Growing Up with Dogs

A View from the Other Side of the Border

We woke up before the sun, those summer mornings on the farm. There wasn’t any electricity, so once the sky turned dim in the evenings, there was little for us kids to do in the candlelight. While the adults talked softly into the night, my older sister and I would try to drift off to sleep in the stifling heat. We needed no alarm clocks; our wake-up call was that first sliver of backlit golden dust streaming through the unscreened open window. The first sounds to reach my ears would be the chickens—their insistent clucking in competition for the grain my grandfather was already spreading around the yard. If I lazed in bed long enough, I’d smell the coffee brewing on the stove and hear the swishing of the water in the ceramic buckets my grandmother carried up from the well. Before she came into the house, she would softly sprinkle some of the water onto the dirt road in front of the doorstep, so the cows wouldn’t suffocate us with the dust they churned up as they passed by on their morning parade to the river.

Most days, however, the last thing I wanted to do was stay in bed. I couldn’t wait to get up and go outside. The only place I really wanted to be was among the animals. From as early as I can remember, I loved to spend hours walking with them or just silently watching them, trying to figure out how their wild minds worked. Whether it was a cat, a chicken, a bull, or a goat, I wanted to know what the world looked like through the eyes of each animal—and I wanted to understand that animal from the inside out. I never thought of them as the same as us, but I can’t remember ever thinking animals were “less” than us, either. I was always endlessly fascinated - and delighted—by our differences. My mother still tells me that from the time I could reach out and touch any animal, I could never learn enough about it.

And always, the animals that attracted me most were dogs. In our family, having dogs around was like having water to drink. Canines were a constant presence in my childhood, and I can’t overstate their importance to my development in becoming the man I am today. I wouldn’t want to imagine a world that didn’t have dogs in it. I respect dogs’ dignity as proud and miraculous animals. I marvel at their loyalty, consistency, resiliency, and strength. I continue to grow spiritually from studying their seamless link with Mother Nature, despite thousands of years of living side by side with man. To say that I “love” dogs doesn’t even come close to describing my deep feelings and affinity for them.

I was very blessed to have had a wonderful childhood, spent living in proximity to dogs and many other animals. Since I also grew up in Mexico, in a very different culture from the one you have here in the United States, I had the advantage of seeing your country and customs from a newcomer’s perspective. Though I’m not a veterinarian, a Ph.D., or a biologist, I have successfully rehabilitated thousands of problem dogs over the years, and it’s both my observation and my opinion that many dogs in America are not as happy or as stable as they could be. I’d like to offer you a more balanced, healthier way to love your dog. A way that promises you the kind of deep connection you always dreamed of having with a nonhuman animal. I hope after sharing with you my experiences and my personal story of a life shaped by dogs, you may begin to have a different perspective on the relationship we humans share with our canine friends.

The Farm

I was born and spent most of my earliest years in Culiacan, one of the oldest cities in Mexico, located about 643 miles from Mexico City. My most vivid childhood memories, however, are of spending every vacation and weekend at my grandfather’s farm in Ixpalino, about an hour away. In the Sinaloa region of Mexico, farms like the one my grandfather lived on operated on a kind of feudal system. The farm, or ranch, was owned by the patrones, the richer families in Mexico. My grandfather was one of many workers and ranch families, known as campesinos, who rented ejidos, parcels of land, and earned their meager incomes working them. Those farm families made up a community—the land they worked was what they had in common. You could compare this to the sharecropper situation in the American South. The primary job my grandfather had was to care for the cows—dozens of them—and see them safely from the pasture to the stream and back again, every day.

We also raised chickens and other animals, mostly for our own food. The house was cramped—built long and narrow and mostly of brick and clay. It had only four rooms, which got kind of crowded once my other sisters and brother were born, and whenever our many cousins came to visit. I was already fourteen or fifteen years old when we first got running water. Yet I never recall feeling “poor.” In that part of Mexico, the working class was the majority. And in my young eyes, that farm was paradise. I would rather have been there than at Magic Mountain, any day. The farm was always the place where I felt I could really be me, the person I was born to be. It was the place that made me feel truly connected to nature.

And always there, in the background, were the dogs, usually living in loosely formed packs of five to seven animals. They weren’t wild, but they weren’t “indoor dogs,” either. They lived outside in the yard and came and went as they pleased. Most were a concoction of mixed breeds, many of them resembling something between a small German shepherd, a Labrador, and a Basenji. The dogs always felt like part of our family, but they weren’t anything like “pets” in the modern American sense of the word. These farm dogs all worked for a living. They helped keep the other animals in line—running alongside or behind my grandfather as he herded the cows, working to keep the cows from straying from the path. The dogs also performed other functions, such as protecting our land and property. If any of the workmen left a hat behind in the field, you could be sure one of the dogs would stay behind to watch it until the owner returned. They also took care of the women in the family. If my grandmother walked to the fields at lunchtime carrying meals for the workers, a dog or two would always go with her, lest an aggressive pig appeared to try to take the food away from her. The dogs always protected us; we took this for granted. And we never “taught” them to do any of these things, not in the sense of “dog training” as most people know it. We didn’t shout commands to them as trainers do, or reward them with cookies. We never physically abused them to get them to obey us. They simply did the jobs that needed doing. Something about how they helped us seemed to be in their nature already, or perhaps they had passed the behaviors down from generation to generation. In exchange for their assistance, we’d throw them a burrito or two now and then. Otherwise, they scavenged for their food, or hunted smaller animals. They happily interacted with us, but they also had their own distinctive lifestyle—their own “culture,” if you will.

These “working dogs” on our farm were my true teachers in the art and science of canine psychology.

I always loved to watch dogs. I suppose your average American kid will run and play fetch with his canine companion—throw a Frisbee to her, play tug-of-war or wrestle with her in the grass. From the time I was very little, I found joy in dogs simply by observing them. When the dogs weren’t hanging around us or interacting with the other animals on the farm, I’d watch them play with one another. Very early, I learned to read their body language—such as the “play bow” position, when one dog would invite another for a frolic. I remember them grabbing one another’s ears and rolling on the ground. Sometimes they’d run and explore together; sometimes they’d team up and excavate a gopher hole. When their “workday” was done, some of them would rush to jump in the creek to cool off. The less bold among them would lie quietly on the bank and watch the others. Their daily patterns and rhythms formed a culture unto itself. The mothers disciplined their pups so the pups learned the rules of the pack at a very young age. Their packs and family units definitely operated like an organized society, with clear rules and boundaries.

