I'm Not 100% Force-Free — And I Don't Think Anyone Else Is Either
I've been thinking about something I'm seeing more and more in dog training lately.
“I'm 100% force-free.”
“I'm completely positive.”
“I never use force.”
They all sound rather lovely, don't they?
And before anyone gets worried, this isn't me announcing that I've suddenly decided dogs need to be marched around on choke chains while I shout “BECAUSE I SAID SO!”
Far from it.
I actually think we should all be trying to use as little force as reasonably possible when working with dogs.
But I've started wondering whether we've got ourselves into a bit of a linguistic mess.
Because firstly, what exactly do we mean by force?
And secondly, why are we sometimes so determined to pretend we're not using it?
Let's start with “positive”
There's a surprisingly common misunderstanding here.
In dog training, positive doesn't mean nice.
It doesn't mean kind.
It doesn't mean reward-based.
It means adding something.
Positive reinforcement means adding something to increase a behaviour.
Positive punishment means adding something to decrease a behaviour.
Likewise, negative means removing something.
So technically, saying you're a “100% positive trainer” doesn't actually tell me very much about how you train.
I'm assuming what you mean is that you primarily use positive reinforcement and avoid aversive methods.
That's a perfectly reasonable position.
But perhaps we should just say that.
Because otherwise we're using a technical scientific term as though it means “I'm one of the nice trainers.”
Which is a rather useful bit of marketing, isn't it? Who wants to be the negative trainer? Nobody wants that on a business card.
“Come to me! I'm professionally negative!”
It doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
But learning theory doesn't care which word sounds friendliest on your website. The terminology describes what's happening, not whether we're good people.
And that's where I start getting uncomfortable.
“Force-free”
I don't believe anyone can claim to be 100% force-free.
And that includes me.
Not because I think force is a good thing.
I don't.
But because force isn't a moral category. It's a physical one.
If I'm holding a lead and my dog wants to continue walking in the opposite direction, there is force involved.
If I physically block a dog from getting somewhere, that's force.
If I hold onto a collar, that's force.
If you pick a dog up, that's force.
I remember having to restrain Maleficent in the dog-handler equivalent of a half nelson so the vets could do an injection.
That's force.
But don't worry, she got me back.
If a dog reaches the end of a long line, the line applies force.
If equipment physically restricts a dog's movement, that's force too.
No, harnesses don't make your dog pull. They can enable a dog to put more of their body weight into pulling. No one would say their car made them break the speed limit...
...But that's a different rant. And probably a different insurance premium.
A head collar can apply force. So can a slip lead.
If you've got too close to a trigger and your reactive dog is kicking off, you could wave the best food in the world in front of them and it wouldn't necessarily make any difference.
Sometimes you have to physically control the dog.
Force.
I think that's the bit we've got ourselves muddled over.
We've become so concerned about whether something sounds acceptable that we sometimes seem to have forgotten to describe what's actually happening.
Force isn't automatically good or bad
Imagine your dog gets loose and runs towards a busy road.
Your recall fails.
Your dog keeps running.
What do you do?
Personally, I'm going to use force.
I'm going to grab the dog and physically stop it getting into the road.
I'm not going to stand there thinking:
“Unfortunately, I'm a force-free trainer, so I can't interfere with your decision-making process.”
I'm going to risk getting bitten and grab the bloody dog.
When my nieces were small and I was still the cool uncle they wanted to hold my hands when walking down the street, if one of them had stepped towards the road I would have done exactly the same thing.
I wouldn't have stood there worrying that physically stopping them might compromise my ethical credentials as an uncle.
Keeping them alive was the important part.
And this is where I think intention and overall impact matter.
The physical action might be identical, but the context isn't.
For example, stepping into a dog's space to encourage it to back up might be perfectly acceptable for one dog.
The dog backs up, I mark it, reward it and we're all happy.
For another dog, exactly the same action could be frightening or aversive.
Same physical action.
Different dog.
Different experience.
This doesn't mean we can justify anything simply by claiming we had good intentions. A good intention doesn't magically make an unpleasant experience pleasant. Dogs haven't signed a waiver agreeing to our training methods.
It means we need to look at the individual dog, the situation and the consequences of what we do.
So perhaps the question shouldn't simply be:
“Did you use force?”
Perhaps it should be:
“Why did you use it, how much did you use, what effect did it have on the dog, and was there a less intrusive way of achieving the same thing?”
That's a much more useful question.
So what about “management”?
This is where I think things get interesting.
I've lost count of the number of times I've heard a trainer say:
“I don't use force. I use management.”
And the thing is, management is absolutely a legitimate part of dog training.
I use management.
We all do.
Baby gates are management.
Muzzles are management.
Keeping a dog on a long line is management.
Changing the environment is management.
Not allowing a dog to rehearse dangerous behaviour is management.
There is nothing wrong with the word.
What I'm less comfortable with is when management becomes a replacement word for force.
If I'm holding a long line because my dog wants to chase a squirrel and the line stops them, that's management.
But the line has also physically stopped the dog.
There is force involved.
If I'm holding a lead and your dog wants to get to another dog and I prevent them getting there, that's management.
But there is also physical force involved.
We don't need to pretend otherwise.
