What Does Holistic Actually Mean in Dog Training?

The whole dog, alternative medicine, and why a fancy label doesn't necessarily tell you much.

I've got a problem with the word "holistic".

Not necessarily with the idea behind it. Looking at the whole dog makes perfect sense. It's the word itself that makes me suspicious.

It sits in my head alongside words like "alternative", particularly when they're used to sell something that sounds impressive but is difficult to explain or demonstrate.

There's an old joke about alternative medicine: if it works, why is it alternative medicine? We have a word for treatments that have demonstrated their effectiveness, and you can generally find them in a pharmacy.

That might be a little unfair to some treatments that have a legitimate place alongside conventional medicine. But you get my point.

The label doesn't tell you whether something works.

And the same problem exists in dog training.

Surely looking at the whole dog is just good training?

I'd like to think that when somebody calls themselves a holistic dog trainer, they mean they consider the whole dog.

That would include the dog's health, genetics, breed characteristics, learning history, environment, emotional state, daily routine and relationship with their owner. It means recognising that behaviour doesn't happen in isolation, and that what we see on the surface might not tell us what's happening underneath.

All sensible stuff.

But here's my question: shouldn't a good trainer be doing that already?

Does considering a dog's physical health require a special label? Does understanding body language need a separate philosophy? Should we really be impressed that somebody has considered a dog's history before deciding how to approach its behaviour?

I would hope these things are part of doing the job properly.

A dog isn't a collection of unwanted behaviours that needs to be taken apart and repaired. It's a living animal with a history, physical needs, individual characteristics and an environment that influences what it does.

If we ignore those things, we're likely to misunderstand the behaviour we're trying to change.

That isn't a revolutionary discovery. It's the starting point.

Perhaps I'm missing something. Perhaps there's a secret handbook explaining why ordinary professional competence needs a fashionable name. If there is, mine appears to have been lost in the post.

The problem with energy

I've seen people talk about a dog's "energy" when what I could actually observe was the dog's body language suggesting it was nervous.

Now, I'm not objecting to people noticing that a dog seems uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. Recognising that discomfort is important.

My concern is how we explain what we're seeing.

If a dog is tense, avoiding something, holding its body differently or showing other signs of uncertainty, we have observable behaviour to work with. We can describe what the dog is doing, consider the context and develop a reasonable explanation for what might be happening.

Calling it energy might sound more profound, but does it actually explain anything?

What does energy mean in this context? How would we know whether our interpretation was correct? What would we expect to see if our explanation was wrong?

If we can't answer those questions, have we explained the dog's behaviour, or have we simply given our impression a more impressive name?

There's a difference between observing something and inventing an explanation for it.

And when we're working with animals that can't sit down and tell us whether our interpretation is correct, that difference matters.

I don't need every trainer to use identical terminology. I do want them to be able to explain their reasoning in plain English.

If the explanation makes sense without the fancy language, excellent. If it falls apart when we remove the jargon, perhaps we need to look a little closer.

Are some people selling nonsense?

Let's be honest. Some people use words like "holistic" to make their services sound special, sophisticated or somehow beyond the reach of ordinary scrutiny. To me there's the uncomfortable possibility that some are deliberately selling nonsense, while others genuinely believe what they're saying.

The first group might be con artists the second they might be deluding themselves. I'm not suggesting everyone who uses the word belongs in either category, and I'm certainly not claiming that I can determine someone's competence from their website.

But the distinction matters less to a potential client than we might like to think.

The person deliberately selling nonsense may know they're doing it. The person who genuinely believes their own explanation may be completely sincere. Neither sincerity nor confidence, on its own, establishes that the explanation is correct.

Unfortunately, the average dog owner may have no easy way of telling them apart.

A polished website, professional photographs and a convincing social media presence don't prove that somebody understands canine behaviour. Neither does a collection of testimonials. A happy client might be telling the truth about their experience without necessarily knowing why the approach worked, whether it was appropriate or whether another approach might have been better.

And a trainer who uses scientific language isn't automatically competent either. You can dress up a poor explanation in technical terminology just as easily as you can dress it up in spiritual language.

Being able to sound convincing is not the same as being right.

It's a pity, really. If it were, half the internet would qualify as a university.

But I know a behaviourist who calls themself holistic

This is where the argument becomes a little more complicated.

I know a behaviourist who describes themself as holistic, and their work is grounded in behavioural science.

I have no particular problem with that.

It would be rather hypocritical of me to argue that everybody who uses the word is a fraud when I know someone who uses it to describe an approach I respect.

The word itself doesn't tell me enough to make that judgement.

That's the problem.

Two people can use exactly the same label while doing very different things. One might carefully consider the dog's physical health, behaviour, environment and learning history. Another might rely on vague explanations that cannot be tested or meaningfully evaluated.

Both can put "holistic" in their advertising.

So what exactly has the label told us?

Very little.

I'm not interested in policing which words trainers are allowed to use. I am interested in whether those words accurately describe what they do, and whether they can explain why they do it.

If somebody tells me they're holistic, my next question is simple: what does that actually mean in practice?

And I think that's a reasonable question to ask.

When a dog needs a vet, not a bottle of lavender

I was tagged in a social media post about an aggressive dog. The first thing I said on there was that the owner should get the dog checked by a vet to investigate whether pain or another medical problem might be contributing to the behaviour.

Before we start discussing energy, balance, emotional blockages or whatever the latest fashionable explanation happens to be, perhaps we should check whether the dog is actually hurting.

