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We are desperate for it, seduced by it, deceived by the illusion of it.  But, we can never really have control.  We struggle, and grasp at it.  We even celebrate the lie that sometimes we have it, that we’re in it.  It’s okay.  I’ve got this.  And then we don’t.

It comes up for us dog trainers all the time.  We’re notorious control freaks.  In all honestly, we’re also in the business of selling control.  Clients beg us to make their dogs stop doing this and that.  He’s out of control.  They want him back in control, their control.  We oblige, but often miss the truth.  This isn’t control, but something else altogether.

In her book, Living Beautifully with Uncertainly and Change, Pema Chodron speaks about our human quest for solid ground, certainty, and predictability.  Control.  We want life to fit our storyline, the narrative we create.  But, it rarely does.  We fight and we suffer, and grapple for more solid ground, and suffer more.  Life is moving, changing, and exciting unstable ground.  It does not have transitions; life is transition.  It terrifies us or exhilarates us; the decision is ours.  But there’s no controlling it.  Not really.

Our life with dogs is a window to this truth, a microcosm of our life in total.

We’re drawn to our dogs, and love our dogs, and tremble at the thought of their deaths.  When death comes, we weep and memorialize them.  It is messy and unpredictable, all of it.  Unstable ground.  But for those of us who are “dog people” it can also be exhilarating bliss.  Those of us who train our dogs with compassion find even more joy, the glimmer of life’s meaning, connectedness.  It’s an open line of communication, and relation to another being that transcends.

Chodron writes about the Tibetan word: Bodhicitta.  It means having an open mind, and an open heart for all living beings.  It’s the core of enlightenment.  Buddhists seek it gently, without struggle.  They embrace the uncertainty of life, the unstable ground.  It “is not a process of building ourselves up,” Chodron writes, “but of letting go.”

Which brings us back to our dogs.

When clients come to us trainers they are often carrying heavy burdens of shame, burdens they’d be better off letting go.  They have not been a good leader; they haven’t been their dog’s “alpha.”  They’ve let things get out of hand, failed their families, and failed their dogs.  Things are not perfect, not as they should be.  Their dog’s out-of-control behavior has somehow become a reflection of their own self worth.  They want control, when all the while their vain attempts are what’s causing their suffering.  Brene’ Brown is a sociologist who researches shame.  In her book, Daring Greatly, she writes eloquently about how we try to protect ourselves from shame with perfectionism, control, and putting people (and animals) in their places.  The results are almost always disastrous, resulting in a cycle of more shame and suffering.

It’s time for us to let go.

Shame and our poor defenses against it distance us from each other.  We need only look at our dogs to see it.  We seek help from trainers who often shame us more.  They take our money and tell us to dominate our dogs, to jerk their leashes, to spray and slap and shock them.  We’re told to hurt them in the hope that we will feel better, less ashamed, and more solidly planted on stable ground.  What we get is an illusion at best, a dog who is compliant in the service of avoidance.  We feel in control but still disconnected.  It’s the worst possible glimpse of a life in total.

Chodron and Brown both write about the undeniable ambiguity of being human.  We are enigma, all of us.  Brown writes about her own work “leaning into the discomfort of ambiguity and uncertainty, and holding open an empathic space so people can find their own way.  In a word – messy.”  I think that’s our calling as trainers too.  We all live on unstable ground, and our life with dogs is messy indeed at times.  But, that is not a hopeless message.  We have information to share and empathy that can relieve our clients of shame, and the need for compulsion.  We can help their dogs, and free them at the same time.

The challenge for us trainers is to be courageous.  Courage requires vulnerability.  Being real.  Having the strength to let go of our own need for control, and to find our own compassion.  Brown calls this “the core, the heart, and the center of meaningful human experiences.”  It’s the antithesis of shame.  She calls it “Wholeheartedness.”  It’s Chodron’s Bodhicitta, an open heart and open mind connecting with all living things.  Dogs and their people.

What do we want, control or connection?  A dear friend and business advisor once told me not to mention “relationship” when selling my dog training services.  Clients want results, not relationships. I have to disagree.  We may not see at first what we really want.  The illusion of control is alluring.  But connection, a real bond with another living being – that’s the stuff.  That’s the stuff.

Take a breath and notice that the ground is moving and life is transition.   Notice too that we matter and our actions have meaning.   That’s important for our clients and us trainers to remember.  We may not have control – not really.  But, we can and we do learn to communicate with our dogs.  We set the stage for them and help them find a path for their own actions.  We can even respond to those actions, reinforce the behaviors, hope for more of all the good we see in our dogs.  That’s not control.  It’s choice.  How we choose to act.  How our dogs choose to act.   There is a connection between the two.  I sometimes tell my clients, “We’re not controlling our dogs.  We’re teaching them self control.”  We’re helping them make good choices.  And isn’t helping dogs so much better than controlling them?

