Training a Doberman and the Power of Perseverance

The first time I was shown a photo of my dog, at three months old, it was love at first sight. He was a beautiful caramel brown with four white socks and big blue eyes. His mother, an albino Doberman, was valued at something like $10,000 for being purebred import. She was found running the streets of Miami - a city known for breed restrictions, loose morals, and rampant animal abuse. She was so emaciated that when the owner of the rescue, a retired Veteran who dedicated his land and his life to saving the breed, put her in the back of his van - she immediately gave birth to nine puppies.

Only three of them survived, and my dog, who I would come to name Cooper, was one of them.

His brother and sister had already been adopted out to a man with a younger kid who was going through a divorce, and the woman I had met while working for the CEO (who I admired at the time) had a pack of six Dobermans that I had grown to love. That is, after I overcame the hurdle of being intimidated by their size and athleticism.

"It's like having a pony, but in your house," she said with a grin one evening over what had become common meals at her Loxahatchee farm. Grilled steak and vegetables, that's what we ate. When she showed me the picture and told me his story between bites, even suggesting I name him "Simba" (because of his markings and the fact that he was clearly an Alpha, and is a name he still responds to 😉), I knew I had to have him.

Looking back now, I will admit: I had no idea what I was signing myself up for. But with animals, you rarely do.

I began my Doberman parenting doing all the wrong things. I knew little about dog training beyond "sit, stay" and I barely had the time or energy. I was working six days a week, ten hours a day at the barn and moonlighting as a freelance writer for multiple equestrian publications after hours. All while still struggling to make ends meet. I'd say I was averaging 80 hours of work a week, 60 of those hours being hard labor in the form of mucking, riding, or doing arduous barn chores.

On any given day, my Garmin watch would clock me at 14 miles of walking - not including the 8 horses I rode.

Because I had so little funds, which meant no money to pay for help and no family around to help, Cooper tagged along with me almost everywhere I went. And, consequently, he picked up bad behaviors from my lack of education and my inability to devote the time he needed to be trained properly.

It wasn't a problem in his early years - when he was still small and unable to do much harm. But as he got older, bigger, and stronger, his aggression and unpredictable behavior became serious problems.

I'll never forget the day I stupidly let Cooper enter the barn early in the morning off leash, like I usually did, not knowing that there was a rider already in the arena for an out-of-the-ordinary early morning lesson with Paul. Cooper had a way of seeing something he wanted to chase, looking back at me - as if to say "watch this" with his silly grin - and then booking it faster than most horses could run. As soon as he took off, I chased after him, knowing this was not going to end well.

In just a few seconds, he zoomed from the barn to right behind the horses back feet - barking, terrorizing, and herding the horse. Paul yelled. The rider panicked. And the chase ensued for a good minute or two before I was able to catch him by hurdling my entire body in the air and tackling him to the ground like a football player. I almost lost my job that day, but I was lucky that the rider was forgiving and so was Paul, but I'm not so sure they would have been forgiving had it ended differently.

"You cannot let that dog chase horses like that. Did you know that horse broke that woman's back once already?" he later scolded me, out of earshot.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again," I said, mad at myself and feeling entirely incapable of handling this creature that I had grown to love.

Is this what it feels like to have a teenager?

When I moved to a smaller, quieter operation out in Loxahatchee, I decided it was time to hire a professional trainer. Though I didn't really have the money or the time, I knew that if I didn't act soon, I was going to find myself with an aggressive 90-pound Doberman that no one would be able to handle. Those are the kinds of dogs that get put down. And I refused to accept that fate for my little survivor.

The woman met me at the barn that, at the time, only had one horse and no clients. We had a few fenced acres to train in, though Cooper had already shown me that horse fences were no problem for him to duck under, in-between, and once in a while - even jump over.

That's the problem with athletic, smart dogs like Dobermans - they have a will and they have a way.

After our first forty minute session, the woman looked me in the eye, took a deep breath, and said, "I think you need to seriously ask yourself this question: Is this the right dog for me? You need to consider giving him up." Her tone was void of emotional detachment.

She was serious.

I was dumbfounded, and I could not hide my absolute disdain for even the suggestion that I should give up Cooper. My confidant. My ride-or-die. The only soul on this earth that hadn't let me down.

Sure, he was, at the time, a 35-pound nightmare with sharp teeth. He was capable of clearing four foot fences, running faster than many of the Warmbloods he chased, and even opening doors that weren't locked - but he was my nightmare. I felt a sense of duty and responsibility. I adopted this animal, for better or for worse.

I created the monster. He was my monster, and I wasn't just going to give up on him that easily.

"I think we're done here. You're fired," I said plainly, turned on my heel, and walked back to the barn with Cooper by my side. He looked at me with his big crocodile grin. I waited until she left to break down in tears.

I was broke, alone, and stuck with a dog I didn't know how to handle.

Life felt...hopeless.

Fast forward a few months later, and my fashion boutique friend recommended that I meet with a man named John. She said he had saved her friend's pitbull from having to be euthanized due to a similar situation. I told him that I had no money, but he agreed to meet with me anyways.

Even though John liked nice things, John was the kind of guy that did it for the love of the dogs.

John met me at a barn in Palm Beach Point, where I was taking care of a handful of horses for a spoiled rotten twenty-something whose father was funding her building her very own custom multi-million dollar estate.

Despite being insanely wealthy, every pay day - without fail - the girl would try to stiff me. Luckily, since John had helped her train her dog, she was willing to let him come to train Cooper here instead of at my tiny shoebox apartment.

