Tina

When life breaks you open, where do you put the pieces? In Tina, Niall Harbison argues that you can transform private pain into public good—if you choose purpose, build systems, and let animals teach you how to love again. He contends that one dog’s story—Tina, an emaciated golden retriever found chained under a mountain shack in Koh Samui—can become a blueprint for reshaping an entire island’s street-dog crisis and, more quietly, a shattered human life. But to do so, you must understand the paradox at the heart of this book: saving individual animals is life-changing, yet only systemic work truly changes the future.

This is part memoir, part field-manual, part love letter. It follows Harbison’s recovery from alcoholism and anxiety as he rescues dogs on a Thai island, builds Happy Doggo (a global sterilisation charity), and vows to construct Tina’s Hospital for Dogs Who Aren’t Doing So Good—an on-site, round-the-clock clinic inspired by the dog who turned him into the person he needed to become. It’s also a story-suite of unforgettable canine lives: Tina, Jumbo, Snoop, Buttons (adopted by Liam Gallagher), Shaq with a basketball-sized neck mass, Buster the misunderstood pit bull, Cindy Crawford the obese sweetheart, Billy the slashed and blind elder, Eve the burn victim on Christmas Eve, and Alba, the feather-light miracle who lived for fourteen radiant sunrises.

What the book argues

Harbison’s core claim is threefold. First, dignity and joy are not luxuries in rescue—they are medicine. Tina doesn’t just need antibiotics; she needs bandanas, beach swims, and a hundred tennis balls raining from a tree. Second, systems beat heroics. Sterilisation (spay/neuter), vaccination, and field medicine prevent suffering at scale, while adoptions are crafted intentionally, not sentimentally. Third, vulnerability builds movements. By telling unvarnished stories online about the wins and the grief, Harbison mobilises a global community—raising funds, volunteers, and pressure to do better (compare to the narrative-driven change in Matthew Syed’s Rebel Ideas and the sticky storytelling principles in Chip and Dan Heath’s Made to Stick).

How the story unfolds

You’ll meet Tina first: skeletal, chained, used as a breeding machine, and barely walking. You’ll sit with the panic when a well-meant first meal nearly kills her via refeeding syndrome (bloat), and feel the fragile, ferocious bond that grows on a hammock under tropical skies. As Tina stabilises, the book widens to the work behind the scenes: negotiating respectfully in a culture where locals avoid losing face; triaging emergencies; learning to feed 1,000 dogs a day; and, crucially, scaling sterilisation from one dog (Mr Fox) to more than 70,000 across Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia.

Then comes loss. Tina’s kidney failure. Snoop’s final days. The question becomes: what do you do with grief? Harbison chooses action: #DoingItForTina walks in London, Manchester, Dublin, and across the US; a media tour that reconnects him with Hope on live TV; and an audacious hospital plan designed pro bono by Danny Forster & Architecture in New York, with a sunlit walkway wrapped around Tina’s grave. Between these arcs, you’ll encounter case studies that read like parables: Shaq’s impossible surgery; Cindy’s 17-kg weight loss; Buster’s escape from a brutal chain to tennis-court bliss; Billy’s PTSD and cataract miracle; Eve’s survival through burns; and Alba’s fourteen luminous sunsets.

Why it matters to you

If you care about animals, this book offers hard-won, humane tactics you can copy tomorrow: slow refeeding, field stabilisation, triage thinking, and a five-step adoption process. If you care about impact, it shows why you must pair compassion with operational discipline (think Atul Gawande’s The Checklist Manifesto): routes, rosters, refrigerators for vaccines, and a ruthless focus on the question, “Will this help more dogs?” If you’re wrestling with purpose, Tina demonstrates the alchemy Viktor Frankl described—finding meaning in service to something beyond the self (Man’s Search for Meaning). And if you’re recovering from anything, you’ll recognise yourself in Harbison’s rituals: replacing pub nights with sunrise runs, swapping performative busyness for consistent routines, and choosing smaller circles, stronger boundaries, and deeper work.

What this summary covers

We’ll begin with Tina’s rescue and the medical/do-no-harm lessons it taught. We’ll connect Harbison’s personal sobriety journey to how he cares for animals under stress. We’ll unpack the pivot from rescues to systems—sterilisation, feeding infrastructure, and the social-media engine that funds it. We’ll explore how joy is operationalised (bandanas are strategy, not swag), and how grief turns into blueprints. Then we’ll study case stories (Buster, Cindy, Shaq, Buttons, Brad Pitt, Billy, Eve, Alba) that ground the ethics of adoption, the limits of sanctuary life, and the art of making hard calls. Finally, we’ll end with the hospital build, the charity mechanics, and the inner practices that keep the work—and the worker—alive.

When life breaks you open, where do you put the pieces? In Tina, Niall Harbison argues that you can transform private pain into public good—if you choose purpose, build systems, and let animals teach you how to love again. He contends that one dog’s story—Tina, an emaciated golden retriever found chained under a mountain shack in Koh Samui—can become a blueprint for reshaping an entire island’s street-dog crisis and, more quietly, a shattered human life. But to do so, you must understand the paradox at the heart of this book: saving individual animals is life-changing, yet only systemic work truly changes the future.

This is part memoir, part field-manual, part love letter. It follows Harbison’s recovery from alcoholism and anxiety as he rescues dogs on a Thai island, builds Happy Doggo (a global sterilisation charity), and vows to construct Tina’s Hospital for Dogs Who Aren’t Doing So Good—an on-site, round-the-clock clinic inspired by the dog who turned him into the person he needed to become. It’s also a story-suite of unforgettable canine lives: Tina, Jumbo, Snoop, Buttons (adopted by Liam Gallagher), Shaq with a basketball-sized neck mass, Buster the misunderstood pit bull, Cindy Crawford the obese sweetheart, Billy the slashed and blind elder, Eve the burn victim on Christmas Eve, and Alba, the feather-light miracle who lived for fourteen radiant sunrises.

What the book argues

Harbison’s core claim is threefold. First, dignity and joy are not luxuries in rescue—they are medicine. Tina doesn’t just need antibiotics; she needs bandanas, beach swims, and a hundred tennis balls raining from a tree. Second, systems beat heroics. Sterilisation (spay/neuter), vaccination, and field medicine prevent suffering at scale, while adoptions are crafted intentionally, not sentimentally. Third, vulnerability builds movements. By telling unvarnished stories online about the wins and the grief, Harbison mobilises a global community—raising funds, volunteers, and pressure to do better (compare to the narrative-driven change in Matthew Syed’s Rebel Ideas and the sticky storytelling principles in Chip and Dan Heath’s Made to Stick).

