — grocery stores, libraries, bus stops, cafes — so it learns to stay calm in any environment. That meant I had to go places too. I started visiting the local farmers market every Saturday, not for the produce, but to let Scout practice ignoring dropped food and loud music. I took him to the hardware store to get used to the smell of paint and the clang of tools. I even brought him to my old office building once, just to walk the empty halls and let him hear the echo of footsteps that used to be mine.
The routine became my anchor. No more lying in bed wondering what to do with the day. No more feeling invisible. Scout gave me a reason to leave the house, to interact with people, to be present. Strangers would smile and say, “What a good dog.” I’d smile back and say, “He’s learning.” It wasn’t just about him. It was about me, too.
There’s a community in puppy raising that I didn’t expect. Every few weeks, we meet with other raisers and a regional manager from Guiding Eyes. We share tips, troubleshoot problems, and celebrate milestones — like when a puppy finally walks past a barking dog without reacting, or stays down for a full minute during a distracting visit to the vet. These meetings aren’t formal. They’re held in church basements or community centers, often with coffee and cookies. But they’re meaningful. I’ve made friends I wouldn’t have met otherwise — teachers, retirees, a former nurse who raises puppies in between shifts at the hospital.
One of the most surprising things has been how much I’ve learned about patience. In business, you’re used to solving problems quickly. You make a call, send an email, close a deal. With a puppy, you can’t rush understanding. If Scout is scared of a garbage truck, you don’t correct him. You sit with him. You let him watch it from a distance. You reward calm behavior. You try again tomorrow. It’s a different kind of problem-solving — one that rewards stillness over speed.
I won’t pretend it’s always easy. There are days when Scout ignores every command, when he decides the best place to nap is right in the middle of the kitchen floor, when I wonder if I’m cut out for this. But then he’ll do something small — look up at me during a walk, check in without being asked, lie quietly beside me while I read — and I remember why I said yes.
When Scout turns over his leash to the formal trainers, it will be bittersweet. I’ll miss him terribly. But I’ll also know he’s going on to do something important — helping someone navigate the world with confidence and independence. And I’ll have the quiet satisfaction of knowing I played a part in that.
I’ve started raising my second puppy now. Her name is Hope. She’s quieter than Scout was, more observant. She watches the world with calm eyes, like she’s already assessing what’s worth reacting to. I see a to and what’s not.
Retirement doesn’t have to mean slowing down. It can mean redirecting. For me, it’s meant trading purchase orders for puppy pads, profit margins for progress reports, and board meetings for belly rubs. The routine hasn’t just kept me busy — it’s given me back a sense of purpose I didn’t know I was missing. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.