When the human takes over the dog trainer I am...

I am a consultant in dog behaviors, specialized in behaviors motivated by fear and anxiety.

I have learned and keep learning as to how dogs function, their brain, their emotions, and the influence of various factors, such as their health and environment, as to how they learn.

I have learned and keep learning how to improve my communication with their owners: motivating them to put my advice into practice and sometimes change some habits of theirs, sharing my knowledge to give them a better understanding of their dogs, and practicing patience and persistence.

I have learned and keep learning how to highlight expected behaviors, whether exhibited by dogs or humans. I work with households and partnerships, not just canines.

For all that, despite my best efforts to remind myself that this is a profession I practice, that this is my job, I remain a human being, and at times I feel just as much proud as hurt.

Proud for seeing some people overcome their doubts, happy for seeing them appreciate their dogs in a new light, touched for seeing them show solidarity during classes or group walks, thrilled for seeing them curious so they can bring even more happiness to their dogs, relieved for seeing them accept their dogs' potential, and boosted for seeing them progress as a team and encourage one another toward greater serenity.

I did not become a dog trainer, dog behavior consultant, because I was bored or liked dogs. I could have. I could work by contenting myself with what I know and provide that. I might never invest myself in knowing more, in being able to practice better. Except that I don't know how to do so. I am incompetent when it comes to not getting involved, not giving more and better than the day before.

Even though my clients’ dogs aren’t my own, I am likely to get attached to some of them (and their humans, too!). They are such rich living beings that I am far from having exhausted my eagerness to understand them or my thirst to share their world.

Lately, I had a training session for a female dog, and other clients came along with their own dogs to help out. The atmosphere, the way people listened to one another, the doubts, the smiles, the laughter, my job allows me to experience truly delightful moments.

At times, I also feel like crying with them : when a client’s dog is attacked and in shock, or when I am there for the final sleep of an elderly, terminally ill dog.

I have learned and keep learning to maintain emotional distance and create a separation between the personal and the professional in order to remain present and attentive. Still, I remain human.

And there are the people I know I won’t ever convince: those who want results without putting in the work; those my teaching methods don’t reach; those put off by my gender—the "weaker sex"; those who contact me while believing they don’t actually need me; those who want to hear me flatter them no matter what they do; those who want me to transform their dog regardless of the methods used; those who want their dog to adapt to absolutely everything on Earth; those who want results without understanding, adapting to, or guiding their dog; those who ask for my advice but then do something completely different; those who grow tired of investing time in their dog; those who insult me ​​with their words and/or behavior; and so on.

I acknowledge the limits of my teaching skills: there are things I refuse to subject dogs and humans to, and I operate under an obligation of means rather than guaranteed results. My tongue is for speaking, not for cajolery. I understand tact and empathy, not the dishonesty that helps no one.

I cannot talk them out of how the dog is perceived (sometimes as a tool, a stuffed toy, or a piece of furniture rather than a member of the household), the choice of the easy way out (opting for fear over cooperative change, or for isolation rather than sparing five minutes to build a dog’s confidence), the tendency to stick to the familiar (to avoid challenging one’s own certainties and habits), and controlling personalities (who decide what I should show them, usually in a rush, without actually listening or applying what is taught).

Sometimes I see neglect, or even abuse. It might be a recurring tone of voice, a sudden movement, a tool that inflicts pain, or an unsuitable environment. Yet, my job also involves listening to those owners, understanding them, and explaining that there are other ways to guide their dogs. Sometimes I encounter deaf ears and clients who simply vanish; at other times, I have to accept that I have no magic wand and remind myself that my role isn’t to impose my vision of the dog at all costs. I then choose whether to step back or hold on, to protect myself or to persevere.

Happiness, disillusion, excitement, passion, joy, sadness, pleasure, pride, annoyance, frustration, patience, and the list goes on and on ! A wide range of emotions I can experience in my job. While some techniques involve mechanical movements, my heart is very much human.