I know. Not terribly mystical, is it?

There is something rather odd about an industry where somebody can suggest a complicated collection of alternative remedies, supplements and therapies without necessarily investigating whether the dog has a straightforward medical problem.

Imagine the alternative approach.

Give the dog 1 ml of lavender in a litre of water. Take 1 ml of that mixture, add it to another litre, and repeat until you've diluted it to the point where finding the original ingredient becomes something of a detective story.

Then explain that the remedy works on a level conventional science simply doesn't understand.

And if the dog is still aggressive, perhaps its energy needs realigning.

Or perhaps — and I know this is a terribly unexciting possibility — the dog is in pain and needs a veterinary assessment.

To be clear, I'm not saying that every complementary therapy is nonsense, or that everything described as holistic is automatically worthless. I'm saying that confident claims need evidence, and a reassuring label doesn't turn an unsupported claim into a reliable treatment.

Lavender isn't a substitute for investigating pain. Nor is a description of a dog's energy a medical diagnosis.

Pain and other health problems can contribute to changes in behaviour, including defensive or aggressive responses. That doesn't mean every aggressive dog is in pain, or that a vet will always find a medical explanation. It means we should investigate sensible possibilities before deciding we know what's going on.

When I suggested a veterinary check, I wasn't trying to sell the owner a training package. In fact, it might mean training wasn't the first thing they needed to spend money on.

I'd rather an owner spend their money finding out whether their dog needs medical help than pay me to work on behaviour while an underlying problem goes unrecognised.

Looking at the whole dog should mean considering the possibility that the problem isn't primarily a training problem. It shouldn't mean replacing a medical investigation with something that merely sounds holistic.

The dog whisperer problem

I've had clients describe me as a "dog whisperer".

They meant it as a compliment. They'd seen me work with their dog, noticed a change or felt that I'd understood something they were struggling with, and wanted to tell me they'd appreciated it.

I understand that, and I'm grateful for the sentiment.

But I hate the term.

To me, it comes uncomfortably close to the whole Uri Geller era of the 1980s, when apparently mysterious abilities could capture people's imaginations.

I'd rather people understood what I actually do.

I observe behaviour. I consider the circumstances. I draw on experience and knowledge of learning and behaviour. I make decisions, assess the results and adjust when necessary.

I'm not communicating with dogs through some mysterious gift that was bestowed upon me during a particularly memorable full moon.

At least, not knowingly. If that changes, I'll let you know.

The point is that good training shouldn't need to be presented as magic.

If a trainer can explain what they're seeing, why they think it's happening and what they're trying to achieve, that's far more useful than suggesting they possess a special connection with dogs that ordinary people can't understand.

Owners don't need to believe in magic. They need to understand their dogs better and know what they can do to help them.

And if we want owners to become more confident, capable and independent, surely explaining our reasoning is part of the job.

The aim shouldn't be to make the trainer look mysterious or indispensable.

It should be to help the owner understand more than they did before.

What should owners look for instead?

I'd put honesty near the top of the list.

Not the kind of honesty that appears in a marketing slogan, but the practical kind that influences how someone works.

Can the trainer explain their reasoning in plain English?

Can they tell you what they know, what they suspect and what they don't know yet?

Will they consider whether pain or another medical issue might be involved? Will they recognise when a case needs veterinary input or another professional's expertise?

Do they change their approach when something isn't working, or do they insist the dog or owner must be the problem?

Can they explain the limitations of what they're offering, rather than promising a transformation that no responsible professional can guarantee?

And are they willing to admit when they have made a mistake?

Nobody knows everything. I certainly don't. Dog behaviour is complicated, individual dogs are just that, individuals, and there will always be situations where we need more information or another perspective.

I would be much more concerned about a trainer who insists they have all the answers than one who can honestly say, "I'm not sure. Let's investigate that before we decide what to do."

That isn't weakness. It's recognising the limits of your knowledge.

I'd also want owners to understand that no label can replace looking at what a trainer actually does.

Someone calling themselves holistic might be excellent. Someone calling themselves science-based might be excellent too. Equally, neither label guarantees competence, honesty or good judgement.

Look beyond the wording.

Ask questions. Listen to the answers. Pay attention to whether the explanations make sense and whether the trainer is prepared to discuss uncertainty.

A good professional should be able to explain their approach without making you feel stupid for asking.

So, am I against holistic dog training?

Not necessarily.

If by holistic you mean considering the whole dog rather than treating behaviour as an isolated problem, I agree with the principle.

I just don't think the word tells us enough.

It can describe thoughtful, evidence-informed work. It can also be used as a marketing term that makes ordinary good practice sound exclusive, or to give unsupported explanations an air of authority.

The difficulty is that the public sees the same word attached to all of it.

And that leaves owners trying to make decisions about their dogs based on information that might tell them very little about the person they're considering hiring.

Perhaps I'm too cynical. It wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of that, and I suspect it won't be the last.

But I'd rather be a little sceptical about a label than accept it as proof of competence.

Don't tell me you're holistic. Show me what that means when you work with a dog.

Explain what you're observing. Tell me why you think it's happening. Be honest about what you know and what you don't. Consider the dog's health, history, environment and individual needs. Be prepared to change your mind when the evidence points somewhere else.

And if you can't help, say so.

You don't need a special label to do those things.

You need to be a competent, thoughtful and honest professional.

Which, as far as I'm concerned, should be the whole point.