Why Grime Chose Hank
Most design studios choose their mascots the way they choose their fonts—as a matter of taste. A sleek geometric mark. Something that photographs well. Something that signals refinement.
We chose a dog that gets muddy while he works.
When Dylan and I started Grime Studio, we weren't thinking about brand identity in the traditional sense. We were thinking about the kind of relationship we actually wanted to have with the people who hire us. We were thinking about the kind of designers we are. We were thinking about what that means when someone brings us into the hard parts of their work.
I got Hank because I wanted a dog that would force me into routine. I needed something that demanded structure, that required me to show up every day in a particular way. That's been a good call. But a few months in, he developed real anxiety around stairs. There was terror there, particularly going down the hardwood stairs in my split-level home. We looked into it. Dogs pick up anxiety around all kinds of things early on—sometimes a bad experience, sometimes just the feel of their paws on a particular surface. Hank's happened to be stairs. We even tried training him on the concrete stairs at Mammoth Park in Mount Pleasant, thinking the experience might help with my house. It didn't. He still won't go down those two specific staircases.
The solution wasn't about the stairs themselves. It was about pack dynamics. Hank didn't have a pack. He had me and Caroline, and we weren't enough. He needed community. He needed purpose. He needed to be around other dogs doing work that mattered, in contexts where he could actually be useful.
Dylan and I have known each other since before we can remember. Our moms worked together at a hospital in Jeannette. So when I was looking for a solution, Dylan wasn't just someone I knew. He was someone I'd trust with something I cared about. He offered to take Hank to his farm. Not for a weekend visit, but for real training. Hank spent days there learning to work off-leash, integrating with Dylan's farm dogs, moving through the rhythms of actual labor. I have this image from that time: Dylan in the mud and spring filth, doing the brutal work of farming, and Hank also completely dirty but visibly happy. Engaged, following along, part of something larger than himself. He wasn't anxious anymore. He was a dog with a pack and a purpose.
When I think about Hank in that mud, I think about something I tell every team we work with in stakeholder interviews. They'll be describing their systems, and they'll say something like, "Well, this is the really dirty part. I don't want to reveal this because it's messy." And I always stop them and say: that's the part I need. That's the grimy bit. That's where designs actually fail. We miss the messy ones, not because we miss the beautiful parts.
That's the relationship Hank represents.
There's a particular mythology around designers. We're precious about our work. We need quiet to think. We take criticism personally. We have big feelings and fragile egos. And there's truth in this. I've interviewed hundreds of designers, and I see it constantly. We're hiring for soft skills because so many people in our industry just don't have them. They can't sit in a room with a stakeholder who's uncomfortable. They can't hear "this doesn't work" without needing to defend themselves. They can't tolerate the mess.
Most design culture reinforces the idea that your work is polished, finished, protected. Get criticized and you're being attacked. Get pushed back on and you're not being understood. The problem is this: the real work doesn't happen in the polished parts. It happens in the grimy parts. In the systems people are embarrassed about. In the feedback that makes you uncomfortable. In the messy reality of how things actually work.
Most people see a mess and look away. They've already committed to a solution, already told themselves that decision was right. The sunk cost fallacy isn't just a cognitive thing. It's emotional. It's about identity. Asking someone to look at what's actually broken feels like asking them to admit they were wrong. And it's everywhere. Not just in design, but in every function, every division, every vertical. We're just the ones brave enough to point it out first.
Dylan and I are different, not because we're more talented, but because we're built differently. We both come from working-class backgrounds. Dylan spent enormous time on his farm. He speaks the language of people who work with their hands, who understand systems that don't have elegant solutions, who are skeptical of consultants because they've only met the ones who showed up in expensive shoes and left when the work got hard.
Most designers find a mess and groan. Another problem, another complication, another thing that's going to slow us down. Dylan and I have the opposite reaction. We see a mess and we run straight into it. That's where the work is. That's where the actual problem lives. The stuff people are embarrassed to admit. The system that doesn't work the way it's supposed to. The feedback that makes you uncomfortable. We're looking for that specifically. We ask hard questions on purpose. We come back with follow-ups if we don't get the real answer. We don't just tolerate the mess. We're excited by it.
I work with a trainer and spend time lifting after work. It's not about being fit. It's about building a capacity to be uncomfortable in a controlled way, to feel pressure through my body, to stay present when things are hard. And I think that's exactly what lets me sit with clients in their discomfort without needing to escape it. I can stay in that space because I've built a capacity for it.
A brand is a relationship. It's a promise about what you'll get and what you're willing to give.
When you work with Grime Studio, you're getting two people who will run straight into the mess with you. Who will ask hard questions. Who won't look away from the parts you're embarrassed about. Who understand that the real work happens in the grimy bits.
But that also means you have to be willing to steer. We're not here to own your business or your problem. We're here to help you navigate the terrain you already know better than anyone else. We know where the alligators are. We know the water's too shallow to pass. We know the currents that will pull you off course. But you're driving the boat. You're making the decisions. You're charting the course.
And when we're done, we're leaving. We're not looking for retainers or ongoing work or to become part of your infrastructure. We want to fix the problem, teach you how to keep it fixed, and get out. Which means you have to be willing to learn and ultimately run this yourself.
If you want someone to own the problem for you, find someone else. If you want a guide who knows the terrain and will help you solve it fast so you can run it yourself, we're your people. If you're willing to get your overalls on and get in the trenches with us, we can solve something real together.
When you look at Hank—muddy, working, integrated into a pack, useful in conditions that don't look refined—you're looking at what Grime Studio actually is. Not a design studio that happens to use a dog as a logo. A design studio built on the commitment to run straight into the hard, uncomfortable, genuinely complex work that most of the industry avoids.
We chose Hank because he embodies something we live: the willingness to get dirty. The enthusiasm for finding the mess. The pack mentality that says we're stronger together, working in real conditions, than we are in carefully curated spaces where everything is controlled.
That's the brand. That's the relationship. That's what Hank means to Grime.
—Bert