The more hours I spent watching them, the more questions came into my mind. How did they coordinate their activities? How did they communicate with one another? I noticed early on that a simple glance from one dog to another could change the dynamic of the whole pack in a split second. What was going on between them? What were they “saying” to one another, and how were they saying it? I soon learned that I could have an effect on them, too. If I wanted something from them—for example, if I wanted one of them to follow me into the field—it seemed I only had to put that thought in my mind, think of what direction I wanted to go in, and the dog could read my mind and obey. How did she know how to do that?

I was also fascinated by the endless number of things dogs were able learn about the complex world around them, simply by trial and error. Was part of what they knew about nature already inborn, I wondered? The vast knowledge they displayed about their environment and how to survive in it seemed to spring from an equal combination of nature and nurture. For example, I have a vivid memory of watching a couple of adolescent pups approaching a scorpion, probably for the first time in their young lives. They obviously were fascinated by this outlandish creature, and they inched toward it tentatively, leading with their noses. As soon as they got close, the scorpion started to move toward them, and the puppies jumped back. Then the puppies began sniffing around the scorpion all over again, then backed off, then started again—but never got so close as to be stung by it. How did they know how far they could go? Was the scorpion sending them “signals” as to what its boundaries were? How did those two pups sense the scorpion’s poison? I witnessed the same thing with one of our other dogs and a rattlesnake. Did she smell danger from the rattlesnake? I knew the way I had been taught that an animal was poisonous. My father told me, “You go near that scorpion, and I’m going to spank you,” or “If you touch that snake, you’ll get poisoned.” But you never saw a dog father or dog mother telling a pup, “This is how it is.” These pups learned from experience and watching other dogs, but they also seemed to have a kind of sixth sense about nature—a sense that, even as a boy, I observed to be missing from most of the humans I knew. These dogs seemed completely in tune with Mother Nature, and that’s what amazed me and drew me back to observe them, day after day.

Pack Leaders and Pack Followers

There was something else I noticed quite young—a set of behaviors that seemed to separate the dogs on my grandfather’s farm from the dogs on some of the other families’ farms. Some of the other ranchers seemed to have dogs with fairly tight pack structures, where one dog was pack leader and the others were followers. Those families liked to watch when their dogs got into battles over dominance—when one dog beat another down. This was entertainment for them. I could see that such dominance displays were natural behavior for dogs; I had also witnessed it in the feral dog packs that ran wild in the fields near our house. But that kind of behavior wasn’t acceptable for my grandfather. The dogs on our farm didn’t seem to have a discernible pack leader among them. I realize now that this was because my grandfather never let any dog take the leadership role away from him—or from the rest of us humans, for that matter. He instinctively understood that for the dogs to live in harmony with us—to work willingly with us on the farm and never show aggression or dominance toward us—they all had to understand that we humans were their pack leaders. You could see it in their postures around us. Their body language communicated clear, classic “calm submission” or “active submission”—qualities of energy that I’ll describe in greater detail later. The dogs’ heads were always low, and they always kept a certain position in relation to us when traveling—trotting either behind or next to us, and never running out in front.

Now, my grandfather never had any training manuals or self-help books or scientific techniques to rely on, yet he could always elicit that perfectly calm, submissive, and cooperative response from his dogs. I never witnessed my grandfather use any violent punishment, and he didn’t bribe the dogs with treats. What he did was project the kind of consistent, calm-assertive energy that just cries out “leader” in any language, for any species. My grandfather was one of the most confident, even-tempered people I’ve ever met—and definitely the person most in tune with nature. I think he recognized that of all his grandkids, I was the one born with that same special gift. The wisest thing he ever said to me was “Never work against Mother Nature. You only succeed when you work with her.” To this very day, I repeat that to myself—and to my clients—whenever I work with dogs. And sometimes, when I’m feeling stressed, I apply it to other areas of my life. Though my grandfather passed away at the age of 105, I quietly thank him every day for that timeless piece of wisdom.

Living among dogs that had that gentle, compliant state of mind, none of us kids ever developed a fear that one of the dogs would harm us. We were always confident around them, and therefore, we, too, naturally became their leaders. I never once saw a dog bare her teeth to, growl at, or act aggressively toward my grandfather, and not one of the children in the family was ever hurt or bitten by a dog. My experience learning from my wise grandfather on the farm has convinced me that, when dogs and humans live together, a calm-submissive state of mind is the best state of mind for the dog to have. My family and I grew up among dogs with that state of mind, and our relationship with those dogs was one of pure, relaxed harmony. And the dogs, too, always seemed happy, relaxed, serene, and content. They didn’t exhibit stress or anxious behavior. They were healthy, balanced dogs, as nature intended them to be.

I don’t want to give all the credit for my amazing and unique childhood to my grandparents. My father was the most honest, honorable man I’ve ever met. He taught me about integrity. My mother, however, taught me about patience and sacrifice. She always talked about the importance of having a dream and to dream as big as you like. But like some people who grow up to work with animals, I always felt a little different from the other kids. I seemed to connect better with animals than with people. That feeling of isolation increased when we started spending less time on the farm and more time in the busy seaside city of Mazatlan.

The move was motivated by my dad’s concern about our education. He was a traditional Mexican son—very devoted to his parents—yet he realized that there were no real schools at the ranch. Sometimes teachers would come and hold classes for a few of the farm kids, but often they wouldn’t come back again for a long time. My dad wanted us kids to take our education more seriously, so we moved to Mazatlan, Mexico’s second largest coastal city and a vacation mecca. I was probably about six or seven years old.

Life in the City: Dog Eat Dog

I remember our first apartment in Mazatlan. Trust me; it never would have made the cover of Metropolitan Home. It was on the second floor of an apartment building on Calle Morelos, in the crowded, working-class part of town. It was very long and narrow, like a “railroad flat” in Manhattan—a living room, kitchen, hallway and two bedrooms, one for our parents, the other for all us kids. There was a bathroom where you’d also wash your clothes. That was it. My father got a job delivering newspapers, and we kids dressed in one another’s hand-me-downs and went to school every day.

