The Other End of the Leash: Why We Do What We Do Around Dogs

by Patricia B. McConnell

I’m reminded of the saying about describing a glass as either half full or half empty. Each observation is correct; it just emphasizes a different perspective. My own bias is that both perspectives are essential, and so I’d argue that it’s valuable to look at what’s shared and what’s different between wolves and dogs.

I’ve already mentioned how our tendency to want to express love to a dog through hugging can get us both into trouble. Dogs often interpret hugs as aggressive actions, and so they defend themselves from this madness with the only means they have, their teeth. And there we were, just trying to tell them that we love them.

Becoming aware of the ways that we behave around our dogs does take a certain amount of energy, a kind of mindfulness about what we’re doing that we often lack. But once you start paying attention, once you focus your awareness on your own behavior instead of your dog’s, you automatically become clearer and more sensible to your dog.

Direct eye contact with a nervous dog is a beginner’s mistake that you either learn to avoid or you get out of the business.

The dog exploded like a freight train of teeth and muscle, lunging right at my face. His growl-barks shook the building. I did what every highly trained professional does in that circumstance. I backed up.

Dogs are brilliant at perceiving minute changes in our bodies and assume each tiny motion has meaning. Small movements that you make result in huge changes in your dog’s behavior. If you learn anything from this book, learn that.

The examples are endless. Standing straight with your shoulders squared rather than slumped can make the difference in whether your dog sits or not. Shifting your weight forward or backward, almost imperceptibly to a human, is a neon sign to a dog. Changes in the way that your body leans are so important that an incline of half an inch backward or forward can lure a frightened stray dog toward you or chase her away. Whether you breathe deeply or hold your breath can prevent a dogfight or cause one. I’ve worked with aggressive dogs every week for thirteen years, and I’ve seen repeatedly that sometimes tiny movements can defuse a dangerous situation—or create one.

When I first meet a dog, my primary attention is on the dog’s center of gravity and his breathing. Is the dog leaning toward me, away from me, or standing square over all four paws? Is the dog frozen still, breathing normally, or breathing too fast with shallow breaths?

At the same time, I’m looking at the dog’s mouth and eyes, where there’s a world of information, but being careful not to stare directly at him.

Take a sketchbook with you and your dog to the dog park (any paper with a solid backing will do) and start watching, describing, and sketching specific movements of your dog. Focus on which way her body leans and write it down and try to sketch a picture. Notice whether the corners of her mouth (the commissure) go forward or backward and write down when it happens and when it doesn’t. Do her eyes look “hard” or “soft” when she’s greeting another dog? How does her tail set change when she sees another dog? Is it the same change as when she sees a human? Focus on just one body part at a time; otherwise, your brain gets swamped and you can’t really focus on a specific action. Try keeping your notes and sketches together in a journal and go back often to read what you wrote.

While you’re playing this game, don’t worry whether your dog sits or not, because I want you to pay attention to your behavior. Did you raise your hand or your finger? Did you step forward a bit? Tilt your head? After you’ve observed your own behavior, see if you can find a pattern to what movements your dog sits to and what he doesn’t (beyond Fido’s getting sick of your asking for a “sit” over and over!). Experiment with different movements and you’ll probably discover that your dog is keyed in to specific actions, just as much as, or more than, your voice.

Walking around the neighborhood with her and her owner, I enlisted three dog-loving men to help us by throwing treats for her as they walked by. The goal was for her to learn that approaching unfamiliar men are not only safe, they are the bearers of yummy treats. Even though I’d explained what we needed them to do, each man took the treat in his hand and, instead of throwing it toward Mitsy, tried to walk right up to her, then bent forward toward her face, and reached out his hand to try to give her the treat. The third man I asked didn’t just lean toward her, he sort of fell toward her. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the fact that we were standing in front of a bar.

Direct head-on approaches can be threatening to dogs, especially shy ones meeting a person or dog whom they don’t know.

Dogs may greet head-on on occasion, but it’s not polite, and it leads to tension and sometimes aggression.

Like young female primates everywhere, they craved cuddling and touching. Yet while they were thinking warm, loving thoughts, their dog interpreted their hug as a rude, domineering threat display.

The only time dogs “hug” each other is when the male clasps the female during sex or when a dog (male or female) mounts another dog in a dominance display or in play with familiar dogs. If one dog reaches a paw over the neck of another in the first seconds of their initial greeting, he’s pushing the socially acceptable boundaries of canine good manners. A “paw over” is the precursor to what’s called “standing over” in canine ethology, and it’s done in the context of establishing the social hierarchy. I do see dogs use it in the first second or so of a greeting, but they’re not necessarily polite ones.