How the story unfolds

You’ll meet Tina first: skeletal, chained, used as a breeding machine, and barely walking. You’ll sit with the panic when a well-meant first meal nearly kills her via refeeding syndrome (bloat), and feel the fragile, ferocious bond that grows on a hammock under tropical skies. As Tina stabilises, the book widens to the work behind the scenes: negotiating respectfully in a culture where locals avoid losing face; triaging emergencies; learning to feed 1,000 dogs a day; and, crucially, scaling sterilisation from one dog (Mr Fox) to more than 70,000 across Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia.

Then comes loss. Tina’s kidney failure. Snoop’s final days. The question becomes: what do you do with grief? Harbison chooses action: #DoingItForTina walks in London, Manchester, Dublin, and across the US; a media tour that reconnects him with Hope on live TV; and an audacious hospital plan designed pro bono by Danny Forster & Architecture in New York, with a sunlit walkway wrapped around Tina’s grave. Between these arcs, you’ll encounter case studies that read like parables: Shaq’s impossible surgery; Cindy’s 17-kg weight loss; Buster’s escape from a brutal chain to tennis-court bliss; Billy’s PTSD and cataract miracle; Eve’s survival through burns; and Alba’s fourteen luminous sunsets.

Why it matters to you

If you care about animals, this book offers hard-won, humane tactics you can copy tomorrow: slow refeeding, field stabilisation, triage thinking, and a five-step adoption process. If you care about impact, it shows why you must pair compassion with operational discipline (think Atul Gawande’s The Checklist Manifesto): routes, rosters, refrigerators for vaccines, and a ruthless focus on the question, “Will this help more dogs?” If you’re wrestling with purpose, Tina demonstrates the alchemy Viktor Frankl described—finding meaning in service to something beyond the self (Man’s Search for Meaning). And if you’re recovering from anything, you’ll recognise yourself in Harbison’s rituals: replacing pub nights with sunrise runs, swapping performative busyness for consistent routines, and choosing smaller circles, stronger boundaries, and deeper work.

What this summary covers

We’ll begin with Tina’s rescue and the medical/do-no-harm lessons it taught. We’ll connect Harbison’s personal sobriety journey to how he cares for animals under stress. We’ll unpack the pivot from rescues to systems—sterilisation, feeding infrastructure, and the social-media engine that funds it. We’ll explore how joy is operationalised (bandanas are strategy, not swag), and how grief turns into blueprints. Then we’ll study case stories (Buster, Cindy, Shaq, Buttons, Brad Pitt, Billy, Eve, Alba) that ground the ethics of adoption, the limits of sanctuary life, and the art of making hard calls. Finally, we’ll end with the hospital build, the charity mechanics, and the inner practices that keep the work—and the worker—alive.

Harbison’s first contact with Tina condenses the pillars of ethical rescue: go fast, go kind, and go culturally light. A tourist’s WhatsApp image shows a fair-coated, matted dog chained in a basement-like under-house, lying in her own waste. He calls Rod—his Aussie ex-cop ally—and bounces a truck up a mountain track. On arrival, the smell, the sores, and the eyes tell the story. Tina isn’t aggressive. She’s depleted—and still trusting.

Move fast, negotiate softly

Instead of confrontations, he works within Thai cultural norms around saving face. He frames removal as a vet visit, avoids blame, and unties what’s essentially string-and-rope shackling. This matters: you build local trust by not grandstanding (compare to Paul Farmer’s community-first ethos in Mountains Beyond Mountains). Harbison’s point is practical: you can save more dogs tomorrow if you aren’t banned today.

Stabilise first, story later

At the vet, Tina’s blood shows parasites, severe anaemia, possible kidney issues, and a shocking weight of 12.5 kg for a golden retriever. The likely backstory: exploited for litters (retrievers here are ‘exotic’), then discarded. Painkillers, parasite control, and fluids come first. Only then does Harbison notice the pedigree—“You’re a golden retriever, girl”—and name her Tina Turner, a survivor with a spiky tuft to match. Naming isn’t cute; it’s strategy. A named life gains public attention; attention funds care.

Refeeding syndrome: a near-fatal lesson

Within days, Harbison makes the biggest early error: a large, rich meal triggers catastrophic bloat (refeeding syndrome). Tina balloons. Vets are closed. Valeria, a colleague with basic training, inserts a needle to vent gas—a “cartoon hiss”—and saves her. Then Tina turns ghost-pale and drifts in and out of consciousness. He spends the night at her side, counting breaths, learning in terror what he now preaches: refeed slowly, in micro-portions, and expect delayed bloating for days. (Temple Grandin and animal-welfare clinicians make the same point: basic physiology beats good intentions.)

Build safety into the environment

Back at the land (later named Happy Doggo Land), Hope Avenue isn’t just a path through jungle; it’s a sanctuary-by-design. A plastic tub becomes a warm bath. The sun is used as a dryer. Tina’s first touches are gentle, frequent, and predictable. Nearby, Snoop (Harbison’s long-time companion) and Jumbo (a brown lab mix with comically ‘baggy trouser’ legs) model calm, social cues. Dogs learn from dogs; if the resident uncles welcome, the newcomer relaxes.

Diplomacy, not outrage

Readers often ask, “Why not call the police?” Because there’s no RSPCA here, and confrontation shuts doors. Harbison holds two truths at once: some humans failed Tina, and the goal now is her future, not his anger. That discipline—vent in private, act in public—recurs across the book. It’s the same logic he later applies to online criticism: don’t spend emotional fuel on being right; spend it on saving dogs.

Identity and dignity

Bandanas start as scraps of cloth and become psychological kit. Dressing Tina is a quiet ceremony: “You belong. You’re seen.” Later, volunteer Zoe designs seven bandanas (Friday-night baubles, sporty stripes, cosy PJs). Cosmetic? Not here. They signal to locals that this animal is cared for; to donors that this story has a face; and to Tina that hands now mean kindness. Small rituals build big trust (see also BJ Fogg’s Tiny Habits for how micro-signals cement identity).