We can achieve great things with our dogs, or we can find greatness in the simple things with them.  Even the dogs who seem to be out of control have a place with us.  Chodron was speaking about our fellow humans when she wrote, “Be grateful to them; they’re your own special gurus, showing up right on time to keep you honest.”  I think we can apply the wisdom here to our dogs as well.  Who’s teaching whom?  It’s hard to tell.  Maybe not knowing makes the joy even greater.  For those of us who are “dog people” it is exhilarating bliss.  Mindful connection.  The relationship that doesn’t sell, but that we wouldn’t give up for a million bucks.

Take a breath and notice your dog.  How beautiful.  How nice when the look is returned, softly and honestly.  That moment of quiet sharing.  Free falling through time, but linked together.  What happens next?  And who cares really?  Such a clear window into what life in total could really be.

One of my colleagues recently wrote this (paraphrasing):  Attempts at dog training often fail because the owner isn’t suffering or hasn’t suffered enough.  It’s a harsh statement, yes.  Nevertheless, it’s often quite true. Complacency inspires nothing, and nothing is quite as inspiring (and reinforcing) as suffering interrupted. My colleague is spot on.  Action is often borne of agony.  We trainers know the technical term for this: Negative Reinforcement.

We hear our clients begging for it all the time.  Make my dog stop (you fill in the blank).  He’s aggressive.  He’s out of control.  He has ADHD, dominance, and stubbornness.  At some point the labels we slap on things aren’t enough to ease the pain.  We call out for help.  We’ve suffered enough and it’s time for something to happen.

I work with people whose dogs have bitten people or other dogs.  If they haven’t bitten, they’ve growled or snarled or lunged.  These are good people; many are very good people.  They love their dogs.  “He’s a good dog,” they tell me.  Their voices are soft, pleading.  They mean it.  “I love him.  I just want him to stop this.“  And then they ask me why.  Why does he act this way?  Why is this happening?  Some cry.

Suffering shines a harsh light on things.  There is the world the way we hoped it would be.  Then there is the world the way it is.  Sometimes the two match up.  More often they don’t.  The humanistic psychologist Carl Rogers called this incongruence.  We form an ideal self, a perfect life; and then we struggle to conjure it into reality.  So I listen to people who love their dogs tell me about the life they dreamt.  “I got him for my son,” they say.  Or, “I just wanted a running buddy.”  Or, “I want to pet him, and cuddle.”  They pause.  “But ….”

Incongruence.  Suffering.  The dog bites, growls, lunges.  He won’t be touched.  He is not like the last dog, the perfect dog, the one from childhood.  This dog doesn’t match up.  “I love him.”  But.  More tears.

My colleague is a trainer emeritus of sorts.  Though not yet retired, he’s taken on the title early, a plainspoken Texas Man who’s found wisdom helping folks with their dogs over the past twenty-some years.  It’s strange, though no less profound, what we can learn from people and dogs in their living rooms.  Life is suffering.  The Buddha’s First Nobel Truth is frequently misunderstood.  The literal translation of suffering (dukkha) takes us a bit further than mere discontent.  Life’s pain is the hinge of change; it is temporary and conditional.  Incongruence, for Carl Rogers, was one of the first keys to change in our lives.  The beginning, not the end.  It puts us on notice that life is not what we expected or dreamed of, but that it is nonetheless our life.  For the Buddha it’s also about contrast.  Suffering leads us to compassion.

There are steps to helping dogs who are frightened and angry as a result, the ones who bite and all the rest.  They are not all that unlike the steps we take to help our fellow humans, small steps, gentle.  We begin wherever we are and move forward as best we can, slowly at first.  There is always a helper, a trainer like me or my colleague, friends.  And yes, there are the dreams for which we still reach, or the memories of the last dog, the perfect one, the one we mourn in the face of the one we have.  The wish.  The reality.

The lessons, taught well and practiced faithfully yield results.  The pain eases and the hinge moves more freely.  Behavior changes.  The dog does stop (fill in the blank), and new behavior replaces old.  Life imagined more closely matches life at hand.  People smile.  I wish them well and eventually move on to the next dog, to the next living room.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll stay at this as long as my senior colleague.  It’s been nearly 30 years for him now.   Perhaps like me, he is drawn by what he learns as much as by what he teaches.   Life is dukkha.  Only when it’s crushed and ground does wheat transform to flour; and before it becomes bread flour is put to flame.  The work is hard at times.  I’ve cried for clients, even with them.  The lesson is compassion.  What else is to be learned from unavoidable suffering?  Smile kindly at the client who is pleading and questioning.  She is your teacher.  Love the dog who wants to hurt you.  His suffering is teaching you to care more effectively.  It is the grist that eventually feeds us.

Michael Baugh CDBC, CPDT-KSA teaches dog training in Houston, TX.  He specializes in counseling families with fearful and aggressive dogs.