The Dog That Didn't Bark
Can I cure my sociopathic beagle with the Dog Whisperer's techniques?
Our next trainer, Todd, had a more blunt approach to dog management. He believed unhousebroken dogs should be in their crate until they earned roaming privileges. He administered brief, but firm, corrections. He taught me how to make Sasha heel on walks. He got Sasha about halfway to being a good dog, when, terribly, Todd committed suicide. After his death, I couldn't face starting with someone else, so I let Sasha drift into our current mess.
To "Cesarize" Sasha, I first started watching past episodes of the show. They were addictively entertaining, as any makeover show is. Millan is small and muscular, with deep set eyes of coal. He uses these dark embers to expressive effect whenever clients start nattering excuses about the emotional needs of their out-of-control dogs. He does not see himself as a traditional dog trainer—teaching your pooch how to obey spoken commands or do tricks. His mission is to make human and dog head-cases into compatible living companions. (His motto: "I rehabilitate dogs. I train people.") And there are head cases galore. Take the woman willing to let her fiance walk out of her life because she refused to restrain her man-hating pit bull. Or the couple unable to enjoy conjugal relations because their Labrador insisted on sleeping between them and became hostile when moved.
Millan was on to people like us. One woman, whose rescued sheltie barked incessantly, said she didn't want to discipline her dog because she was trying to make up for its unhappy puppyhood. Millan explained to her, "Dogs don't care what happened in the past. They don't know you feel sorry for them. They just know you're weak."
Millan's method is to teach strength. To get your dog to behave, you first have to change your own behavior. You have to become the "calm-assertive" pack leader. Once you adopt this posture, thousands of years of canine DNA will signal Fido he's no longer top dog, and he will respond with an attitude of what Millan calls "calm-submission." Millan demonstrates this on every show. He stands in front of a misbehaving dog and says something that sounds like "sssstttt!" As you watch, pit bulls almost instantly turn into teddy bears, and the owners exclaim, "It's a miracle!"
Of course, my first goal was to get Sasha to stop peeing in the house. Disconcertingly, I could find no reference for "housebreaking" or "soiling" in the index of Millan's book. Instead, I figured I could use the "sssstttt" method to end her barking when I prepared her dinner. That night, as I cut up her meat, she ran into the kitchen and barked and jumped as usual. I turned to her, said, "Sssstttt," and she fell silent for a moment. Then I started cutting and she began barking again. I stopped and calmly faced her. She quieted down. Back and forth we went until she was quiet long enough for me to finish and drop the food in her bowl. The next night, all I had to do was turn and look at her when she started barking and she stopped. By the end of the week, she was silent during meal preparation, and since then has sat and waited politely.
Next, I was inspired by an episode of the Dog Whisperer in which Millan helped people with a dog that constantly ran out the front door. Again the fix was simple. Millan stood in front of the door, opened it, and when the dog came running he put up an index finger and said, "Sssstttt." The dog stopped as if hit by a taser. This will never work for Sasha, I thought. The next morning I opened the front door wide and Sasha came running. But instead of tackling her and grabbing her collar as I usually would, this time I stood in front of the open door, held up my index finger and said, "Sssstttt." She sat.
I shut the door and called my husband and daughter. I repeated the process, and as Sasha sat, looking at me as if awaiting instruction, my husband exclaimed, "It's a miracle!"
Now it was time to reform Sasha's walking habits. To Millan, the essence of the human-dog relationship is the walk. On the walk, he explains, the owner is re-enacting the ancient dog ritual of following its leader as the pack roams the countryside. This requires the human to keep the dog in its hierarchical place by having it walk behind or next to you—never in front.
I was dreading this. On our usual walks, I wrapped the leash around my hand and held it taut as Sasha pulled past me. I now understood I was transmitting my anxiety through the leash to Sasha like a nerve to a synapse. According to Cesar, I had to hold the leash loose and relaxed, sending the signal to her that I was serenely in control. What followed was days of lurching as she pulled away, I reeled her back, then gave her a "sssstttt" as I placed her behind me. Gradually, she started to understand. About two weeks into it, I took my daughter to the school playground and let Sasha come along. Normally, letting go of Sasha's leash meant saying goodbye to Sasha. But as we stood in the partially enclosed playground, I decided to give Sasha some freedom. I dropped the leash, and instead of running off, she kept close as she sniffed the periphery of the playground. When it was time to go, I called her name and she did something unprecedented. She looked up at me, held my gaze, then walked slowly toward me. Yes, a miracle.
I had successfully established myself as Sasha's pack leader, Millan would say. He paints a picture of Edenic packs of dogs on marathon, migratory journeys for food, guided by a leader of perfect strength and grace. But studies I looked at say such beliefs make the common mistake of confusing the lives of dogs and wolves. While wolves form highly evolved packs for raising young, and for the complicated task of hunting, dogs in the wild don't. Dogs aren't hunters, they're scavengers. Biologist Raymond Coppinger studied the behavior of dogs that wandered a village in Pemba, an island off Tanzania. In Dogs, he writes that they didn't hunt and wasted little motion looking for food. Instead, leaderless, they hung around the town dumps "waiting for something dead to show up." A study of feral dogs in Italy published in The Domestic Dog found that because dogs lack the complicated social structure of wolves, "the term 'group' seems more appropriate than pack." So, Sasha was not responding to my newfound status as alpha dog. As a domesticated animal bred to respond to humans, she was responding to my newfound status as a person tired of being bossed around by a beagle. I was responding to the fact that however wrong Millan may have gotten the science, I could now take Sasha on pleasant walks, leash held loose, while she sociably checked out the aromas of her compatriots.
One night, about a month into the retraining, Sasha jumped on the bed while my husband and I were reading, presenting herself to be patted. My husband said that she seemed like a different dog. The transformation was as dramatic as a Goth teenager getting rid of the black eyeliner and piercings and deciding to try out for cheerleading. Even my 10-year-old daughter was noticing. We had gotten Sasha as a result of her lobbying, but Sasha had been so neurotic and unresponsive that my daughter once called her "the biggest mistake of my life." But now they were playing, and my daughter could take her for walks. "She's not paranoid anymore," my daughter observed. "She's like a real pet."
Emily Yoffe is a regular Slate contributor. She writes the Dear Prudence and Human Guinea Pig columns. You can send Dear Prudence questions for publication to firstname.lastname@example.org. (Questions may be edited.) Subscribe to Emily Yoffe's Facebook page.
Illustration by Rob Donnelly. Photograph of Cesar Millan on Slate's home page © National Geographic Channel.