To an untrained human, just being a human, looking directly into the dog’s eyes was a kind, friendly thing to do. That’s the way Letterman greets Julia Roberts, and that’s the way we all greet people we really like. In dog society that would be a scene from a sci-fi horror movie. You just couldn’t be more rude to a dog unless you walked up and bit him.

The next time you see a dog you’d like to greet, stop a few feet away, stand sideways rather than straight on, and avoid looking directly into her eyes. Wait for the dog to come all the way to you. If she doesn’t, she doesn’t want to be petted. So don’t pet her. It’s not really that much to ask.

If the dog approaches you with a relaxed rather than a stiff body, let the dog sniff your hand, careful to hold your hand low, under rather than over her head. Always pet unfamiliar dogs on the chest or under their chin. Don’t reach over their heads to pet them.

I stayed relatively close to the Mastiff (I didn’t want him to learn that lunging at people made them go away, but neither could he learn anything useful if I was too close) and eventually was able to get the Mastiff comfortable with me right beside him again.

I think that the primary purpose of dogs is to keep humans humble. Any dog trainer will tell you that they seem to be doing a great job of it.

With the flock between the human and the dog, the handler calls the dog in to split off some of the sheep and then asks the dog to focus on one group and move it away from the others. As much a novice as I, Luke kept picking up the wrong group of sheep, in spite of my clear arm signal, until a wise handler made it simple with just one observation. “Be sure that your feet and your face are pointed toward the sheep you want your dog to pick up.” Voilá. Problem solved. Pointy primate that I am, I was pointing with my paw toward the sheep I wanted Luke to drive away. I probably turned my head and looked at Luke in some hapless attempt to influence what he did next. Meanwhile, Luke was watching where my feet and face were directed, and it was always toward the wrong group of sheep.

It hadn’t occurred to me to pay attention to my feet and face, and I had been busy pointing for all I was worth toward the sheep I wanted him to follow. But Luke’s not a primate, he’s a dog, and like all dogs, he tends to go in the direction that I’m facing, not where I’m pointing. (Ever seen a dog lift up his leg and point with his paw?)

The best way to get a dog to come to you is to turn away from him and move in the opposite direction (which is actually “toward you” from the standpoint of the dog).

Dogs want to go the way that you’re going, and to a dog that’s the way that your face and feet are pointing.

The best way that I know to visually “call” a dog to come is to bend down as if in a doggie play bow, turn away from your dog, and clap. Your version of a play bow is the closest signal there is in canine language to encourage your dog to come to you. After all, dogs have no signal among themselves that means “come over here right away.”

I called with a clear, consistent signal like “Tulip, come!” while I clapped my hands, bent forward a bit in a play bow, turned my body sideways, and started to move away. The microsecond that my Great Pyrenees, Tulip, moved toward me, I started cooing “Good girl! Good girl!” and ran away faster. That action lured her in my direction and at the same time rewarded her with one of her favorite activities—a good chase game. Dogs may love treats and petting, but they love a good run, too, and it seems to be a wonderful reward for coming when called. (If your dog becomes too excited and starts getting nippy as he nears you, stop your run before he catches up to you, turn toward him, play bow, and give him a treat.)

I must have played “come” with Tulip five times a day when she was an adolescent. I called “Come” in a happy but clear voice, made my behavior conducive to her coming by turning and moving away from her, and rewarded her with a chase game and then either threw a ball or a treat when she caught up to me.

Will turning away from your dog rather than facing forward get your dog to come when you call her off a running squirrel? Don’t count on it, but if you remember to turn away from your dog when you call her to come and reward her with a chase, a ball, or a treat, she’ll come more than she used to, guaranteed. (I find it most useful in this circumstance to also teach a dog to stop first to “no.”)

Sheep and sheepherding dogs taught me that any of us humans can control the behavior of a dog by simply controlling the space around him. Border Collies do the equivalent all the time: they control other animals, no matter what the species, by taking charge of the space around them just by their movements.

I get the best results by combining ethology and basic learning theory, so besides using relevant visual signals, I give the dogs treats while they are on the stay. I help them stay in place while I approach with the treat in my right hand and my left hand extended out like a traffic cop. When I get right up to my dog, I sweep the treat with an underhanded motion all the way to her mouth, then back away again, still holding out a helping “stay” signal with my left hand. Dogs learn that “all good things come to those who stay,” and they develop a rock-solid stay that can be hard to break.

What is natural to all primates, including us, is to push others away with our hands (or forepaws). But to a dog, a raised paw can signify submission or a request to play or the beginning of a dominance-related mount, but it never seems to mean “go away.” So I’ve stopped pushing dogs away with my paws. Instead, I keep my hands tucked into my belly and push dogs away with my shoulder or hip, using body language that they understand.

