19/05/2026
Finding Harmony, Accountability, and the Truth Behind Dog Training
Lately, there’s been a surge of discussions, debates, dialogues, whatever you want to call them regarding various dog training methods and which one is most effective.
As a trainer, I’m upfront about my views and the principles that guide my practice. However, I strive to approach this field with an open mind and a genuine desire to understand. I believe that most individuals in this industry have good intentions, deeply caring for dogs and genuinely wishing to help.
The conversation often goes off track when it shifts from accountability to simply proving which training method “works,” frequently citing extreme cases as examples.
- The most challenging behaviours.
- The highest-risk dogs.
- The stories that provoke the strongest emotional responses.
While these cases are important, they shouldn’t form the foundation of our training philosophy.
I often think about this in terms of learning to ride a bicycle.
At first, getting on a bike can feel overwhelming. You’re unsure of your balance, struggling to coordinate your movements, pedalling, steering, braking. You wobble, you may even fall; it’s mentally and physically exhausting.
I certainly faced my share of challenges during my early cycling days, not from recklessness, but from inexperience. I didn’t yet have the awareness or instinct that comes with time.
As you practice, cycling becomes second nature. You no longer overthink every action; you start to anticipate situations and navigate your path more smoothly.
After years of cycling through various terrains and conditions, I still keep my wits about me. If I’m fatigued, I take a break. If I’m distracted, I slow down. Ignoring these signs can lead to accidents.
This awareness, this sense of responsibility grows with experience.
I see a strong parallel with dog training.
When discussing techniques or tools, we must confront a crucial question: Who is using them?
- Is it someone new to dog ownership unconsciously unaware, still developing their timing, observation skills, and emotional regulation?
- Is it an overwhelmed owner, already stressed and now tasked with applying techniques that demand precision and emotional steadiness?
- Or is it an experienced trainer, who, despite years of practice, still makes errors?
Mistakes are a given. And when they occur, it’s often the dog that suffers.
This reality should be at the heart of our discussions.
I don't often share the more intricate cases I handle, primarily because they are deeply personal for the owners involved. However, I can speak about Benny and his owner, Sarah.
Benny arrived with a significant history of fearfulness towards both people and other dogs. Our main focus was safety. This wasn’t about validating a specific method or winning a debate; it was about ensuring the well-being of everyone involved while giving Benny a life that felt secure and predictable.
Through reward-based training, thoughtful management, and skill-building, Benny and Sarah found a way of living that worked for them. Benny can now walk in public, attend training sessions, and interact with both people and other dogs in controlled settings, leading a fulfilling life.
He isn’t “fixed.” He was never broken.
What changed was the environment surrounding him y clarity, consistency, and understanding that enabled him to cope with the world without feeling overwhelmed.
Reflecting on my early experiences with Cassie, my first dog, I cringe at some of the mistakes I made. Not out of carelessness, but from ignorance.
Like many first-time dog owners, I had good intentions but little understanding of what dogs genuinely need to thrive. We expected cassie to behave appropriately without first teaching her how to do so. We anticipated resilience before building her confidence. We sought understanding while failing to provide clarity.
Cassie bore the consequences of our ignorance.
She struggled with recall, developed anxiety around loud noises, and had difficulty socialising with other dogs. At the time, we viewed these as problems to fix, rather than indicators of a dog who was overwhelmed and underserved.
We hadn’t yet grasped emotional regulation, stress thresholds, or how easily well-meaning pressure could shape behaviour. We didn’t realise that behaviour is communication, not defiance.
Looking back, it’s clear that many of those struggles stemmed from our lack of knowledge, rather than any inherent flaws in her. She wasn’t difficult; she was simply trying to navigate an environment for which she hadn’t been adequately prepared.
This realisation transformed my perspective.
With over 30 years of dog training experience, having worked with thousands of dogs and assisted numerous individuals through behavioural challenges ranging from mildly frustrating to profoundly complex, I still make mistakes.
My timing can falter. A dog might react quicker than I expect. Situations can unfold unexpectedly. What’s different now is that I choose methods that account for human error—because mistakes will happen.
Working with dogs like Cassie has taught me that sensitivity, awareness, and humility are more important than control or certainty. They compel you to look within, question your assumptions, and acknowledge your impact.
The term “balance” is frequently tossed around in dog training. Often, it’s shorthand for “mostly positive, with corrections as needed.” But that’s not my interpretation of balance.
To me, balance isn’t about tools; it’s about perspective.
It involves considering the needs of the dog, the human, and the broader world simultaneously. It’s about asking: Have I addressed this dog’s needs? Have I offered clarity, structure, enrichment, and emotional safety? Have I set this dog up for success before expecting compliance?
Balance means looking at the whole picture not just the behaviour before you.
In my experience, when a dog’s needs are truly met, when they are mentally stimulated, emotionally secure, and provided with appropriate outlets for their instincts, the necessity for punishment or aversive tools often disappears.
The terrier that’s frantic and can’t recall doesn’t need punishment, it needs an outlet for its energy.
The Labrador chasing after squirrels doesn’t require correction, it needs suitable channels for its playful instincts.
The Greyhound wary of strangers doesn’t need force, it needs clarity, predictability, and support in learning that the world is safe.
Frequently, what we label as “behaviour problems” are simply unmet needs.
When we fail to meet those needs, we resort to consequences. When we fulfil them, behaviour changes naturally.
That, to me, is the essence of balance.
It’s not about enforcing compliance.
It’s not about proving a point.
It’s about understanding the dog in front of us, educating the human beside them, and creating a life where both can thrive.
If we dedicated more time to this approach, we might argue less about methods and spend much more time genuinely helping dogs.
Thanks,
Steve
The Boo Dan Way
