07/15/2025
I often return to a single image when trying to explain the perceptual divide between humans and canines: the tiger. Not just any tiger, but the now widely circulated split-image that compares how we, as trichromats, perceive a tiger’s bold orange coat against lush green vegetation versus how a dichromatic animal—like a deer, or a dog—would see it. To us, the tiger is a radiant flame in the forest: bright, striking, almost impossible to miss. But to a dichromat, the orange pigment collapses into a hue that closely resembles the background. The predator disappears. Camouflage succeeds.
This image encapsulates the fundamental truth that perception is not reality—it is a neurological construct shaped by the hardware of the sensory system and the software of the brain. The same object, the same environment, the same stimulus can be perceived radically differently depending on the biology of the observer. When it comes to dogs, this perceptual divergence has enormous implications—most of which remain dangerously underestimated by the average trainer or owner.
Dogs, like the tiger’s prey, are dichromatic. Their retinas lack the long-wavelength-sensitive cones that allow humans to differentiate between red and green. What this means in practice is that where we see a spectrum rich in reds, oranges, and bright greens, the dog sees a more muted world composed primarily of bluish-violets, greys, and yellows. A toy that appears bright red to us does not “pop” against a green lawn in the dog’s perceptual world—it fades into a background of similarly toned visual noise. This isn’t a subjective opinion—it’s a measurable fact of retinal anatomy and cone distribution.
But vision is not merely about color. It is about what grabs attention, what is meaningful, and ultimately, what creates emotional responses. The visual system is directly connected to deep emotional processing centers in the brain—most notably, the amygdala, which is responsible for assessing threat and triggering fight-or-flight responses. A dog doesn’t simply “see” a moving object—its brain evaluates that object for salience, novelty, and safety. If the visual signal lacks clarity or consistency—if it flickers, looms suddenly, or carries poor contrast—it’s more likely to trigger a primal, reflexive reaction rather than a thoughtful, cognitive response.
That’s why understanding how dogs perceive visual input is essential to creating environments and training protocols that don’t overwhelm or confuse, but instead foster clarity, calmness, and engagement. I often say that behavior is not just learned—it’s filtered through perception, and perception is rooted in neurology.
Let me give you a real-world example of how this knowledge is translated into meaningful design: the Chuckit ball. Most people assume that the iconic Chuckit ball—with its distinctive orange body and blue stripe—is designed for human aesthetics. The truth is far more scientific. The orange color, while attractive to human buyers, is almost invisible to the dog once thrown into a green or brown environment. On its own, the orange would blend in—just like the tiger in the dichromatic forest. But the designers at Chuckit, likely advised by veterinary vision science consultants, added a blue stripe across the ball. This was not decoration—it was contrast engineering.
Blue, as one of the few hues dogs perceive vividly, creates a stark edge that the dog can track visually while the ball is in motion. It introduces perceptual boundaries. It makes the object “stand out” not to us, but to them. This visual differentiation helps the dog stay engaged with the chase. It improves retrieval success. It minimizes frustration. And, perhaps most importantly, it builds confidence—because the sensory world is suddenly more navigable.
When I explain this to clients, it often opens up an entirely new way of thinking. A dog missing a recall cue or failing to find a toy isn’t necessarily inattentive or stubborn. They may simply not see what we think they see. The fault lies not in the dog’s behavior, but in our assumptions about shared perception. The addition of that simple blue stripe on a toy represents an entire philosophy I advocate for in training: meet the dog where they are, not where we want them to be.
This becomes especially critical when working with dogs that show reactivity, fear, or hypervigilance. Their visual system, optimized for motion and edge detection more than color, is constantly scanning for threats. Sudden movement in the periphery—what we might filter out as irrelevant—can be processed as a significant environmental change. A jogger in dark clothing emerging from behind a tree can appear, in their visual field, as a looming shadow-likeBart De Golsbined with previous trauma or lack of socialization, such stimuli easily trigger limbic system activation, leading to barking, lunging, or flight responses. If we don’t understand that the visual appearance of that jogger is qualitatively different to the dog, we misinterpret the reaction as bad behavior rather than what it truly is: a neuroethological response to a perceived threat.
In training, I always consider what I call the threshold of perceptual ambiguity. The more ambiguous or uncertain a visual stimulus is to the dog, the more likely it is to be processed with suspicion or fear. High-contrast, slow-moving, clearly outlined figures tend to be processed more cognitively. Sudden, low-contrast, erratic figures tend to push the dog into a primal mind state, where thinking shuts down and reflex dominates. This understanding allows us to shape training environments with careful control over visual load: clothing colors, lighting conditions, distance to stimuli, and motion patterns. It is not merely kindness—it is neuroscience-informed efficiency.
So when I see that Chuckit ball fly through the air, its blue stripe slicing across the landscape, I don’t just see a toy. I see a rare example of human design aligning with canine perception. I see cognition being made possible through perceptual accommodation. I see a product designed not for the purchaser, but for the user—the dog. And I wish more of the dog training world would follow suit.
Because the lesson of the tiger is not about stripes. It’s about assumptions. The assumption that others perceive as we do. The assumption that behavior is always volitional, rather than reflexive. The assumption that if a dog doesn’t respond, it’s a training failure—when in fact, it may be a perception mismatch. If we want to build ethical, relationship-based training systems, we must begin by discarding our anthropocentric view of the world. We must replace it with a sensory empathy rooted in biology and respect.
Our dogs are not red-green blind. They are not defective. They are different. And when we train with that difference in mind, something beautiful happens: we stop commanding behavior, and we start cultivating connection.
Bart De Gols