Nobody’s Dog is Perfect (Not Even Mine)

The Whippet Who Sings

I’m Linda. I’m a dog trainer. And for a long time, I was quietly terrified that someone would see my dog and judge me.

My whippet, Logi, is a sweet, sensitive boy with a slightly operatic view of the world. He sings. Not in the cute, “howl-along-to-music” kind of way—no, he lets out full-blown emotional arias whenever he sees people or dogs he’s excited (or unsure) about.

To some, it looked like he was being aggressive. People would frown. Cross the road. And I’d feel that creeping flush of embarrassment. "You’re a trainer—shouldn’t your dog be better behaved?"

So, I started avoiding people. I walked at quiet times. I kept my head down. And I didn’t explain. I just silently carried the weight of that pressure to have the perfect dog… because I thought that’s what being a professional meant.

When You're a Trainer With a Real Dog

I’ve heard other trainers say, “I don’t have time to train my own dogs.” And I used to nod along. But now I think what we often mean is: I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to face the reality that my dog isn’t perfect either. Because it hurts. Especially when you care deeply and know how things “should” look.

But here’s the truth: nobody’s dog is perfect.

Trainers' dogs bark. They pull. They forget things. They “sing.”

And that doesn’t make us failures. It makes us human. It makes our dogs... dogs.

The Turning Point

The shift for me came not from fixing Logi, but from understanding him.

I watched him at work one day—he helps temperament test dogs at our daycare—and I saw the same dog who sings on walks calmly navigating a room full of dogs with nuance and grace. He wasn’t broken. He didn’t need “fixing.” He was just being himself.

And I realised: my job isn’t to force him into someone else’s version of good behaviour. My job is to listen, understand, and guide him through the world in a way that works for both of us.

The Myth of the Angel Dog

So many of the people I work with come to me because they feel like their dog is “bad.”

But usually, the dog isn’t bad—they’re just being a dog. A breed-typical, emotionally honest, sometimes inconvenient animal. And we, as humans, have been sold this dream of the perfectly polite, always-placid companion who never embarrasses us. We want them to be “good” without really defining what “good” means for that individual dog.

Often, people don’t actually like the traits of the breed they’ve chosen. They’re surprised the terrier chases. The herding dog nips. The scent hound wanders. But these behaviours aren’t flaws—they’re features.

Part of training is learning to live with the dog you have, not the one you imagined on Instagram.

Sandwich Training and Other Small Wins

I’ll be honest: I don’t run hour-long training sessions with my dogs every day. I’d love to say I do, but I don’t. And that’s okay.

Instead, we do what I like to call “Sandwich Training.” When I’m making lunch, the dogs get to work for the scrappy edges of ham that don’t fit in the bread. Sit, wait, leave it—reward. That’s real-life reinforcement. It’s training that fits around the reality of a busy day.

Small bits of consistency matter more than perfection. Five minutes here, a little focus there—it adds up. And it keeps the relationship ticking over in a way that’s sustainable, kind, and effective.

Letting Go of Perfect

So here’s my message to you: stop trying to make your dog perfect.

Start building a dog who understands the rules of your life together. Start appreciating their quirks, their weirdness, their inconvenient enthusiasm. Start noticing the little wins.

Progress isn’t linear. It’s not always pretty. But it’s always worth it.

And if your dog sings? Maybe they’ve just got something important to say.

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I’d love to hear from you—what’s the “imperfect” thing your dog does that used to frustrate you… but now just makes them them?

Share your stories in the comments on my Facebook post. Let’s celebrate the real dogs—the ones who teach us patience, make us laugh, and remind us that perfection was never the point.