Harbison’s first contact with Tina condenses the pillars of ethical rescue: go fast, go kind, and go culturally light. A tourist’s WhatsApp image shows a fair-coated, matted dog chained in a basement-like under-house, lying in her own waste. He calls Rod—his Aussie ex-cop ally—and bounces a truck up a mountain track. On arrival, the smell, the sores, and the eyes tell the story. Tina isn’t aggressive. She’s depleted—and still trusting.

Move fast, negotiate softly

Instead of confrontations, he works within Thai cultural norms around saving face. He frames removal as a vet visit, avoids blame, and unties what’s essentially string-and-rope shackling. This matters: you build local trust by not grandstanding (compare to Paul Farmer’s community-first ethos in Mountains Beyond Mountains). Harbison’s point is practical: you can save more dogs tomorrow if you aren’t banned today.

Stabilise first, story later

At the vet, Tina’s blood shows parasites, severe anaemia, possible kidney issues, and a shocking weight of 12.5 kg for a golden retriever. The likely backstory: exploited for litters (retrievers here are ‘exotic’), then discarded. Painkillers, parasite control, and fluids come first. Only then does Harbison notice the pedigree—“You’re a golden retriever, girl”—and name her Tina Turner, a survivor with a spiky tuft to match. Naming isn’t cute; it’s strategy. A named life gains public attention; attention funds care.

Refeeding syndrome: a near-fatal lesson

Within days, Harbison makes the biggest early error: a large, rich meal triggers catastrophic bloat (refeeding syndrome). Tina balloons. Vets are closed. Valeria, a colleague with basic training, inserts a needle to vent gas—a “cartoon hiss”—and saves her. Then Tina turns ghost-pale and drifts in and out of consciousness. He spends the night at her side, counting breaths, learning in terror what he now preaches: refeed slowly, in micro-portions, and expect delayed bloating for days. (Temple Grandin and animal-welfare clinicians make the same point: basic physiology beats good intentions.)

Build safety into the environment

Back at the land (later named Happy Doggo Land), Hope Avenue isn’t just a path through jungle; it’s a sanctuary-by-design. A plastic tub becomes a warm bath. The sun is used as a dryer. Tina’s first touches are gentle, frequent, and predictable. Nearby, Snoop (Harbison’s long-time companion) and Jumbo (a brown lab mix with comically ‘baggy trouser’ legs) model calm, social cues. Dogs learn from dogs; if the resident uncles welcome, the newcomer relaxes.

Diplomacy, not outrage

Readers often ask, “Why not call the police?” Because there’s no RSPCA here, and confrontation shuts doors. Harbison holds two truths at once: some humans failed Tina, and the goal now is her future, not his anger. That discipline—vent in private, act in public—recurs across the book. It’s the same logic he later applies to online criticism: don’t spend emotional fuel on being right; spend it on saving dogs.

Identity and dignity

Bandanas start as scraps of cloth and become psychological kit. Dressing Tina is a quiet ceremony: “You belong. You’re seen.” Later, volunteer Zoe designs seven bandanas (Friday-night baubles, sporty stripes, cosy PJs). Cosmetic? Not here. They signal to locals that this animal is cared for; to donors that this story has a face; and to Tina that hands now mean kindness. Small rituals build big trust (see also BJ Fogg’s Tiny Habits for how micro-signals cement identity).

Tina’s first weeks are a mirror: as she wobbles between life and death, Harbison faces his own. He arrived in Thailand an alcoholic: 10 beers, four bottles of red, and a bottle of Thai whisky in 24 hours, plus 40 cigarettes and benzos bought over the counter. On 30 December 2020, an ex messaged after a suicidal tweet and stayed on the phone for two hours. By New Year’s Eve, he was in hospital, resolving to make his life matter. Dogs became his sobriety scaffolding: they demand mornings, presence, and a thousand small choices that don’t mix with hangovers.

Parallel recoveries

As Tina stabilises, Harbison moves her into his minimalist home. Snoop and Jumbo serve as buffers and teachers. Nights are white-knuckle: micro-feeds, meds, and sleep with Tina curled like a comma on his pillow. He recognises in her exhaustion the same bone-deep depletion he carried into ICU. Healing here is unglamorous consistency. “I’m an optimist,” he says, but optimism shows up as portion scales, medic calendars, and early alarms.

Triggers and replacements

Harbison names three triggers he had to retire to stay sober: romantic relationships (which he admits he mishandled), drinking while watching sport, and the drift of a life without purpose. He replaces them with solitude, dogs, and structure. He avoids live sports (except F1 at home), adopts a monkish routine (big breakfast, 15–20k steps, zero cooking), and keeps one private ritual: passing the 7-Eleven where he bought his last whisky, punching the air in quiet triumph. (James Clear would call these identity-confirming cues: “I’m the kind of person who feeds dogs at sunrise, not the kind who drinks at dawn.”)

Mental health as maintenance

He’s clear-eyed about anxiety and panic. SSRIs help; missing doses hurts. Supplements from a full health check add energy. Running 5k most days is medicine. When panic hits, meditation and a massage with bones-crunching Thai aunties help reset. He’s candid about therapy—helpful in the past; less used now—but replaces some of it with honest friendship. The throughline: treat depression like any wound you’d dress on a dog—with protocol, not shame.

Why dogs heal humans

Dogs are present-tense. They don’t catastrophise. When Tina presses against his head at 4 a.m., that’s attachment, not neediness. When she offers a paw for the first time, that’s trust reborn. You see why grief later hits so hard: Snoop—his anchor through the worst—declines after Tina’s death. Tumour, incontinence, vertebrae fusing; he dies peacefully, paw in hand, buried beside Tina. Harbison delays sharing publicly, keeping some grief private. That boundary is part of staying well.

The ethic of pacing

Caregiving can burn you out or build you. Harbison chooses the latter by narrowing his world: few social events, no drinking, simple clothes, one question guiding every decision—Will this help more dogs? Applied to your life, that translates to one clarifying constraint that filters opportunities. He embraces introversion: the perfect day is alone in the jungle with the pack. That candour liberates you from rescuing like anyone else. Impact thrives when you design your life to fit your nervous system.