For me, the worst thing about living in the city was that we couldn’t have dogs around anymore. When we first brought dogs to the apartment, we let them live in the hallway. But they smelled bad, and we weren’t very disciplined about cleaning up after them. (We also tried raising chickens in the hallway, but they smelled even worse!) We couldn’t let the dogs out to roam, because they might be hit by the cars that drove even faster than they had in Culiacan. We were used to having the dogs run free on the farm and basically taking care of themselves; we didn’t know anything about walking with them or caring for them properly in an urban environment. To be honest, we were a little lazy about it. And the city kids in our neighborhood didn’t play with dogs. Most of the dogs that we came across were running loose, scavenging for garbage. I noticed that those city dogs weren’t as skinny as the dogs at the ranch; there was much more food available to them, plenty of garbage for them to eat. But they were definitely more afraid, nervous, and unsure of themselves. And for the first time, I saw people actually abusing dogs. In the country, people would only yell at dogs or chase them away if they were attacking their chickens or stealing the family’s food. Mostly, those were the feral dogs, or coyotes. The dogs who lived with us would never do anything like that. But in the city, I witnessed people throwing rocks at dogs and swearing at them, even if the dogs were only passing by their car or running past their store or fruit stand. It tore me up inside to see that. It just didn’t feel “natural” to me. That was the only time in my life when I actually detached myself from dogs. I think in some ways that’s when I became detached from myself.

Since I was still very young, the city was already curbing my natural “wildness,” in the same way it impeded dogs’ true natures. On the farm, I could go outside for hours and hours, walking the land, following “the guys”—my father or my grandfather or the other ranch hands—and always with the dogs trailing behind us. There wasn’t anywhere I couldn’t go on foot. Now, my mom was nervous about only letting us walk to the corner and back. Of course, she feared kidnappers, child molesters—the usual urban boogie men. The only time I felt “free” again was on the weekends when we we’d go back to the farm. But those weekends never seemed to last long enough.

I remember one good thing about the city: it was there where I saw my first purebred dog. There was one doctor who lived in our neighborhood. His name was Dr. Fisher. He was out walking his Irish setter—the first purebred dog I had ever seen in my life—and when I saw her sleek red coat, I was mesmerized. She was so well groomed and so very different from the mangy, mixed-breed dogs I was used to seeing. I couldn’t stop staring at her, thinking, “I’ve got to have that beautiful dog!” I followed Dr. Fisher to see where he lived. Then I returned, day after day, following him and watching him walk his dog. One day she had a new litter of puppies. That was it. I got up the courage to introduce myself to Dr. Fisher and ask him, “Do you think you can give me one of those puppies?” He looked at me as if I were crazy. There I was, some stranger, a kid, and I wanted him to give me a valuable purebred puppy, which rich people might pay hundreds of dollars for. Still, I think he could read in my eyes how serious I was about it. I really wanted one of those dogs! After staring at me for a while, he answered, “Maybe.” Maybe, indeed! Two years later, he finally gave me a puppy from one of his litters. I named her Saluki, and she grew up to be a big, beautiful, and totally loyal girl. She was my constant companion for almost ten years, and she taught me a lesson that’s been very important to my current work with dogs and their owners. Purebred or mutt, farm dog or house dog, Siberian husky, German shepherd, or Irish setter, a purebred is first and foremost just an ordinary dog wearing a designer suit. Later in the book, I’ll talk about why I think too many people blame “breed” for their dogs’ problem behavior. Sweet Saluki taught me that beautiful purebred dogs and funny-looking mutts are both the same thing under their skin—they are both simply dogs first.

Despite the presence of Saluki, I didn’t fit in very well with the kids at school. They were all city kids to begin with, born and raised in that type of life. From day one, it was clear to me that how they felt about their lives had nothing to do with how I felt about mine. I didn’t make any judgment about better or worse; I just sensed that there was really not that much we had in common. However, like a good pack animal, I realized that if I was going to make it in the city, somebody needed to change his behavior, and it obviously wasn’t going to be the other kids. They were the “pack,” so I tried to adapt and fit in. I have to admit, I pulled it off fairly well. I hung out with them and went with them to the beach, played baseball and soccer, but deep inside I knew I was faking it. It was never like on the farm, chasing a frog here and there, catching fireflies in jars and then setting them free, or simply sitting under the stars, listening to the crickets’ song. Nature had always offered me something new to learn, something to think about. Sports were just working off energy and trying to fit in.

The truth was, those years on the farm were embedded in my soul. The only place I was truly happy was outside, in nature, without concrete walls or streets or buildings to pen me in. I was swallowing my soul in order to be accepted, and all that excess energy and frustration had to go somewhere. It wasn’t long before it turned into aggression—but most of my anger seemed to erupt at home. I started fighting with my sisters and arguing with my mother. My parents were smart—they got me into judo. It was the perfect way to drain my anger and channel it into something constructive and healthy, something that taught me lessons that I still credit for my success today.

At six years old, I walked into a judo studio for the first time. By the age of fourteen I had won six championships in a row. My aggression had to be redirected somehow, and I found the perfect mentor in my judo master, Joaquim. He told me he believed I had a special quality; a “fire within,” he called it. He took me under his wing, telling me stories about Japan, and how the people there were also in tune with Mother Nature. He taught me about Japanese meditation techniques—about breathing and focus and using the power of the mind to reach any goal. The experience reminded me of my grandfather and his natural wisdom. Many of the techniques I learned in judo—single-mindedness, self-control, quieting the mind, deep concentration—are skills I still use every day, and find especially crucial in my work with dangerous, red-zone aggressive dogs. I also recommend many of these techniques to clients who need to learn to control themselves better before they can get their dogs to behave. My parents couldn’t have found a more perfect outlet for me during that phase of my life. It was judo that kept me sane during those years, until the weekends when I could romp on the farm or go to the mountains or walk among the animals again. Only when I was with Mother Nature or doing judo was I truly in my element.

