When Happy was a puppy, life felt easy.

He learned his name on day one. He slept well. He ate well. He never made a mess in the house. Although his little puppy teeth were like razor blades for a few months, none of it was a big deal. He was an old soul in a young puppy’s body from the get-go. He was such a little charmer.

He even had girlfriends. Yes, plural.

Playdates with tiny fluffy ladies who would come over, wrestle around the living room, drink water from the same bowl, and then go home. After they left, Happy would curl up in his bed with the saddest little smushy face like a Victorian poet mourning lost love.

So, I decided he needed a companion. A sister. A girlfriend. A little female pup that he would have around all the time. Enter Joy. Same breed. Came from the same place. And personality-wise… complete opposite. I’m talking literally (and figuratively) black and white.

Where Happy floated through life like a tiny Zen master, Joy arrived like a firecracker with legs. Jumping, barking, bouncing, launching herself through the house like gravity barely applied to her. We used to laugh and call her Jumpin’ Joy Jones, because wow, could that pup jump. I’m six feet tall, and when I walked through the door, she would spring up so high her paws landed on my butt in greeting. If someone new came into the house, she exploded into a chorus of high-pitched barking and joyful chaos.

At six months old, she also discovered the kitchen stools. Those stools became a ladder to the island counter, which became a buffet of opportunity. Up she climbed, snack acquired, and down she jumped again before chewing enthusiastically on the wooden legs of the stools themselves.

Jumping. Barking. Chewing. Counter surfing. At the time, I wanted all of it to stop. So I hired a professional trainer. And when I learned that this trainer had studied in California with a certain famous television trainer I thought was practically magical, I felt excited. Relieved, even. Finally. Someone who could fix my dog.

The trainer arrived calm and neutral. I opened the door thinking, this is going to be great.

Then the instructions started. The leash went over the nose, wrapped around the head, and when the dogs moved, I pulled upward until their back end hit the floor. This is how I was to train them to sit.

Before eating, they had to sit completely still. No wagging. No excitement. No tail movement. Completely still. Joy’s first meal under that rule took forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes before a six-month-old puppy finally froze long enough to earn permission to eat.

For jumping, I received another instruction. When Joy jumped up on me, I was to knee her in the chest. I remember saying, “But the floors are really hard, and she’s tiny.” The trainer replied calmly, “She’ll only do it once. She’ll learn.”

There were more rules. More corrections. More ways to force compliance. More ways to control both dogs. And I followed them. Because this person was a professional. Because I believed they knew better than I did. Because I trusted that because this person studied with a person who I believed (at the time) "made" dogs behave, I thought surely they must know the best way to stop these behaviours. Because I loved my dogs.

After the program ended, something in my chest felt heavy. I started watching Joy differently. And I realized something that made my stomach hurt. I had stopped behaviours. I had also stopped trust.

Joy turned ten this past October. She adores me. She follows me from room to room. At night she curls beside me like a tiny heartbeat with fur. She also still barks when people arrive. She still needs me to scoop her up and hold her for a moment so she can settle against me and let her nervous system catch up to the situation.

And every time I bend down to pick her up, there is the smallest little pause. A tiny head shift away from me. A flicker of her eyes. A slight cower from my hand. Ten years later. A moment that lasts less than a second. But it tells a story about a learning period when she discovered that hands could hurt.

Here’s the thing I want you to know. Every single person I have ever worked with loves their dog. Every one of them. People hire trainers, ask questions online, call their vet, talk to groomers, and listen carefully because they care deeply and want life to feel better for everyone in the house.

So, when a professional tells you what you are “supposed to do” or what you “should do”, it makes sense that you would try it. I did. Most of the time those instructions come with one goal: stop the behaviour. Stop the barking. Stop the jumping. Stop the chewing. Stop the chaos.

But when we pause for a second and look at behaviour through a different lens, something interesting happens. Joy was a puppy. Puppies chew. She was a tiny toy breed built through hundreds of years of breeding to live closely with humans. Of course, she exploded with excitement when her person walked through the door. Of course she jumped. Humans are enormous compared to a five-pound dog. Jumping brought her closer to the smells, the faces, the connection she craved.

Of course, she counter surfed. Food plus curiosity plus a convenient stool ladder equals a very logical puppy project. None of those behaviours existed to ruin my day. They existed because Joy was being exactly what she was built and wired to be: a dog trying to meet her needs in a human world.

When we focus on stopping behaviour, we miss the information the behaviour is offering. When we understand the need behind behaviour, change becomes much easier.

Instead of asking, “How do I stop this?”, a more useful question becomes, “What need is this behaviour trying to meet?” Then we help the dog meet that need in a way that works for both species living in the house.

The Behaviour Question

The next time your dog does something that makes you sigh dramatically and look toward the ceiling, pause and ask three quick questions.

1. What need might this behaviour be serving?​
Connection, curiosity, chewing, movement, exploration, safety.

2. What makes this behaviour make sense for this dog?​
Their genetics. Their breed history. Their age. Their learning experiences.

3. How can I help them meet that need in a way that works in this house?

For example:

Jumping often comes from excitement and connection. Teaching a greeting ritual gives the dog a way to express that joy while keeping human bodies comfortable.

Counter surfing usually comes from curiosity and food access. Environmental management and scavenging games satisfy the same instinct safely.

Chewing furniture often reflects teething or sensory exploration. Appropriate chew outlets allow that need to land somewhere better than your dining room chairs.

Behaviour always carries information. When we listen to that information, life with dogs becomes a lot more collaborative.

Moment with MJ

Joy sleeps beside me every night. She follows me around the house like a tiny shadow and climbs into my lap whenever I sit down, completely convinced that my body exists primarily as a heating pad for small dogs.

And still, when I bend down to pick her up, there’s that tiny pause. A fraction of a second where she shrinks a bit. Then she melts into my arms. Every time it happens, it reminds me of something I carry into every session with a client now.

Dogs remember how they FEEL based on our behaviour. What we teach our dogs can last a lifetime. They also remember how safe we help the world feel afterward. Joy still chooses me. And that choice means everything.

Thanks for reading, my friend, I appreciate you and everything you do! And remember...
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Let them do doggie things!!!