Try it the next time some overly enthusiastic dog begins a charge for your lap when you’re trying to relax in your chair. Long before she gets to you, tuck your hands into your belly and lean forward to block her with your shoulder or elbow, sitting right back up after the dog has moved backward. Most dogs won’t give up right away: they’ll try again a few times. After all, they’ve probably been rewarded for crawling up into someone’s lap, even if it’s just with attention, for a long time. It also helps to turn your head away. (We’ll talk about the importance of “look aways” later in the chapter.) The key is for you to occupy the space before they do, just as a Border Collie does when she darts around to the left to block the sheep from going through the gate!

Great dog handlers know exactly how far forward to lean to put pressure on each dog with which they’re working. Let’s go back to the “stay” example. If Tulip is on a stay and starts to get up and move forward and to my left, I’ll shift to the left myself to block her path, but I’m also going to shift my body forward to block her forward motion. But the instant that she pauses, I should stop leaning forward and “take off the pressure” by leaning back again. Just as she needs to get blocked when she moves off her stay, I need to reward her for going back to it, not continue to put pressure on her.

This interaction between you and your dog, this dance of shifting your weight forward and backward, takes some time to learn, just as any sport or dance step does. In my office it seems as though people easily learn to put pressure on, but at first they go too far and don’t take it off fast enough. You can practice with people and dogs, but be sure that you know the dog well before you consciously start to put pressure on him.

Our dogs, of course, are just as busy reading us as we are reading them. If you learn to shift your body backward slightly when you greet a new dog, you usually can ensure that the dog doesn’t perceive your posture as threatening. When you’re slightly sideways with your weight on your back foot, you’ve taken away what ethologists call an “intention movement” to proceed forward, and dogs can read it like a billboard. It doesn’t have to be much; it’s barely perceptible if one isn’t aware of it. Of course, you’ll want to do the opposite when you’re working with some lunkhead who’s all tongue and paws and thrashes around ignoring everything you say. Then you want to purposely move forward, both taking space and using your torso to signal your intention to take control, before you ask for that “sit.”

He was staring at her, I suspect, to induce her to get up and get him a toy out of the toy basket. He had walked over to it early in the session, looked at her, and then looked back at a prize toy. She started to get up to fetch it for him. The toy basket was low, open, and easily accessible. There was nothing to stop Sandy from picking up the toy himself, except Sandy’s apparent preference for his owner to do it for him. I suggested that the owner let him get it himself. She explained that she always got Sandy’s toys when he asked. I turned to look at Sandy, who remained standing beside the basket, tail wagging slowly, now staring hard at his owner. His owner shook her head from side to side and tentatively said, “No, Sandy, get it yourself.” As she did, ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth moved forward about an eighth of an inch. (Does that sound like a tiny movement? Get out a ruler and move your finger across an eighth of an inch. You might be surprised at what an obvious movement it is.) That little movement was the equivalent of a neon blinking sign. Bless his evil little heart for giving me warning. I managed to throw a beanbag in front of Sandy in time to stop him as he lunged toward her. By the time the beanbag landed in front of him, his eyes were hard, and his mouth was fully puckered forward, teeth showing, ready to bite. Because I saw the commissure (the corners of his mouth) go forward, I was able to predict his next move and stop him before he latched...

We humans pull our commissure back in a smile, and in a very general sense, we share with dogs an underlying emotion when we do that. Retracting the commissure in dogs signifies submission or fear.

When I look at a dog’s mouth, I’m not just looking to see if he stiffens his jaw or shows me his teeth; I’m looking to see if the corners go forward or backward. Forward correlates with status-seeking dogs who are not the dogs you want in a family with three kids under five. Commissures pulled back in a defensive grin, even if the dog is growling and snarling at me, means the dog is on defense and is afraid either of losing her food or of what is about to happen. Either dog can bite, but it’s important to know as much as you can about a dog’s internal state before you give a prognosis and treatment plan.

A common situation of visual miscommunication between people and dogs is when owners let their leashed dogs meet each other for the first time. The humans are often anxious about how the dogs will get along, and if you watch them instead of the dogs, you’ll often notice that the humans will hold their breath and round their eyes and mouths in an “on alert” expression. Since these behaviors are expressions of offensive aggression in canine culture, I suspect that the humans are unwittingly signaling tension. If you exaggerate this by tightening the leash, as many owners do, you can actually cause the dogs to attack each other. Think of it: the dogs are in a tense social encounter, surrounded by support from their own pack, with the humans forming a tense, staring, breathless circle around them. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen dogs shift their eyes toward their owners’ frozen faces and then launch growling at the other dog.