El Perrero

When I was about fourteen, my father started working as a photographer for the government. He saved enough money to buy a very nice house in a much higher-class section of town. We had a yard and were only one block away from the beach. It wasn’t until then that I finally started to feel comfortable in my own skin again, and began to see my mission in life taking shape. All my friends were talking about what they wanted to be when they grew up. I didn’t feel the desire to be a fireman or a doctor or a lawyer or anything like that. I didn’t know exactly what it was I’d be doing, but I knew that if there was a profession that involved dogs, I wanted to be a part of it. Then I thought back to when we got our first television set. As a very little boy, I had been mesmerized by the reruns of Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, always in black and white and dubbed in Spanish. Because I had grown up with dogs in a very natural environment, I knew that of course Lassie didn’t really understand the words that Timmy was saying. I also figured out that normal dogs didn’t automatically do the heroic things Lassie and Rin Tin Tin did every week. Once I learned that trainers stood offscreen, controlling the dogs’ behavior, I began to romanticize them. What a feat, to turn those ordinary dogs into such stellar actors! With my natural understanding of the canines on the farm, I instinctively knew that I could easily train dogs to do the same impressive tricks that Lassie and Rin Tin Tin’s handlers had taught them to do. Those two television shows inspired my first great dream—to move to Hollywood and become the best dog trainer in the world. What I ended up becoming was something else all together—but that comes later in the story.

As I repeated this goal to myself, it felt so totally right. Saying to myself “I’m going to work with dogs and be the best trainer in the world” felt to me like being given a glass of water after nearly dying of thirst. It felt natural, easy, and it felt really good. Suddenly, I wasn’t fighting myself anymore. I knew the path I would take on the way to my future.

The first step toward my goal was to get a job at a local veterinarian’s office. It wasn’t anything like the fancy, sterile vets’ offices here in the States; it was kind of a combination vet’s/kennel/ grooming establishment. I was only fifteen, but the employees there immediately saw that I had no fear of dogs; I could grab dogs that even the vet wouldn’t go near. I started as a helper, sweeping floors and cleaning up after the animals. Next I became a groomer, and very quickly progressed to veterinary technician. As a tech, I would hold a dog and keep it calm while the vet gave it a shot. I would clip the dog before surgery, bathe it, bandage it, and basically serve as the vet’s backup for whatever needed to be done.

It was around this time—during my high school years—when the other kids started calling me el perrero, “the dog boy.” Remember, in the city of Mazatlan, this wasn’t exactly a compliment. In North America and much of Western Europe, of course, people who have special relationships with animals are put up on pedestals. Think of such memorable figures as Dr. Dolittle, the Horse Whisperer, Siegfried and Roy…even the Crocodile Hunter! All of them—fictional characters and real people alike—are cultural heroes here because of their amazing natural gifts in communicating with animals. In Mexico, however, dogs in the city were considered lowly, dirty beasts—and because I hung around with dogs, I was, too, by association. Did I care? No. I was on a mission. But it’s important for me to explain the extreme differences in perception between Mexico and the United States when it comes to dogs. I believe that by coming from a place that values dogs less, I have a clearer perspective on how to respect dogs more.

The reality is, in most of the world, dogs are not cherished in the same way they are in North America and Western Europe. In South America and Africa, they are treated like they are in Mexico—as useful workers in the countryside, but filthy nuisances in the city. In Russia they are valued, but in very poor areas they run wild in packs and are dangerous, even to humans. In China and Korea, they are even cooked for food. That may sound barbaric to us, but remember, in India, we seem barbaric because we eat beef, the meat of their sacred cows! Having grown up in one culture and then started my own family in another, I believe it is best not to make too many value judgments about other ways of life—at least without having first experienced them and made an effort to understand how their attitudes and practices came to be. This said, when I came to the United States, I was in for some pretty big surprises about how dogs were regarded here!

Crossing the Border

I was about twenty-one years old when the desire to live my dream finally overcame me. I remember it very clearly; it was December 23. I went to my mom and said, “I’m going to the United States. Today.” She said, “You’ve got to be crazy! It’s almost Christmas! And we only have a hundred dollars to give to you!” I didn’t speak any English. I would be going by myself. My family didn’t know anybody in California. Some of my uncles had moved to Yuma, Arizona, but that was not my destination. My target was Hollywood. And I knew that the only way to get there was through Tijuana. My mother argued with me, pleaded with me. But I can’t explain it—the urge to go to the United States that moment was totally overwhelming to me. I knew I had to act on it.

It’s been published elsewhere, and I am not ashamed to say it: I came to the United States illegally. I now have my residence card, have paid a large fine for crossing illegally, and am applying for full citizenship status. There’s no country I’d rather live in than the United States. I truly believe it is the greatest country in the world. I feel blessed to be living and raising my kids here. However, for the poor and working class of Mexico, there is no other way to come to America except illegally. It’s impossible. The Mexican government is about who you know and how much money you have. You have to pay enormous amounts to officials in order to get a legal visa. My family had no way to get their hands on that kind of money. So, with just one hundred dollars in my pocket, I set out for Tijuana to figure out how to get across the border.

I had never been to Tijuana before. It’s a rough place. There are bars and cantinas filled with drunks and drug dealers and criminals—people who will hurt you, and who are always waiting to take advantage of someone who is trying to get across the border. I saw some terrible things there. Luckily, I had a friend who worked at Señor Frog’s, a very famous Tijuana bar. He let me crash in the back room for two weeks, while I figured out how I was going to cross over.

I remember it rained nearly every day, but every day, I went out and studied the situation at the border. I wanted to save my hundred dollars, so I tried to cross by myself—tried three times and failed.

After about two weeks, I was getting ready to try once more. It was about eleven o’clock at night: rainy, cold, and windy. Outside a coffee stand, where everybody was crowding around, just trying to warm up a little, a skinny guy—what we call a “coyote”—came up to me and said, “Hey, somebody told me you want to cross.” I told him I did. He said, “Okay. I’ll charge you one hundred dollars.” A chill ran through me. How amazing was it that he wanted the exact amount of money that I had with me? The only thing he said was, “Just follow me. I’ll take you to San Ysidro.” So I followed him east.