And I think there's a really important distinction here:
Management describes what we're trying to achieve. Force describes what is physically happening.
They aren't mutually exclusive.
A seatbelt is a safety device.
It is also physically restraining you.
Both statements can be true.
Nobody looks at a seatbelt and announces, “Good news, everyone! This car is now restraint-free!”
We understand that the restraint is part of the safety measure.
So why does acknowledging physical restraint sometimes seem to cause such a problem in dog training?
Management isn't a dirty word. Neither is force. What matters is what we're doing, why we're doing it, and how it affects the dog.
We should be able to talk about those things honestly without pretending one cancels out the other.
Why are trainers using these labels?
This is the bit I'm genuinely curious about.
Why has “force-free” become such an important label?
I suspect there are several reasons.
Firstly, they're nice words.
Force-free sounds good.
Positive sounds good.
Reward-based sounds good.
Who wouldn't want to employ a trainer who tells them they don't hurt, frighten or physically force their dog?
If I were a pet owner who knew very little about dog training, I'd probably be attracted to those words too.
And that's not necessarily a criticism. Good marketing makes complicated things sound simple and appealing.
The problem comes when the appealing label tells you less than you think it does.
Secondly, I suspect training courses have played a role.
There are courses, qualifications and businesses built around particular approaches to dog training.
If a course describes itself as force-free, ethical, positive or science-based, it's hardly surprising that trainers completing those courses start using the same language when they advertise themselves.
The terminology becomes part of the identity.
And once enough people are using it, it starts to become shorthand for “I'm one of the good trainers.”
Which is a very convenient place to be. You get a reassuring label before the client has even asked what you actually do.
But a label can tell you what someone *believes* they do.
It doesn't necessarily tell you what they actually do.
And then there is the more uncomfortable possibility.
I suspect some trainers know perfectly well that the words sound better to clients than a more technically accurate description would.
I'm not saying every trainer who calls themselves force-free is deliberately misleading anyone. Some genuinely believe they are, and others may use the term to describe their overall approach rather than claim that no physical force ever occurs.
But I do think there are trainers who understand that “force-free” is a much more attractive marketing term than explaining exactly how physical pressure, restraint and equipment are being used.
I'm not accusing every trainer with a force-free badge of running a secret torture chamber in the back garden.
I'm asking whether the label sometimes gives clients a more reassuring picture than the reality warrants.
Because if the label is more important than an honest explanation of the methods, we've got a problem.
Not because I think reward-based training is bad.
Quite the opposite.
I think it's because clients deserve honesty.
Tell people what you do. Explain why you do it. Explain the alternatives and the potential consequences.
If your approach stands up to scrutiny, you shouldn't need a magic phrase to protect it from questions.
And then there's anti-pull equipment
Here's another little contradiction that bothers me.
Some trainers will proudly announce “I'm 100% force-free” while recommending equipment specifically designed to change a dog's behaviour by applying pressure or restricting movement.
Now, apparently, it's force-free as long as the trainer doesn't have to apply the pressure themselves.
How convenient.
Personally, I think anti-pull equipment can be a cop-out. Instead of teaching the dog how to walk on a loose lead, we're relying on equipment to make pulling less effective or less comfortable.
And when a trainer who loudly promotes themselves as R+ or force-free recommends it, I think it's fair to ask a question:
Are we actually avoiding force, or have we just outsourced it to a piece of equipment?
I'm not saying every person who uses anti-pull equipment is lazy, or that every situation is identical. But equipment shouldn't get a free pass simply because the human holding the lead has a nice marketing label.
If we're going to talk about minimising force, surely we need to look at what the equipment actually does, not just who's applying it.
Maybe “least intrusive” is a better goal
I'd love to live in a world where I never needed to use force with a dog.
I don't think anyone should be looking for opportunities to use it.
But I don't think pretending we can eliminate it completely helps anyone either.
I'd rather we aimed for least intrusive.
Use the least force necessary.
Use the least restrictive option that keeps everyone safe.
Teach rather than physically manipulate whenever we reasonably can.
Use reinforcement.
Build relationships.
Give dogs choices where possible.
Manage the environment.
And when something goes wrong, deal with what is actually happening rather than worrying about whether the terminology makes us look like the good guys.
Because ultimately, I'm not particularly interested in whether a trainer can put “100% force-free” on their website.
I'd rather know what they actually do.
What equipment do they use?
What happens when the dog doesn't respond as expected?
What happens when management fails?
What happens when the dog is in danger?
And perhaps most importantly:
Are they honest enough to describe it accurately?
I'm not 100% force-free.
I don't think the label itself tells us enough to judge whether someone is a good trainer, either.
I'm trying to use as little force as reasonably possible, teach rather than control whenever I can, and consider the effect my actions have on the dog in front of me.
And when I do use force, I'd rather call it what it is.
Because apparently, in dog training, we can spend hours discussing the ethics of a piece of equipment, the precise definition of a learning quadrant and whether a dog has been sufficiently empowered to make its own choices.
But saying, “Yes, I physically stopped the dog,” can somehow be the controversial bit.
Perhaps we don't need to pretend force doesn't exist to show that we're trying to minimise it.
And perhaps being a good trainer is less about finding the perfect label and more about being honest enough to explain what you actually do.
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