You can avoid a lot of dogfights by relaxing the muscles in your face, smiling with your eyes, breathing slowly, and turning away from the dogs rather than leaning forward and adding more tension.

Turid Rugas, a Norwegian dog trainer, calls turning the head a “calming signal,” and I agree that it does have a calming effect on the dog who sees it (although I don’t think that dogs are necessarily doing it consciously to relax the other dog). Humans can do it consciously, doing what wolf researchers call “look aways” by turning our heads to the side when we greet a new dog or we sense that tension is mounting.

If your dog pesters you for petting when you need to be doing something else, break off visual contact with him. You can use your torso to push him away with a body block (remember not to use your hands) or turn your head away (chin raised) in a benevolent but royal dismissal. It’s amazing how fast dogs will go away if you break off visual contact with them. It’s equally notable how hard it is for us humans to do that when we’re trying to get our dogs to do something.

“Tulip,” I yelled again, and stepped closer to her. This time not an ear twitch. Not the slightest acknowledgment of my existence. My call was louder this time, because I was getting mad, irritated at standing in the pouring rain, getting wet because my huge, soggy Great Pyrenees was blowing me off. In about half an hour, I was expecting company for an elaborate dinner party. I didn’t want the meal to be accompanied by a large, wet dog who smelled like old death. But Tulip didn’t actually roll in the squishy mess under her, because I came to my senses and stopped being a dog owner and started being an animal trainer. “No,” I said, this time quietly but with a pitch as low as the ground. Tulip stopped her sniffing and turned her huge, square head to look straight at me. “Tulip, come!” The “come” came out like a cheery greeting to a neighbor you’d ask over for coffee. With a brief look at the treasure below her, Tulip turned like a dancer and ran to me. We dashed together to the house, and I let my poor, long-suffering floors get muddy yet one more time, while we tore to the refrigerator for Tulip’s favorite treats. Tulip had done exactly what I had asked from the beginning. “Tulip!” I had said at first, meaning “come” but simply saying her name and expecting her to read my mind about what it was that I wanted her to do. She acknowledged my presence politely, expressed some doggy version of “Wow, look! I found a dead squirrel, and it has maggots in it!” and returned to what ...

Dogs don’t come speaking English, and they don’t come reading your mind. If your dog doesn’t listen to your commands, it well might be because he is confused. Of course, dogs can learn the meaning of many words, and like us, they have great hearing abilities and are primed to get information about the world around them from sound. Happy, well-trained dogs understand a wealth of information from the sounds that their humans make. Dogs even learn the meaning of words that we don’t want them to—running under the table when you say “bath” or dashing over to the cupboard and barking when you ask your two-legged friend if she’d like to go to “dinner.” But if you analyze our behavior carefully, sometimes I think it’s a miracle that our dogs understand us at all.

“Ginger, come!” John said, calling her to come during a recall exercise. Ginger had just discovered that there were liver treats on an adjacent table and didn’t even twitch an ear. “Over here, Ginger,” John repeated, finishing with “Come on. Good girl. Come here. Over here.” John’s vigorous signaling resulted in loss of breath and rising frustration but not in convincing Ginger to leave the liver treats on the table. But she did learn to ignore a whole lot of interesting noises from her hapless owner. What’s most notable about those noises is that they were so variable. If you assume ignorance of the English language, “Come here” sounds nothing like “Ginger, come!” but humans seem bound and determined to use as many words as possible for the same command.

If you’ve thought about what words you use to communicate with your dog, the next step is to write down exactly what these words mean. In other words, what do you want your dog to do after you say something?

For example, many of us say “Down” to ask our dog to lie down and ten minutes later say “Down” to get her to stop jumping up on Aunt Polly. So which is it? What do you want your dog to do when you say “Lie down”? Lie down on her belly? Stop jumping up and stand there with all her paws on the ground? Leap off the couch? Of course, you know that the same word can have different meanings in different contexts, but we’re supposed to be making things easy for our dogs, not doing IQ tests on them all day. Your dog’s life will improve immensely if you learn to use a different command for each behavior that you want her to do.

It’s very popular now for trainers to teach dog owners to ask their dogs to sit and then praise them by saying “Good sit.” But look at those words from a dog’s perspective. If “Sit” means “Put your butt down on the ground,” and you want your dog to do that every time you say it, what could your dog make of hearing “sit” after he’s already done so?

expecting him to read your mind about when “sit” means “Do something” versus when it means “Don’t do anything; I’m referring to something that you’ve already done” is a bit much, even for the smartest of dogs.