We ran part of the way, ran until we were exhausted. My coyote pointed out the red lights in the distance, which gave away the positions of the Migras (the border patrol guards). He said, “We’re gonna stay right here until they move.” We were in a water hole. I waited all night, with the water up to my chest. I was freezing, trembling, but I didn’t care. Finally, my coyote said, “Okay. Time to go.” So we ran north—over mud, through a junk yard, across a freeway, and down a tunnel. At the other end of the tunnel was a gas station. My guide said, “I’m gonna get you a taxi, and then he’s gonna take you to downtown San Diego.” I hadn’t even heard of San Diego. The only places I knew were San Ysidro and Los Angeles. The coyote gave the taxi driver twenty bucks out of the hundred I’d given him, wished me good luck, and was gone. Fortunately, the taxi driver spoke Spanish, because I knew not one word of English. He drove me to San Diego and dropped me off there—dripping wet, filthy, thirsty, hungry, my boots covered with mud.

I was the happiest man in the world. I was in the U.S.

San Diego

First, there were the leashes—leashes everywhere! I had seen chain leashes in the city when I lived in Mexico, but nothing like the leather leashes and nylon leashes and flexi leashes that Americans used. I looked around the city and wondered, “Where are all the dogs wandering in the streets?” It actually took me a long time to get my brain around the concept of a “leash law.” On my grandfather’s farm, the closest thing we had ever had to leashes were thick lengths of rope that we might tie around a particularly difficult animal’s neck, “dog-show style,” until we’d established our position as leader. Then it was back to nature—no need for a leash. Leashes were for mules, since most well-behaved dogs on the ranch would always do what we asked them to do. But leashes and fancy collars were only the beginning of my culture shock. As a new immigrant to this great country, I was in for a few more bombshells.

I had only a few dollars in my pocket when I came to the United States, and I knew no English. Of course, my dream was the same in any language—I had come here to become the best dog trainer in the world. The first words I learned to say in English were “Do you have a job application?”

After more than a month of living on the streets of San Diego, pounding the pavement in the same boots I was wearing when I first crossed the border, I got my first job—unbelievably, in my chosen field! It all happened so fast, it had to be a miracle. I didn’t know where to look for “dog training” positions—I couldn’t even read the Yellow Pages. But one day, while wandering through a neighborhood—still buzzing with the excitement of actually being in this country—I saw a sign for a dog grooming parlor. I knocked on the door and managed to put the words together to ask the two ladies who owned it if they had an application for a job. To my astonishment, they hired me on the spot.

Remember, I didn’t speak a word of English; my clothes were worn and filthy; and I was living on the streets. Why in the world would they trust me? But they gave me not only a job but also 50 percent of the profits from whatever work I brought in. Fifty percent! After a few days, they learned that I was homeless, and they actually let me live there, right in the grooming parlor!

To this day, I call these women my American guardian angels. They trusted me and acted as if they’d known me all their lives. They were put in my path for a great reason, and I’m forever grateful to them, even though I don’t remember their names.

If anyone ever says to you that people in the United States don’t have kindness in their hearts anymore, don’t believe them. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for the unselfish help and trust of so many people who reached out to me. In this country, those two beautiful ladies in San Diego were the very first, but they wouldn’t be the last. Believe me, not a day goes by that I don’t remember how truly blessed I’ve been with the people who’ve been put in my path.

At the Groomer’s

So, there I was, twenty-one years old, speaking almost no English and working at a dog grooming parlor. A dog grooming parlor! The very concept would have made my grandfather double over with laughter! The dogs on the farm cleaned one another and swam in the creek only if they got too hot. Their idea of a bath was rolling in the mud! The only time my grandfather ever hosed down a dog was if she had ticks or fleas or other parasites, or if her hair got too tangled or matted. Believe it or not, some dog owners in Mexico would actually put their dogs down if they had too many ticks. They’d show no mercy—just get rid of the dog and get another one that wasn’t “flawed.” Even the grooming I did at the vet in Mazatlan was simply a part of the medical treatment. The fact that American pet owners spent good money—to my mind, an enormous amount of money!—to wash, trim, and gussy up their dogs on a regular basis was eye-opening to me. It was my first glimpse into the American attitude toward pets. When I was in Mexico, I had heard that Americans treated their pets like human beings, but now I was actually seeing it in action, and at first, it really blew my mind. Apparently, nothing was too good for the dogs in America.

As foreign as the concept of a “grooming parlor” was to me, when I first started working there, I loved it. The women couldn’t have been kinder to me, and I quickly developed a reputation for being the only one who could soothe the more difficult dogs—the stronger breeds or the ones that would cause everyone else to throw their hands up. Regular customers began to ask for me when they saw how I interacted with their pets, but I still didn’t understand why their dogs behaved so much better with me than they did with the other groomers, or even their own owners. I think I was beginning to understand the difference, but I was not able to articulate it yet.

The San Diego grooming parlor had many more resources than I was used to having in Mexico. There were clippers, aromatic shampoos, and special, gentle blow-dryers designed especially for use with dogs. Awesome! Because I’d been trained at the vet’s in Mazatlan, I’d never used a clipper, but was extremely proficient with scissors. The San Diego grooming parlor’s owners were thrilled when they saw how fast and accurately I could work with a pair of scissors. So they gave me all the cocker spaniels, all the poodles, all the terriers, all the hard-to-groom dogs—which happened to be the dogs for whose grooming people paid the most. The shop charged $120 for an average-size poodle—which meant $60 for me! This was manna from heaven. I was spending only a few dollars a day—subsisting on as little as a couple of 99-cent hot dogs from the ampm convenience store for breakfast and dinner. Everything else I squirreled away. By the end of the year, I planned to have enough money to move to Hollywood—one step closer to my dream.

Behavioral Issues

Encountering dogs with fancy leashes and collars and expensive hairdos astonished me when I first came to America, but in a way, the “Hollywood hype” I’d been raised with through movies and TV had prepared me for some of that. It was like going to the circus for the first time after being told about it all your life. There was one thing about my new situation, however, that shocked me to the core. It was the bizarre behavioral problems that many of these dogs exhibited. Even after growing up around canines all my life, dogs with what I now call “issues” were something completely foreign to me. During my time at the groomer’s, I saw the most beautiful dogs I had ever imagined—stunning examples of their breeds, with clear eyes, gleaming coats, and healthy, well-fed bodies. Yet I could tell just by looking at them that their minds weren’t healthy. Growing up with animals, you can automatically sense when their energy

levels are normal. That healthy, balanced state of mind is recognizable in any creature—it’s the same for a horse, a chicken, a camel, even for a child. Yet I could see right away that these American dogs were exhibiting what seemed to me to be a very strange, very unnatural energy. Even at the vet’s in Mazatlan, I had never encountered dogs that were so neurotic, so excitable, so fearful and tense. And the owners’ complaints! I didn’t need to know very much English to understand that these dogs were aggressive, obsessive, and driving their owners crazy. The way some of these owners acted, it seemed as if their dogs were actually running their lives. What was going on here?