Tina’s first weeks are a mirror: as she wobbles between life and death, Harbison faces his own. He arrived in Thailand an alcoholic: 10 beers, four bottles of red, and a bottle of Thai whisky in 24 hours, plus 40 cigarettes and benzos bought over the counter. On 30 December 2020, an ex messaged after a suicidal tweet and stayed on the phone for two hours. By New Year’s Eve, he was in hospital, resolving to make his life matter. Dogs became his sobriety scaffolding: they demand mornings, presence, and a thousand small choices that don’t mix with hangovers.

Parallel recoveries

As Tina stabilises, Harbison moves her into his minimalist home. Snoop and Jumbo serve as buffers and teachers. Nights are white-knuckle: micro-feeds, meds, and sleep with Tina curled like a comma on his pillow. He recognises in her exhaustion the same bone-deep depletion he carried into ICU. Healing here is unglamorous consistency. “I’m an optimist,” he says, but optimism shows up as portion scales, medic calendars, and early alarms.

Triggers and replacements

Harbison names three triggers he had to retire to stay sober: romantic relationships (which he admits he mishandled), drinking while watching sport, and the drift of a life without purpose. He replaces them with solitude, dogs, and structure. He avoids live sports (except F1 at home), adopts a monkish routine (big breakfast, 15–20k steps, zero cooking), and keeps one private ritual: passing the 7-Eleven where he bought his last whisky, punching the air in quiet triumph. (James Clear would call these identity-confirming cues: “I’m the kind of person who feeds dogs at sunrise, not the kind who drinks at dawn.”)

Mental health as maintenance

He’s clear-eyed about anxiety and panic. SSRIs help; missing doses hurts. Supplements from a full health check add energy. Running 5k most days is medicine. When panic hits, meditation and a massage with bones-crunching Thai aunties help reset. He’s candid about therapy—helpful in the past; less used now—but replaces some of it with honest friendship. The throughline: treat depression like any wound you’d dress on a dog—with protocol, not shame.

Why dogs heal humans

Dogs are present-tense. They don’t catastrophise. When Tina presses against his head at 4 a.m., that’s attachment, not neediness. When she offers a paw for the first time, that’s trust reborn. You see why grief later hits so hard: Snoop—his anchor through the worst—declines after Tina’s death. Tumour, incontinence, vertebrae fusing; he dies peacefully, paw in hand, buried beside Tina. Harbison delays sharing publicly, keeping some grief private. That boundary is part of staying well.

The ethic of pacing

Caregiving can burn you out or build you. Harbison chooses the latter by narrowing his world: few social events, no drinking, simple clothes, one question guiding every decision—Will this help more dogs? Applied to your life, that translates to one clarifying constraint that filters opportunities. He embraces introversion: the perfect day is alone in the jungle with the pack. That candour liberates you from rescuing like anyone else. Impact thrives when you design your life to fit your nervous system.

Harbison’s biggest pivot is from one-dog heroics to island-wide prevention. Early on, he catches, crates, and ferries two street dogs a day to the vet—getting bitten, crawling under shacks, running into rivers. In eight months he sterilises 302 dogs alone. Then he scales: partners across Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia; logistics for transport; and a central kitchen to feed 1,000 dogs a day (chicken, rice, pumpkin, coconut oil on palm leaves). The maths are ruthless: about $50 per surgery, and a single sterilisation prevents entire family trees of suffering.

Why sterilisation is the keystone

On Koh Samui, they reach 90–95% coverage (never 100%, given breeders, refusals, and incoming worker dogs). Globally, Harbison estimates ~500 million street dogs and declares a wild but galvanising goal: halve it in his lifetime. Emotionally, rescues steal the spotlight; practically, sterilisations change the future. (Peter Singer’s effective-altruism lens would applaud the cost-effectiveness.)

A signature story: Mr Fox

His first neuter is Mr Fox, a jungle dog with a helicopter tail. He frets like a parent, tattoos the small ‘V’ in the ear, and returns him post-op to his patch. Later, Mr Fox ends up bounding through Montana snow with his new family. It’s a parable: the individual story that funds the system that spares thousands more Mr and Miss Foxes.

Social media as an ethical engine

Harbison wrestles with visibility. He hates fame, loves quiet. But he recognises that sharing “an old dog’s first bath” educates, mobilises, and pays vet bills. He sets a hard rule for opportunities: Only do it if it helps more dogs. That’s why he builds a youth-focused YouTube, runs global walks (#DoingItForTina), and says yes to a UK tour—even if he later weeps on stage in Blackburn when someone thanks him for Tina and Snoop. (Brené Brown’s point about vulnerability as connective tissue is on full display.)

Feeding as public health

The fresh-food kitchen isn’t charity soup; it’s disease prevention. Better diets reduce infections, speed healing, and keep dogs in their territories (reducing bites). It also enables medication adherence (hide pills in sausages) and trust-building—both critical for later capture and clinic days. The operation is off-grid: deep well, solar panels, cold-chain fridges, and laundry for blankets. Rescues post to Instagram. Sterilisation and feeding quietly change an ecosystem.

Field medicine and triage

On any given morning, the team lets 16 inpatients out, walks 16–18 others, and triages texts. They balance monsoons, cobras, and falling coconuts with runs to vets who sometimes lack specialist machines. Hence the push for Tina’s Hospital: to cut delay and cost, keep emergencies on-site, and run protocols they control. The lesson for you: if the bottleneck is external, build the bridge.

Harbison’s biggest pivot is from one-dog heroics to island-wide prevention. Early on, he catches, crates, and ferries two street dogs a day to the vet—getting bitten, crawling under shacks, running into rivers. In eight months he sterilises 302 dogs alone. Then he scales: partners across Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia; logistics for transport; and a central kitchen to feed 1,000 dogs a day (chicken, rice, pumpkin, coconut oil on palm leaves). The maths are ruthless: about $50 per surgery, and a single sterilisation prevents entire family trees of suffering.

Why sterilisation is the keystone

On Koh Samui, they reach 90–95% coverage (never 100%, given breeders, refusals, and incoming worker dogs). Globally, Harbison estimates ~500 million street dogs and declares a wild but galvanising goal: halve it in his lifetime. Emotionally, rescues steal the spotlight; practically, sterilisations change the future. (Peter Singer’s effective-altruism lens would applaud the cost-effectiveness.)

