Do You Feel Emotionally Reliant on Your Dog?

One of the questions on my intake form asks:

"Do you feel emotionally reliant on your dog?"

If you've ever become a client of mine, you've probably seen it.

It's a question that tends to make people pause.

Some people laugh.

Some people immediately answer "yes."

Others answer "no" and then spend the next twenty minutes overexplaining and tripping over their rationale while eventually coming to the conclusion that yes, they are in fact, just a little reliant.

The truth is, it's a very telling question.

It's also one that I'm not above.

This week reminded me of that.

I brought Knox out for a lesson to use as a demo dog.

On the way out to the training room, I noticed he was holding one of his front legs up. He was limping a little and seemed uncomfortable. At first, I brushed it off. He had just gotten off the couch seconds before, so maybe he was stiff (though that isn't a common occurrence for him). Dogs tweak things sometimes.

But the next morning he was still doing it.

This now had my full attention.

I called the vet. They couldn't get me in for a traditional appointment, but they could do a drop-off. I agreed immediately because, obviously, I wanted him seen as soon as possible.

Then I spent the rest of the day absolutely MISERABLE.

Not because I doubted the veterinary team.

Not because I thought he'd be mistreated.

But because Knox wasn't here. And, to be fair, he was clearly uncomfortable to some degree, so I was also spiraling about what could possibly be wrong (I also still have residual distress from his big fall, but that’s a story for another time).

My brain did what anxious brains do.

I started wondering what could be wrong.

Then wondering what could really be wrong.

Then wondering what life would look like without him.

That rabbit hole is a terrible place to visit (IYKYK).

Nothing had happened.

There was no diagnosis.

No bad news.

Just my imagination sprinting ahead of reality.

And yet my entire day revolved around him.

The funny thing is that I ask clients this question because it matters.

People often cry when they drop their dogs off for board and train.

Some struggle with their first Ranch Day.

Some worry all day long while their dog is here.

I understand that.

Maybe more than I sometimes let on.

The reason I ask that question isn't because I expect you not to struggle with leaving your dog. If your dog is important to you, I would expect some level of discomfort. In many ways, that's completely normal.

What I want to know is whether that discomfort is going to prevent you from doing what's best for your dog.

Because sometimes the things that help our dogs the most are also the things that are hardest for us.

Sometimes that means sending them to training.

Sometimes it means allowing them to experience a little frustration instead of immediately rescuing them from it.

Sometimes it means allowing them to spend time away from us and trusting that they'll be okay.

The goal isn't separation for the sake of separation.

The goal is growth.

For them and for us.

The idea of space being beneficial to a relationship isn't unique to dogs, either.

One of my favorite thinkers on relationships is Esther Perel, a psychotherapist who studies intimacy and connection. While she focuses primarily on romantic relationships, I think many of her observations apply surprisingly well to our relationships with our dogs.

She talks about the paradox of intimacy: that healthy relationships require both connection and space.

Love seeks closeness.

But growth requires enough room for each individual to remain an individual.

I think something similar happens with dogs.

When we truly trust them (with the right training), we allow them room to explore, problem-solve, make decisions, and experience the world without us managing every second of it.

Ironically, that space often strengthens the relationship rather than weakens it.

I see it all the time with recall and engagement work.

Knox doesn't come back because he's physically incapable of leaving me.

He comes back because he wants to.

Because we've built a relationship worth returning to.

When we're hiking, he's often far ahead of me (or aside or behind - if you've seen me post his mileage on my Instagram stories, you know his tracking paths look chaotic). I give him freedom because he's earned it, but also because our connection doesn't depend on constant proximity.

The relationship can breathe.

And when relationships are allowed to breathe, both sides have room to grow.

I think that's one of the hardest parts of loving a dog.

Trusting that giving them appropriate independence isn't creating distance between you.

It's creating confidence.

And confidence tends to strengthen relationships, not weaken them.

Most of the time, when clients push through that initial discomfort and do what's best for their dog, both ends of the leash come out stronger for it.

That's why I ask the question.

Not because I'm judging the answer.

And certainly not because I'm above it.

As Knox's little vet adventure reminded me, I'm very much not.

There's another piece to this story that really got me pondering.

When I brought Knox out for the lesson, he wasn't performing the way he normally does.

Knox is a working dog.

His job is to help me teach.

I rely on him during demonstrations.

I ask a lot of him.

More than I would ask from the average pet dog.

That's true of all working dogs.

Service dogs.

Police dogs.

Stock dogs.

Dogs with jobs are held to a different standard.

They have responsibilities.

They're expected to perform.

Most of them genuinely enjoy working. Knox certainly does.

But the downside is that handlers can sometimes become so focused on the work that we miss the fact that the dog may be struggling with something outside of training.

At first, I was still asking Knox to work and putting pressure on him while my brain was processing what was going on.

Then it clicked.

What if he's actually hurt?

What if he's not being defiant?

What if he's telling me something?

So I put him away.

Because sometimes the correct answer isn't asking for more.

Sometimes it's listening.

I think this applies to pet dogs just as much as it applies to working dogs.

When a dog suddenly stops doing something they normally do, when a dog struggles with a behavior they usually know well, when performance changes, motivation changes, or behavior changes - it's worth asking why.

Sometimes the answer is training. Distraction. Stress.

And sometimes the answer is pain.

Good training isn't just about teaching dogs to work through challenges.

It's also about having enough awareness to recognize when asking for more isn't fair.

As for Knox, his X-rays came back without anything dramatic lurking underneath all of my catastrophizing.

He's currently on pain medication and a couple weeks of bed rest while we monitor things and allow his body to heal.

Which is a tremendous relief.

No fractures or broken bones.

No catastrophic diagnosis like a life-threatening illness that my mind concocted.

HOWEVER, the next couple of weeks will still be difficult.

Knox is on pain medication and bed rest, which means no hikes, no training, no adventures, and no freedom to do the things he normally loves.

And honestly, that's hard for me too.

One of my favorite things in the world is watching that dog be a dog.

I love watching him run.

I love watching him explore.

I love watching him use the freedom that he's earned.

So in a strange way, this is another example of what I've been talking about throughout this entire post.

Sometimes doing what's best for your dog doesn't feel good.

Sometimes doing what's best means removing freedom that they've earned.

Sometimes it means saying no to activities they enjoy.

Sometimes it means enduring a couple weeks of boredom, frustration, and disappointment because the alternative could make things worse.

Love isn't always giving our dogs what they want.

Sometimes love is making decisions they won't understand because we're responsible for protecting them.

That's true when we send them to training.

It's true when we hold boundaries.

It's true when we advocate for them.

And it's true when we tell a dog who wants to sprint through a field that, for now, they need to stay home and heal.

The experience reminded me of two things.

First, I am absolutely emotionally reliant on my dog in ways I don't always acknowledge.

Second, our dogs trust us to notice when something isn't right.

Whether they're working dogs or beloved pets, our job isn't just to ask things of them.

Our job is to pay attention.

To advocate for them.

To listen when they tell us something has changed.

Even when they aren't using words.

Especially then.

So I'll leave you with the same question I ask every client:

Do you feel emotionally reliant on your dog?

Not as a judgment.

Not as a trick question.

Just as an invitation to reflect.

What does your relationship with your dog look like?

Where does your dog rely on you?

Where do you rely on your dog?

Are there places where your dog would benefit from a little more independence?

Are there places where you might benefit from a little more trust?

Because healthy relationships require connection.

But they also require enough space for both individuals to grow.

And sometimes the greatest expression of love isn't holding on tighter.

Sometimes it's trusting the relationship enough to loosen your grip.