Back on my grandfather’s farm in Mexico, there was no question of a dog’s misbehaving and getting away with it, or trying to show its dominance over a person. And it wasn’t because of abuse or physical punishment. It was because the humans knew they were humans, and the dogs knew they were dogs. Who was in charge and who wasn’t was crystal clear. That simple equation has carried the dog-human relationship forward during the thousands—possibly tens of thousands—of years since the first dog ancestor wandered into our human ancestors’ camp and realized it could get a quicker meal there than by hunting all day. Boundaries between humans and dogs were simple—and obvious. The dogs I knew in Mexico were naturally balanced. They didn’t have troublesome personality quirks such as overt aggression or fixations. They were often scrawny and mangy, and sometimes not very pretty to look at, but they seemed to live their lives in the harmony that God and Mother Nature had intended for them. They interacted naturally with both their own kind and with humans. So what was going wrong with these gorgeous poster dogs in America?

The fact that so many American dogs had “issues” hit me even harder once I moved to Los Angeles and started working as a kennel boy at a dog-training establishment there. I wanted to learn how to be a dog trainer, and I’d heard that this was the best place around. I knew that rich people paid a great deal of money to leave their dogs at this highly respected facility. They would drop off their dogs for two weeks so the animals could learn to follow commands such as “sit,” “stay,” “come,” and “heel.”

When I began work at this facility, I was stunned at the condition that some of these dogs arrived in. Physically, of course, they were all gorgeous. They were well fed, beautifully groomed, and their coats gleamed with their good health. But emotionally, many of them were complete wrecks. Some were fearful and cowering; some were edgy or out-of-control aggressive. Ironically, the owners usually brought the dogs in to be trained in the hopes of getting rid of those neurotic behaviors. They believed that once the dog was taught to respond to commands, its fear, anxiety, or other problem behavior would miraculously go away. This is a common, but dangerous, misconception. It’s absolutely true that if a dog has a mild, happy-go-lucky nature to begin with, traditional dog training can help settle her down and make life easier for everybody. But for a dog that is nervous, tense, excited, fearful, aggressive, dominant, panicky, or otherwise unbalanced, traditional training can sometimes do more harm than good. That fact became clear to me from my first day at the training facility.

My job at this facility was to lock the dogs in separate kennels until their daily “lessons” were to begin, then take them to their trainers. The isolation these troubled dogs experienced in the kennels between sessions often heightened the anxiety they had brought with them. Unfortunately, since the establishment wouldn’t get paid unless the dog followed commands by the time the owner arrived to pick it up, instilling fear between commander and commandee was often the method of last resort. Some dogs would leave in worse psychological shape than they were in when they arrived. I witnessed dogs respond obediently to a trainer’s commands while crouched down, ears back, cowering, tail between the legs—body language that broadcasts loud and clear, “I’m only obeying you because I’m terrified!” I believe that the trainers at this facility were caring professionals, and there was nothing cruel or inhumane going on there. But there was, in my personal observation, a deep-seated misunderstanding of a dog’s basic needs, of what the canine mind truly needs to become balanced. That’s because traditional dog training is based on human psychology. It doesn’t begin to address a dog’s nature.

I stayed at this establishment because I felt I needed to learn the business of dog training. It was, after all, what I’d come all this way to do. But this wasn’t the dream I had imagined. From the moment I arrived there, I sensed that this kind of “training” may have been helpful for the humans, but it was sometimes detrimental for the dogs. Thinking back, it was then that my original “dream” started to take on a new shape. Once again, much of that change happened by accident. Although, I like to believe that it wasn’t accidental at all—it was destiny.

“Cesar’s Way” Is Born

While at this training facility, I once again gained a reputation for being the guy who could handle the most aggressive and most powerful breeds of dogs, such as pit bulls, German shepherds, and Rottweilers. I happen to be crazy about those breeds; their brute strength inspires me. Another kennel boy there was also great with the powerful breeds, but he didn’t want to work with the nervous or anxious ones. I would end up with them—usually the really troubled cases. Instead of yelling at an aggressive or insecure dog like some of the other kennel boys did, I’d approach her silently. No talk, no touch, no eye contact. In fact, when I saw such a dog, I’d open the gate, then turn my back as if I were about to walk off in the other direction. Eventually, since dogs are naturally curious, the dog would come to me. Only after she had approached me would I put the leash on her. At that point it was easy, because I had already established my calm-assertive dominance with her, the way another dog would do with her in nature. Unconsciously, I was beginning to apply the dog psychology I had learned from my years observing dogs on my grandfather’s farm. I was interacting with the dogs the way they interacted with one another. This was the birth of the rehabilitation methods I still use today, although I couldn’t have explained in words what I was doing at the time—neither in English nor in Spanish. Everything I did just came instinctually to me.

Another crucial “accident” that occurred at this training facility was that I began to see the “power of the pack” to rehabilitate an unbalanced dog. One day, I went out into the yard holding two Rottweilers, a shepherd, and a pit bull all at once. I was the only one there who had ever attempted anything like this. Most of the other employees thought I was crazy. In fact, at one point, I was expressly ordered not to work with the dogs in packs; it made management nervous. But from the moment I discovered this method, I saw what an effective tool a pack of dogs could be in helping a dog that had problems. What I discovered was when a new and unstable dog was introduced to a group that had already formed a healthy bond, the pack actually influenced the newcomer to achieve that balanced state of mind. My job was to make sure the interaction between newcomer and existing pack members didn’t get too intense. As long as I monitored and stopped any aggressive, exclusive, or defensive behavior on either side of the encounter, the new dog would eventually adjust its behavior to “fit in” with the others. With humans as with dogs—in fact, with all pack-oriented species—it’s in our genetic best interest to try to fit in, to get along with others of our kind. I was simply exploiting this very natural, genetic drive. By working with dogs in packs, I observed that they could accelerate one another’s healing processes much faster than a human trainer could.