A signature story: Mr Fox

His first neuter is Mr Fox, a jungle dog with a helicopter tail. He frets like a parent, tattoos the small ‘V’ in the ear, and returns him post-op to his patch. Later, Mr Fox ends up bounding through Montana snow with his new family. It’s a parable: the individual story that funds the system that spares thousands more Mr and Miss Foxes.

Social media as an ethical engine

Harbison wrestles with visibility. He hates fame, loves quiet. But he recognises that sharing “an old dog’s first bath” educates, mobilises, and pays vet bills. He sets a hard rule for opportunities: Only do it if it helps more dogs. That’s why he builds a youth-focused YouTube, runs global walks (#DoingItForTina), and says yes to a UK tour—even if he later weeps on stage in Blackburn when someone thanks him for Tina and Snoop. (Brené Brown’s point about vulnerability as connective tissue is on full display.)

Feeding as public health

The fresh-food kitchen isn’t charity soup; it’s disease prevention. Better diets reduce infections, speed healing, and keep dogs in their territories (reducing bites). It also enables medication adherence (hide pills in sausages) and trust-building—both critical for later capture and clinic days. The operation is off-grid: deep well, solar panels, cold-chain fridges, and laundry for blankets. Rescues post to Instagram. Sterilisation and feeding quietly change an ecosystem.

Field medicine and triage

On any given morning, the team lets 16 inpatients out, walks 16–18 others, and triages texts. They balance monsoons, cobras, and falling coconuts with runs to vets who sometimes lack specialist machines. Hence the push for Tina’s Hospital: to cut delay and cost, keep emergencies on-site, and run protocols they control. The lesson for you: if the bottleneck is external, build the bridge.

Harbison’s work is soaked in delight on purpose. Joy isn’t garnish; it’s a clinical and communications tool. Tina’s bandanas, scooter sidecar rides with pink goggles, and the day 100 tennis balls rain from a tree are not frivolous. They restore dignity to a dog used for breeding and chained in filth. They also mobilise humans: a smiling retriever in a Friday-night bandana gets 20x the engagement of a wound photo—and those clicks become clinic fees.

Designing joyful moments

Tina becomes a co-worker on morning “sick rounds,” a calm presence cleaning pups and lowering pack tension. She swims at dusk, tongue lolling, doggy-paddling grief out of her body. She accompanies Harbison to a school talk; kids stop listening to him within minutes and pet Tina instead, learning more about kindness from fur than from slides. This is pedagogy by presence (akin to therapy-dog literature): the animal is the lesson.

Bandanas as identity tech

A cheap triangle of cloth becomes belonging. It signals to locals that a dog is part of someone’s circle; to donors that the story continues tomorrow; to the dog that hands now comfort. Zoe’s seven-day set for Tina evolves into a Happy Doggo signature (and a soft safety device: a bandana can function as a quick ‘collar’ for a grab or leads to conversations in markets).

Cindy Crawford’s glow-up

Cindy—a friendly, 46-kg, near-bald dog camped between a 7‑Eleven and restaurants—shows what “joy as medicine” looks like under constraint. The vet forbids swims or long walks: her heart could fail. Tests reveal hypothyroidism; meds and strict rations follow. Weekly weigh-ins become mini-parties. When progress stalls, Harbison discovers the culprit: everyone has been sneaking her treats. They fess up, recommit, and over nine months Cindy drops to 29 kg, fur regrows, and she breaks into her first run on the beach. The celebration isn’t cosmetic; it’s years added to life and a story that teaches consistency beats intensity (James Clear, again).

Buttons, a self-adopter

A brown pup edges closer to the land each day, befriends burly builders, and eventually chooses the sanctuary. Named Buttons (“cute as one”), she becomes the first dog to check herself into what Harbison jokes is a health spa. Her joyful arc—Thailand to London via Channel Tunnel, adopted by Liam Gallagher and Debbie Gwyther—turns into a megaphone. Photos of Buttons being serenaded in bed do more than charm; they normalise adopting street dogs over buying bred puppies.

Why joy persuades

Humans fund what they can imagine. Grief alone numbs; joy opens wallets and schedules. Harbison’s tennis-ball rain is a masterclass in sticky storytelling (Made to Stick): concrete, unexpected, emotional, visual. The tactic applies to your cause, too. Ask: what is my “100 tennis balls” moment that re-enchants people with the work while teaching what works?

Harbison’s work is soaked in delight on purpose. Joy isn’t garnish; it’s a clinical and communications tool. Tina’s bandanas, scooter sidecar rides with pink goggles, and the day 100 tennis balls rain from a tree are not frivolous. They restore dignity to a dog used for breeding and chained in filth. They also mobilise humans: a smiling retriever in a Friday-night bandana gets 20x the engagement of a wound photo—and those clicks become clinic fees.

Designing joyful moments

Tina becomes a co-worker on morning “sick rounds,” a calm presence cleaning pups and lowering pack tension. She swims at dusk, tongue lolling, doggy-paddling grief out of her body. She accompanies Harbison to a school talk; kids stop listening to him within minutes and pet Tina instead, learning more about kindness from fur than from slides. This is pedagogy by presence (akin to therapy-dog literature): the animal is the lesson.

Bandanas as identity tech

A cheap triangle of cloth becomes belonging. It signals to locals that a dog is part of someone’s circle; to donors that the story continues tomorrow; to the dog that hands now comfort. Zoe’s seven-day set for Tina evolves into a Happy Doggo signature (and a soft safety device: a bandana can function as a quick ‘collar’ for a grab or leads to conversations in markets).

Cindy Crawford’s glow-up

Cindy—a friendly, 46-kg, near-bald dog camped between a 7‑Eleven and restaurants—shows what “joy as medicine” looks like under constraint. The vet forbids swims or long walks: her heart could fail. Tests reveal hypothyroidism; meds and strict rations follow. Weekly weigh-ins become mini-parties. When progress stalls, Harbison discovers the culprit: everyone has been sneaking her treats. They fess up, recommit, and over nine months Cindy drops to 29 kg, fur regrows, and she breaks into her first run on the beach. The celebration isn’t cosmetic; it’s years added to life and a story that teaches consistency beats intensity (James Clear, again).

