I didn’t start out wanting to run my own company.
I started as a maker.
In art school, if I designed something, I had to build it myself. Cut it. Sand it. Stitch it. Fail at it. Try again. There was no separation between idea and object. The making was the point.
After graduating, I stepped into a design career with a large retailer. At first, it felt like absolute magic. Anything I dreamed up would arrive a month later as a finished production sample. Perfectly sewn, professionally packaged, ready for market.
It was thrilling.
Until... some of that magic just started to disappear.
Somewhere along the way, I realized I was no longer making. Products I designed appeared on my desk, but the process was invisible. I had no connection to the people bringing those designs to life.
Later in my career, I began visiting the factories we worked with. It started to feel more real. But I only met with production managers and sourcing partners, not the people doing the sewing.
One day, I was visiting an upholstery factory overseas. We were being escorted back toward the showroom and passed a window that looked onto the factory floor. There were rows upon rows of sewing machines under dim lighting. Everyone was hard at work. No talking. No laughter. Just the steady hum of machines.
One woman sat at her station with her head down. As we walked past, she looked up for a moment. Then she quickly lowered her eyes and went back to work. I don’t know her story. I don’t know what her life was like. But I remember that moment clearly.
I remember realizing how far removed I was from the making.
I missed the craft.
I missed the connection.
I missed knowing.
My career took unexpected turns after that... most of them intentional, to get back to being a maker. And while I sometimes miss the stability and paycheck that came with a “fancy” job, I don’t miss the distance.
Today, I arrive at our downtown studio most mornings with boxes of supplies… hardware, webbing, rolls of fabric tucked under my arm. Design sketches are spread across the table. Machines hum. Someone is trimming threads. Someone is pressing finished pieces. A few steps away, orders are being packed. At the end of the day, we carry those finished boxes a few blocks to the post office.
Start to finish. All right here.
Proximity Changes Everything
In much of the pet industry, production is distant. Designs are emailed overseas, samples arrive weeks later, and adjustments can take months.
I chose a smaller circle.
All of our sewn goods are made in partnership with the Refugee Collective here in Austin - a relationship that’s grown over more than eleven years. The people who sew our gear work in the same building where it’s designed and fulfilled. If something needs adjusting, I walk it across the hall. If a stitch pattern needs reinforcement, we test it that week.
From my desk, I can hear the hum of the machines and the team chatting while I’m updating the website or sending invoices. The making isn’t hidden. It’s part of the rhythm of the day.
This isn’t an anonymous supply chain. I’ve worked with the same vendors for years, and we know each other by name. We’ve grown alongside one another - adjusting colors, refining construction, navigating hard seasons, celebrating wins.
There are conversations. There are shared problem-solving moments. There is pride in the work. We are a close-knit group, building something together.
Ethical pet brands aren’t ethical because of a tagline. They’re ethical because their production is transparent and rooted in real relationships. If you asked who specifically made your dog’s collar, we could tell you.
Built In a Dog-Loving City
We're based in Austin, and one thing I love about this city is how incredibly dog-friendly it is. There’s something grounding about making dog gear in a city full of dogs. Not only that, but there is a strong community supporting animal shelters and rescues.
Some evenings, after wrapping up a work day at the studio, I stop by the shelter on my way home. I train dogs, teach classes to other volunteers, sit on the floor with the scaredy pups that need a lot of patience to learn to trust humans. I catch up with friends I've met through rescue and am inspired by the love and dedication given to dogs that are waiting on a forever home.
As a trainer, I’ve worked with hundreds of dogs... reactive dogs, anxious dogs, powerful pullers. I’ve seen what fails under pressure. I’ve seen what holds. I get to test out our products in the field, during training sessions, with a variety of dogs - who all have different needs.
That experience feeds directly back into our designs.
A leash clip that feels wrong in hand gets swapped. A martingale collar that needs subtle reinforcement gets adjusted. We don’t wait for next season. We change it.
Locally made dog gear isn’t just about geography. It’s about staying close enough to your product - and the animals using it - that you can improve it in real time.
The Real Cost of Distance
There is a reason locally made dog gear costs more than mass-produced alternatives. It reflects real labor and fair wages, better materials, and small-batch attention.
Cheap gear is often disposable gear. And when something breaks on a walk, it’s not just inconvenient. It can be unsafe.
Durability is sustainability.
When production happens thousands of miles away, it’s easier to cut corners. When production happens in the same room as design, it’s harder to look away.
Why It Matters
Local manufacturing keeps us accountable. It allows us to pay fairly. It keeps dollars circulating in our community. It allows for small adjustments and constant refinement. It lets us know the people behind the product.
For me, it brings the work full circle.
I get to design it, choose the materials (and carry them up the stairs.) I get to see it made, and help with that process. I get to pack it up when it’s finished, and carry it to the post office. I get to snap a photo of an adoptable dog in a new collar when we drop off donations to the shelter.
And the next morning, I might spot one of our collars or leashes “in the wild” — on a dog walking down South Congress, at the park on my way to the studio, or tagged in a photo from someone across the country.
The work doesn’t disappear into a supply chain. It stays visible. It stays connected to real dogs and real people, and directly benefits the community you live in.
There’s no mystery in the process.
When you know the people who make your products, the work changes. And so does everything around it.
- Laura, founder/owner of Major Darling, eternally grateful for this crazy journey!