I soon earned a reputation at the facility as a reliable hard worker. But the more I developed my own ideas about dog psychology, the unhappier I became there. I guess I didn’t hide my discontent very well. One client, a successful business owner who was especially thrilled with how I handled his golden retriever, had been watching me for a while and was impressed with both my skills and my work ethic. One day he approached me and said, “You don’t look too happy here. Do you want to come work for me?” I asked him what I would be doing for him, thinking of course that it would have something to do with dogs. I was a little let down when he said, “You’d be washing limousines. I own a fleet of them.”

Wow. Nice offer, but I had come to America to be a dog trainer. Still, he was a very impressive man—the kind of strong, confident businessman I wanted to become someday.

Then he sweetened the pot for me by telling me that as his employee, I would have my own car. I couldn’t afford a car on my own then, and in Los Angeles, that’s practically like not being able to afford legs. It took me a couple of weeks to decide, but finally I agreed. Once again, a guardian angel who didn’t even know me had helped set the stage for the next phase of my journey.

Word of Mouth

My new boss was a tough but evenhanded taskmaster. He showed me the ropes of his business and how to wash his limos—and he was extremely particular about keeping them spotless. It could be arduous, physical work, but I didn’t mind at all because I was—and still am—a perfectionist myself. If I was going to be a car washer, I was going to be the best car washer there ever was. I credit this man for teaching me so much about the way a solid, profitable business should be run.

The day I picked up the new car he lent me is a day I’ll never forget. Yes, it was only a car—make that a white ’88 Chevy Astrovan, and, no, I didn’t have the pink slip—but for me, it symbolized the first time I truly felt I had “made it” in America. That was also the day I started my own “training business” for dogs, the Pacific Point Canine Academy. All I had was a logo, a jacket, and some hastily run off business cards, but most important, I had a clear vision of what I wanted to become. My dream was no longer to be the world’s best trainer for movie dogs. Now I wanted to help more dogs like the hundreds of troubled animals I’d met since coming to America. I felt that my unique upbringing and innate knowledge of dog psychology could provide both the dogs and their owners a chance for better relationships and new hope for the future. It distressed me greatly that so many of these “bad” dogs who had “failed” at regular training facilities were doomed to be euthanized if their owners decided they “couldn’t handle them” anymore. I knew in my heart that these dogs deserved to live as much as I deserved to live. My optimism about the future came from a deep-seated belief that there were many dogs in America who truly needed my help. Thanks again to the generosity of my new employer, my vision began to take shape more quickly than I could ever have imagined.

Word of mouth is an amazing thing. Even in a city as large and diverse as Los Angeles, the newest hot gossip item or tip can spread like wildfire. Fortunately for me, my new boss knew a lot of people, and he was never shy about praising my abilities. He’d call up his friends and say, “I’ve got this great Mexican guy who’s amazing with dogs. Just bring ’em over.” His friends started to bring their problem dogs. They’d be happy with the results. Then they’d tell their friends. Eventually, my Pacific Point Canine Academy had seven Dobermans and two Rottweilers with whom I would run up and down the streets of Inglewood, a small city in Los Angeles County. (That must have been quite a sight.)

After that, my fledgling business began to explode.

What was I doing that impressed people so much? How, after only a few years in America, did I already have a thriving business, without having placed a single advertisement? After all, there are hundreds of dog trainers and licensed behaviorists in Southern California, and I’m sure many of them are exceptional at what they do. You may ultimately decide that one of them may be a more appropriate expert than I am for what you want out of your relationship with your dog. I can only speak for my clients, and to them, I was just known as “that Mexican guy who has a magical way with dogs.” The hallmarks of my technique consisted of energy, body language, and when needed, a quick, physical touch with a cupped hand, which is never painful to the dog but approximates the sensation of a dominant dog’s or a mother dog’s disciplinary “soft bite.” I never yelled, never hit, and never “punished” animals out of anger. I simply corrected, the same way a natural pack leader will correct and educate a follower. Correct and then move on. There is nothing new in the techniques I was developing—they came directly from my observations of nature. I’m not saying there were no other trainers in America experimenting with these same methods. But the methods seemed to fulfill a desperate need among my clients in Los Angeles, and so they kept on coming.

One day, in 1994, I was at a client’s house working with his troubled Rottweiler, Kanji. Kanji had been making great progress, and her owner, who was well connected in the entertainment business, had been talking me up all over town. I looked outside as a brown Nissan 300C pulled up the drive and a stunningly gorgeous woman got out of it and sauntered confidently toward me. I looked at her, trying to remember where I had seen her before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Walking next to her—not so confidently—was a hesitant, shy Rottweiler. (Saki, it turned out was one of Kanji’s pups.)

The woman asked me if I could train her dog, and three weeks later, I went to her house. And who should answer the door there but actor Will Smith. I was nearly speechless. Now I remembered where I’d seen that woman before—in the movie A Low Down Dirty Shame. My client was Jada Pinkett Smith!

Okay, let’s get this straight: I’m in America for only three or four years, I now have my own successful business, and today I’m working with Jada Pinkett and Will Smith’s dog?

Jada and Will explained that Jay Leno had just given them two new Rottweilers, and those dogs needed some work, as did Saki. This was an understatement—the dogs were a mess. Fortunately, Jada was one of those rare, special people who “got” my techniques and philosophies right away. She is an ideal dog owner—all she wants is what is best for her animals, and she will go to any length to ensure that they are happy and fulfilled.

That day was the beginning of an eleven-year friendship that continues today. Jada and Will recommended me to their friends in the “Hollywood elite,” including Ridley Scott, Michael Bay, Barry Josephson, and Vin Diesel. But those aren’t, by far, the most valuable gifts Jada has given me. She took me under her wing. She hired a teacher for me, for an entire year, to work intensively with me on my English. Most of all, she believed in me. Becoming known for what I do has always been my dream, but every great gift comes with a price. My life has become much more complicated now, with new quandaries such as whom to trust and whom to watch out for; which contracts are good and which should go in the shredder—things you don’t learn on the farm in Ixpalino, Mexico. When I have questions that stump me, I know I can count on Jada. She’s not only one of the most generous people I’ve ever met, she’s also one of the smartest. I’ll ask her, “Jada, what’s going on? What do I do now?” And she’ll just kick in and start soothing me: “Okay, Cesar, it’s like this…” I always feel I have someone who knows a lot more than I do about playing in the big leagues, and who’s always been willing to take a moment out of her incredibly busy life to lend me a hand. Jada has been more than my client. She’s been my mentor, my sister, and another one of my precious guardian angels.