Buttons, a self-adopter

A brown pup edges closer to the land each day, befriends burly builders, and eventually chooses the sanctuary. Named Buttons (“cute as one”), she becomes the first dog to check herself into what Harbison jokes is a health spa. Her joyful arc—Thailand to London via Channel Tunnel, adopted by Liam Gallagher and Debbie Gwyther—turns into a megaphone. Photos of Buttons being serenaded in bed do more than charm; they normalise adopting street dogs over buying bred puppies.

Why joy persuades

Humans fund what they can imagine. Grief alone numbs; joy opens wallets and schedules. Harbison’s tennis-ball rain is a masterclass in sticky storytelling (Made to Stick): concrete, unexpected, emotional, visual. The tactic applies to your cause, too. Ask: what is my “100 tennis balls” moment that re-enchants people with the work while teaching what works?

Tina’s bloodwork returns with stage 2–3 kidney failure. Vets give three to six months. Harbison refuses to waste a day. He injects daily fluids, crafts a fish-and-veg diet, and chooses comfort without denial. Tina keeps doing the rounds until one August Thursday she can’t. He knows. They spend her last hours in a hammock, sea-blue sky above, “Tiny Dancer” and Van Morrison’s “Days Like This” playing. At 4:45 p.m., with Dr Sybille present, Tina dies gently. He digs the grave himself under the hammock and makes a vow: “Your life won’t be in vain. I’ll do something amazing in your name.”

Transmuting loss into action

#DoingItForTina explodes into public walks in Hyde Park (300 people), Chorlton Ees in Manchester (500+), Phoenix Park in Dublin (~2,000; the police ask about permits), and US parks from Griffith to Central Park. In TV studios, Hope appears and he weeps; outside, adopters gather with their Thai dogs—Whacker, Moritz, Rodney—proving scale and story can coexist. Grief becomes a commons.

The hospital vow

The plan hardens: Tina’s Hospital for Dogs Who Aren’t Doing So Good—24/7 treatment, sterilisation theatre, emergency capacity. Budget: $500k–$1m build; $20k–$50k monthly ops. Architect Danny Forster & Architecture offer pro bono conceptual design. The killer detail: a sunlit walkway wrapping around Tina’s grave, embedding memory into medicine. That design choice teaches a governance insight: ritual sustains systems. When staff walk past Tina daily, the why is literally underfoot.

Phase zero: build what you can now

Permits and foundations take time. So they lay a 120-yard concrete road into the jungle (moving trucks beat good intentions), add utilities (power, water pressure, Wi‑Fi), and open a field hospital in stacked shipping containers stocked with gear and staffed by vets. Sterilisations continue; feeding scales; emergencies are triaged faster. The message: ship the MVP—even hospitals can have minimum viable versions.

Snoop, and grief with boundaries

A week after Tina, Snoop declines rapidly. Harbison navigates conflicting inner voices (“Is it time?”), then chooses a good death—calm, hand in paw, words of thanks. He buries Snoop beside Tina at night and keeps the story mostly offline. Public grief can sustain a movement; private grief sustains the person. Both are necessary to endure.

Tina’s bloodwork returns with stage 2–3 kidney failure. Vets give three to six months. Harbison refuses to waste a day. He injects daily fluids, crafts a fish-and-veg diet, and chooses comfort without denial. Tina keeps doing the rounds until one August Thursday she can’t. He knows. They spend her last hours in a hammock, sea-blue sky above, “Tiny Dancer” and Van Morrison’s “Days Like This” playing. At 4:45 p.m., with Dr Sybille present, Tina dies gently. He digs the grave himself under the hammock and makes a vow: “Your life won’t be in vain. I’ll do something amazing in your name.”

Transmuting loss into action

#DoingItForTina explodes into public walks in Hyde Park (300 people), Chorlton Ees in Manchester (500+), Phoenix Park in Dublin (~2,000; the police ask about permits), and US parks from Griffith to Central Park. In TV studios, Hope appears and he weeps; outside, adopters gather with their Thai dogs—Whacker, Moritz, Rodney—proving scale and story can coexist. Grief becomes a commons.

The hospital vow

The plan hardens: Tina’s Hospital for Dogs Who Aren’t Doing So Good—24/7 treatment, sterilisation theatre, emergency capacity. Budget: $500k–$1m build; $20k–$50k monthly ops. Architect Danny Forster & Architecture offer pro bono conceptual design. The killer detail: a sunlit walkway wrapping around Tina’s grave, embedding memory into medicine. That design choice teaches a governance insight: ritual sustains systems. When staff walk past Tina daily, the why is literally underfoot.

Phase zero: build what you can now

Permits and foundations take time. So they lay a 120-yard concrete road into the jungle (moving trucks beat good intentions), add utilities (power, water pressure, Wi‑Fi), and open a field hospital in stacked shipping containers stocked with gear and staffed by vets. Sterilisations continue; feeding scales; emergencies are triaged faster. The message: ship the MVP—even hospitals can have minimum viable versions.

Snoop, and grief with boundaries

A week after Tina, Snoop declines rapidly. Harbison navigates conflicting inner voices (“Is it time?”), then chooses a good death—calm, hand in paw, words of thanks. He buries Snoop beside Tina at night and keeps the story mostly offline. Public grief can sustain a movement; private grief sustains the person. Both are necessary to endure.

Beyond Tina are cases that pressure-test the ethics of rescue: who to adopt, who to street-release, how much to spend, when to move mountains, and when to let go. Harbison shares them unvarnished so you can see the mental models he uses—triage, temperament, territory, and long-term welfare.

Shaq: the impossible surgery

A tourist’s photo shows a dog with a basketball-sized neck mass. Vets warn: too vascular, too close to vital structures, he may bleed out. Tests say it’s not cancer. They stabilise first: tick fever treatment, anaemia correction, daily draining. A specialist agrees to try. Four hours later, two dark-red globes are removed—but recovery is brutal: moans, swelling, infection, a second surgery. Weeks later, Shaq wears Tina’s bandana, eats ice cream on the beach, and returns to his safe territory. Not every dog must be adopted; some are 100% street dog with friends and familiar routes. Welfare, not ownership, is the goal.

Buster: breed bias undone

Marketed by his owner as “very dangerous,” Buster—short-chained on damp concrete—turns out to be a goofy softie whose ear haematoma requires amputation. Because bully breeds can’t fly, an in-country adopter is needed. Kitty, a tennis coach in Phuket, takes him. They hike and camp; when epilepsy appears, meds keep him stable. The owner loses interest once he realises the care costs. Diplomacy again wins the day.