Also thanks to Jada, I made leaps and bounds in my English. I became more excited about my new, crystal-clear mission—as I put it, “to rehabilitate dogs and to train people.” I began a program of self-education, reading everything I could get my hands on about dog psychology and animal behavior. Two books that most influenced me and reassured me about what I knew instinctively were Dr. Bruce Fogle’s The Dog’s Mind, and Dog Psychology, by Leon F. Whitney, DVM. I took in a great deal of wisdom from these and other books (some of which are listed in the “Recommendations for Further Reading,” at the end of this book), and I also made sure to integrate that information into what I had learned from experience. In my opinion and observation, Mother Nature is the world’s greatest teacher. But I was learning to think critically in a way I hadn’t before, and more important, I was finding ways to articulate the things I intuitively understood. And finally, I was actually able to express those new ideas clearly, and in English.

By this time, I had met my future wife, Ilusion, who was only sixteen when we started dating. When a friend of mine told me that in the United States there was a law against an older guy dating a girl that young, I flipped out. I was terrified of being deported, and I dumped her flat. She was heartbroken. Convinced that I was “the one,” she came knocking on my door the day she turned eighteen. We had a rocky relationship during the first years of marriage, and after our son Andre was born. I was still stuck in my old-world, macho Mexican ways. I believed that the only thing that mattered was me—my dream, my career—and she’d better put up or shut up. She did neither. She left me. Once she was gone and I realized she meant it, I had to look myself in the mirror for the first time in my life. I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to see her remarry—and watch another man raise our son. Ilusion would come back to me on only two conditions—that we go to couples therapy and that I sincerely commit to being a full partner in the relationship. Reluctantly, I agreed. I didn’t think I had that much to learn. I was wrong. Ilusion rehabilitated me in the same way I rehabilitate unbalanced dogs. She made me see what a gift a strong partner and family is, and that every member of a family needs to pull his or her own weight. Today, I consider Ilusion, Andre, and Calvin to be my greatest blessings on earth.

While I struggled to become a better partner in my marriage, I had more business than I could handle, thanks to people like my limo-rental boss and clients like Jada. Rescue organizations had started calling me to help them save their “last chance” cases from being put down, and suddenly I found myself with a pack of newly rehabilitated but orphaned dogs. I needed more space, so I rented a rundown piece of property in the warehouse district of South Los Angeles. Ilusion and I renovated it and made it into the Dog Psychology Center, sort of a permanent halfway house or “group therapy” drop-in station for dogs. Through it all, I kept working to find ways to explain my methods and philosophies to the average dog owner.

Americans and Dogs: Humans Who Love Too Much

When I was a boy in Mexico watching the Lassie and Rin Tin Tin shows, I was always entertained by those superstar dogs’ adventures, but I thought that of course everyone else watching also realized that these shows were just Hollywood fantasies! When Lassie barked four times, and Timmy said, “What’s that, Lassie? Fire? The house…no, the barn is on fire? Thanks, girl, let’s go!” I knew—and assumed everyone else knew—that real dogs don’t act like that. When I came to America, I was shocked to discover that many dog owners unconsciously believed that Lassie really did understand what Timmy was saying! I learned that here, the general perception of dogs was that they were all like Lassie—basically, humans in dog suits. It took me a while to process this, but once I’d been here a while, I saw that most pet owners did, on some level, believe that their animals—be they dogs, cats, birds, or goldfish—were indeed human in everything but the outfit. And they treated them accordingly.

After I’d been in the United States for about five years, it finally hit me—that was the problem! America’s dogs were so troubled because their owners thought they were human. They weren’t allowed to be animals! In the land of the free—where everyone is supposed to be able to reach his or her limitless potential—these dogs were doing anything but! Certainly, they were being pampered—they had the best food, the best homes, the best grooming, and large helpings of love. But that wasn’t all they wanted. They simply wanted to be dogs!

I thought back to what I had learned in Mexico, where I spent countless hours watching the best dog trainers on earth—the dogs themselves. Thinking back to my natural relationship with them, I began to see how I could help dogs in the United States become happier, healthier creatures—and help their owners, too. My method is not brain surgery. I didn’t create it: Mother Nature did. My fulfillment formula is simple: for a balanced, healthy dog, a human must share exercise, discipline, and affection, in that order! The order is vital, and I’ll explain more about that later on.

Unfortunately, most American dog owners I meet don’t get the fulfillment order right. They put affection as number one. In fact, many owners give their dogs nothing but affection, affection, affection! Of course, I know they mean well. But their good intentions can actually cause damage to dogs. I call these owners “humans who love too much.”

You may be reading this and thinking, “I give my dog tons of affection because she’s my baby! And she’s fine! I have no behavioral problems with her.” Indeed, you may well have a dog that has a naturally passive, happy-go-lucky disposition, and you may never have a single problem with her. You may shower her with an excess of love, and get nothing but that wondrous, unconditional dog love in return. You may consider yourself the luckiest dog owner in the world, with the world’s most perfect dog. Thanks to your dog, you’re happy, and your life is fulfilled. And I’m happy for you. But, please, open your mind to the possibility that your dog may be missing some of the things she needs in her life to be happy and fulfilled as a dog. At the very least, I hope this book helps make you more aware of your dog’s very species-specificneeds, and inspires you to find creative ways to help provide for them.

What I’m about to share is the truth of my life experiences. These are the things I have personally learned and experienced and observed, working with thousands of dogs for well over twenty years. I do believe from the deepest place in my heart that it is my mission to help dogs, and to spend my life learning everything they have to teach me. I see my career among dogs as an eternal education. I am the student, and they are my teachers. Let them help teach you what they’ve taught me. They’ve helped me to understand that what dogs really need isn’t always what we want to give them.

Cesar Millan with Melissa Jo Peltier.