Billy: PTSD and sight regained

Slashed, staggering, and 90% blind with cataracts, Billy can’t self-soothe. He only calms when held for hours. An MRI 800 km away reveals cerebral oedema; treatment helps; a donor funds cataract surgery and aftercare. Sight returns (100% in one eye, ~60–70% in the other). Billy relocates to a large, loving home in Singapore. Was it “worth” the cost? The answer here is human and humane: a dog who would have died now tours gardens, seeing the faces that saved him.

Eve: Christmas burns

On Christmas Eve, a dog splashed with hot oil and water cowers in a 7‑Eleven. Burns risk infection under the new skin layer; pain is intense. Named Eve, she weathers meticulous care and later joins a family in England (mild disagreements with the cat included). Her story galvanises year-end giving—and underlines why a hospital matters when vets are closed.

Alba: fourteen sunrises

Chained, metallic-gray collar embedded, nails overgrown, organs failing (heartworm, severe anaemia, weak kidneys, liver infection), Alba arrives as a whisper of a dog. Harbison brings her home, cleans the collar stain from her neck, ties on a purple bandana, and hand-feeds sous-vide chicken and lightly poached salmon in micro-portions. They watch sunrises from a rock and sunsets from the hammock while “Sarà perché ti amo” plays. She rallies, then fades, then rallies again—before dying peacefully, with Hank the gentle giant standing guard. Her gift is clarity: even when time is short, dignity can be long.

Beyond Tina are cases that pressure-test the ethics of rescue: who to adopt, who to street-release, how much to spend, when to move mountains, and when to let go. Harbison shares them unvarnished so you can see the mental models he uses—triage, temperament, territory, and long-term welfare.

Shaq: the impossible surgery

A tourist’s photo shows a dog with a basketball-sized neck mass. Vets warn: too vascular, too close to vital structures, he may bleed out. Tests say it’s not cancer. They stabilise first: tick fever treatment, anaemia correction, daily draining. A specialist agrees to try. Four hours later, two dark-red globes are removed—but recovery is brutal: moans, swelling, infection, a second surgery. Weeks later, Shaq wears Tina’s bandana, eats ice cream on the beach, and returns to his safe territory. Not every dog must be adopted; some are 100% street dog with friends and familiar routes. Welfare, not ownership, is the goal.

Buster: breed bias undone

Marketed by his owner as “very dangerous,” Buster—short-chained on damp concrete—turns out to be a goofy softie whose ear haematoma requires amputation. Because bully breeds can’t fly, an in-country adopter is needed. Kitty, a tennis coach in Phuket, takes him. They hike and camp; when epilepsy appears, meds keep him stable. The owner loses interest once he realises the care costs. Diplomacy again wins the day.

Billy: PTSD and sight regained

Slashed, staggering, and 90% blind with cataracts, Billy can’t self-soothe. He only calms when held for hours. An MRI 800 km away reveals cerebral oedema; treatment helps; a donor funds cataract surgery and aftercare. Sight returns (100% in one eye, ~60–70% in the other). Billy relocates to a large, loving home in Singapore. Was it “worth” the cost? The answer here is human and humane: a dog who would have died now tours gardens, seeing the faces that saved him.

Eve: Christmas burns

On Christmas Eve, a dog splashed with hot oil and water cowers in a 7‑Eleven. Burns risk infection under the new skin layer; pain is intense. Named Eve, she weathers meticulous care and later joins a family in England (mild disagreements with the cat included). Her story galvanises year-end giving—and underlines why a hospital matters when vets are closed.

Alba: fourteen sunrises

Chained, metallic-gray collar embedded, nails overgrown, organs failing (heartworm, severe anaemia, weak kidneys, liver infection), Alba arrives as a whisper of a dog. Harbison brings her home, cleans the collar stain from her neck, ties on a purple bandana, and hand-feeds sous-vide chicken and lightly poached salmon in micro-portions. They watch sunrises from a rock and sunsets from the hammock while “Sarà perché ti amo” plays. She rallies, then fades, then rallies again—before dying peacefully, with Hank the gentle giant standing guard. Her gift is clarity: even when time is short, dignity can be long.

Harbison admires adoptions—and refuses to romanticise them. Happy Doggo’s sanctuary is a pit stop, not a warehouse. Many strong, healthy dogs prefer their territories when sterilised, vaccinated, and fed. For those who need homes (targeted victims, poor pack fits, medical needs, or unsafe territories), the team runs a five-step process that you can copy and adapt.

1) Rehabilitation & assessment

Stabilise health first (tick fever, heartworm, parasites, wounds) and observe behaviour. Many street dogs struggle with crates, tight spaces, or loud children, so readiness matters more than cuteness. Medicals also determine eligibility to fly: brachycephalics (pugs, bulldogs) and bully breeds often can’t; Australia/Canada have restrictive import rules.

2) Applications & interviews

Fit beats fantasy. A super-active dog won’t thrive with a sedentary owner. Nervy dogs won’t love toddler chaos. Two interviews probe routine, travel, pets, and expectations—plus a sober sharing of the dog’s quirks. The mantra: no surprises.

3) Medical prep & quarantine

Two to three months of tests and vaccinations meet import standards. Meanwhile, crate conditioning starts (dinners inside crates; practice with water bottles). The team lines up flight volunteers—regular travelers who escort dogs from Bangkok to their new cities.

4) Travel & logistics

Airports overwhelm senses; rehearsals help. Simple comforts—familiar blankets, last cuddles—matter. On arrival, volunteers hand over to families who prioritise decompression, not a party. (The 3/3/3 rule—3 days to decompress, 3 weeks to learn routine, 3 months to feel at home—sets realistic expectations.)

5) Settling & support

After three months, adoptions are considered complete, though the “Happy Doggo family” stays connected—sharing wins and wobblies. Some alumni—Rodney, King Whacker, McMuffin—now live alongside human babies in their new families. Buttons’ adoption (by Liam Gallagher and Debbie Gwyther) underscored the norm: famous or not, everyone meets the same bar. Fame doesn’t earn shortcuts; dogs are the real VIPs.

When not to adopt

Shaq thrives on the street post-surgery with allies who feed him. Cindy needed a local adopter (Lana and Danni) to protect her diet; a foreign flight would add risk and triggers. Some dogs simply don’t pack well and would live lonely in a community that shuns them—prime adoption candidates. The rule isn’t “adopt more”; it’s “adopt wisely.”

Harbison admires adoptions—and refuses to romanticise them. Happy Doggo’s sanctuary is a pit stop, not a warehouse. Many strong, healthy dogs prefer their territories when sterilised, vaccinated, and fed. For those who need homes (targeted victims, poor pack fits, medical needs, or unsafe territories), the team runs a five-step process that you can copy and adapt.

1) Rehabilitation & assessment

Stabilise health first (tick fever, heartworm, parasites, wounds) and observe behaviour. Many street dogs struggle with crates, tight spaces, or loud children, so readiness matters more than cuteness. Medicals also determine eligibility to fly: brachycephalics (pugs, bulldogs) and bully breeds often can’t; Australia/Canada have restrictive import rules.

2) Applications & interviews

Fit beats fantasy. A super-active dog won’t thrive with a sedentary owner. Nervy dogs won’t love toddler chaos. Two interviews probe routine, travel, pets, and expectations—plus a sober sharing of the dog’s quirks. The mantra: no surprises.

3) Medical prep & quarantine

Two to three months of tests and vaccinations meet import standards. Meanwhile, crate conditioning starts (dinners inside crates; practice with water bottles). The team lines up flight volunteers—regular travelers who escort dogs from Bangkok to their new cities.

4) Travel & logistics

Airports overwhelm senses; rehearsals help. Simple comforts—familiar blankets, last cuddles—matter. On arrival, volunteers hand over to families who prioritise decompression, not a party. (The 3/3/3 rule—3 days to decompress, 3 weeks to learn routine, 3 months to feel at home—sets realistic expectations.)

5) Settling & support

After three months, adoptions are considered complete, though the “Happy Doggo family” stays connected—sharing wins and wobblies. Some alumni—Rodney, King Whacker, McMuffin—now live alongside human babies in their new families. Buttons’ adoption (by Liam Gallagher and Debbie Gwyther) underscored the norm: famous or not, everyone meets the same bar. Fame doesn’t earn shortcuts; dogs are the real VIPs.

When not to adopt

Shaq thrives on the street post-surgery with allies who feed him. Cindy needed a local adopter (Lana and Danni) to protect her diet; a foreign flight would add risk and triggers. Some dogs simply don’t pack well and would live lonely in a community that shuns them—prime adoption candidates. The rule isn’t “adopt more”; it’s “adopt wisely.”

By late 2023, Harbison formalises what the work had already become: Happy Doggo—a registered charity focused on grant-giving for large-scale sterilisation, alongside on-the-ground feeding and rescue in Koh Samui. The operations spine includes Lindsay (Head of Ops), Anna (CFO), Zoe (Adoptions), Claire (Social), and a quiet army of local and global supporters. Charity status (UK and US) adds compliance, credibility, and tax efficiency—stretching every donated pound further.

Operations without glamour

The land runs off-grid: a 150-foot well, solar panels, fridges for meds, blankets on constant rotation, snake-watch, and coconut-fall vigilance. Morning routines are clockwork: let out, feed, walk, medicate, triage. The mantra is Gawande-esque: checklists, not charisma.

The hospital, step by step

Vision is anchored to dates: an opening targeted for late 2025; an earlier goal to mark 18 August (Tina’s second anniversary) slips, so he extends rather than over-promise. Meanwhile: road built, utilities laid, field hospital running, New York designs translated by Thai architects, foundations digging now. The design fuses function with meaning: emergency wards, X‑ray rooms, sterilisation theatre—and a contemplative path around Tina’s grave.

Leadership rule of one question

Every decision filters through: Will this help more dogs? That’s how he decides to do walks, not pub meetups; newsletters, not influencer gigs; and to post joy, not gore. It guides personal choices too: no relationship, minimal social life, big breakfasts out, no time spent cooking, and a daily “last-whisky” drive-past ritual. He’s not prescribing this life—he’s modelling fit-for-purpose design. Find the routines your mission requires, not the ones social media rewards.

What you can steal tomorrow

• Adopt the MVP mindset: can you field-hospital your big idea in containers now, while raising for the building?
• Institutionalise ritual: place your why (a photo, a quote, a name) where staff pass daily.
• Tell patient stories that teach methods: joy-forward, method-rich, dignity-first.
• Choose consistency over intensity: the Cindy plan, not the bootcamp.

By late 2023, Harbison formalises what the work had already become: Happy Doggo—a registered charity focused on grant-giving for large-scale sterilisation, alongside on-the-ground feeding and rescue in Koh Samui. The operations spine includes Lindsay (Head of Ops), Anna (CFO), Zoe (Adoptions), Claire (Social), and a quiet army of local and global supporters. Charity status (UK and US) adds compliance, credibility, and tax efficiency—stretching every donated pound further.

Operations without glamour

The land runs off-grid: a 150-foot well, solar panels, fridges for meds, blankets on constant rotation, snake-watch, and coconut-fall vigilance. Morning routines are clockwork: let out, feed, walk, medicate, triage. The mantra is Gawande-esque: checklists, not charisma.

The hospital, step by step

Vision is anchored to dates: an opening targeted for late 2025; an earlier goal to mark 18 August (Tina’s second anniversary) slips, so he extends rather than over-promise. Meanwhile: road built, utilities laid, field hospital running, New York designs translated by Thai architects, foundations digging now. The design fuses function with meaning: emergency wards, X‑ray rooms, sterilisation theatre—and a contemplative path around Tina’s grave.

Leadership rule of one question

Every decision filters through: Will this help more dogs? That’s how he decides to do walks, not pub meetups; newsletters, not influencer gigs; and to post joy, not gore. It guides personal choices too: no relationship, minimal social life, big breakfasts out, no time spent cooking, and a daily “last-whisky” drive-past ritual. He’s not prescribing this life—he’s modelling fit-for-purpose design. Find the routines your mission requires, not the ones social media rewards.

What you can steal tomorrow

• Adopt the MVP mindset: can you field-hospital your big idea in containers now, while raising for the building?
• Institutionalise ritual: place your why (a photo, a quote, a name) where staff pass daily.
• Tell patient stories that teach methods: joy-forward, method-rich, dignity-first.
• Choose consistency over intensity: the Cindy plan, not the bootcamp.