For that, I am thankful.

The day that John took the leash and put a pinch collar on Cooper was a day I'll never forget. It was fittingly stormy and Cooper was not having it. John didn't believe in treat training because he said treat training doesn't train dogs to the same caliber. John was a guy who had been around the block - training New York City Police dogs and most of Georgina Bloomberg's dogs. He was the kind of trainer that was way out of my price range, yet willing to work with me anyways. He had a side of the business where he did charity work for various Veteran organizations and high profile dog rescues.

He had a soft spot for lost causes like me - mostly for the good of the dogs. He was a good human.

I saw a side of Cooper that day I knew all too well, but amplified to a new level. I didn't understand it at the time, but what I watched unfold was a challenging of the Alpha.

Cooper snapped, growled lunged while John ducked, dove, disciplined and corrected. It was like watching a UFC cage match that lasted for a solid twenty minutes.

But then, something suddenly changed in Cooper. He stopped fighting, and he started listening. And from that moment on, he was a totally different animal.

John would later explain to me, "You have to be the Alpha. Period. No question. These dogs are smart, they are bred to challenge humans, to smell fear, and to exploit it. You have to be calm, in charge, and in control. At all times. No excuses," he told me.

That first day, I could tell he was concerned at the level of aggression he saw.

"You have to do something about this dog. You are running out of time. If you let him continue down this path, you're going to have to put him down," he said, matter of factly with a shrug as Cooper sat, to my surprise, obediently by his side, panting and grinning. 20 minutes with John and my dog had already transformed.

"Okay. I know that. It's just...I really don't have money to pay you," I said, meeting his directness with my candor.

It's one thing to know what you have to do, but it's a whole other thing to have the means to do it.

"Tell you what, I have a group of guys that come to my place to train. You can join them. I'm not going to lie, it's going to be a lot of work, but if you're willing to put in the time, I'm willing to help you," he said, matter-of-factly.

We embarked on our journey of what I now refer to as our "doggie bootcamp". Five days a week, for roughly hour, I would meet up with a handful of Veterans paired with their own rescue dogs, and drill the basics of sit, down, stay.

Doggie bootcamp changed my life.

"This guy that you'll meet today, he didn't used to get out of bed. He'd literally go days without getting up. The VA tried a lot of things that didn't work for him, so they came to me and asked me to pair him with a dog. His dog is the reason he gets out of bed in the morning. And, he's lost 30 pounds, which has helped him avoid some serious health issues he was facing. I'm telling you, these animals work miracles," he said as the man pulled up in an old pickup truck.

The Veterans I worked with all suffered from PTSD after retiring from serving our country. Though I didn't even know it at the time, John recognized that I was also suffering from PTSD, though mine was one of a different kind, not from the battlefield.

John knew how to recognize damaged people, yet he treated them like they weren't damaged - which is exactly what trauma survivors need. He refused to hear excuses - instead, he demanded discipline and results. He found a way to channel my focus, my discipline, and my energy into training my dog instead of other negative habits.

He helped me re-learn how to be me - but better. And the results were nothing short of remarkable.

John helped me turn Cooper into my own reason to get out of bed in the morning - and to this day, it is the thing I am most thankful for each and every day when I wake up by his side.

Cooper has been the light on my darkest days.

Cooper and I worked with John for a handful of months.

He went from being leash reactive to cool-as-a-cucumber - waiting in a perfect down-stay for my next command.

He went from breaking free from his leash and running wild to down-staying without being tied while I mucked stalls, healing while I walked to dump the wheelbarrow, and down-staying again while I mucked the next.

Our barn routine went from unruly to regimented; a life full of gray to a life of black and white.

"Dogs need discipline. They need to know right vs wrong. It can't be maybe. It can't be in-between. It's yes or no. Good or bad. That's your job to tell them. If they aren't doing what you ask, either you aren't asking correctly or you aren't being Alpha," he explained.

I loved that John never blamed the dogs. Only the humans.

It was a sentiment I would hear many years later from a client of Bjorn Ikast's while training at the Colorado Horse Park. I watched his rider, on a young inexperienced Warmblood, lose momentum on the way to a four-foot-something jump. The horse completely lost its balance, fell onto it's knees, and the rider stayed on, and stayed calm, while the horse scrambled back to its feet. Completely unphased, she circled, cantered over the fence with ease, and continued her course like nothing happened.

Later in the barn as she was untacking, I approached her and asked, "How do you do that? Just, keep going like nothing happened?"

She smiled kindly and said, "You just always have to remember that it is always your mistake as the rider. Never the horse. You learn and you keep going. Bjorn is really adament about that."

What Cooper and I have in common is that we are both fast learners. I think even John was surprised and impressed by our progress. Not only was I training Cooper during our bootcamp sessions, but I was also squeezing in an extra session - sometimes two - each day. I had never experienced an animal that was so responsive and with a work ethic that didn't seem to stop.

He loved to work, and I welcomed the distraction from having to face my post-traumatic reality head on. The more I challenged him, the better he became. We bonded in a way that many people, to this day, still do not understand.

Cooper will be 7-years-old this year. He is the best dog I have ever had. My experience training Cooper taught me the power of perseverance. Had I listened to the first trainer I hired, I wouldn't have this amazing companion by my side.

I learned that sometimes in life, all you need is that one person to recognize the greatness within you and challenge you to bring it forward.

Many people dismissed me as broken or pitied me, but not John. John saw a girl who was struggling - personally and financially - and gave me an skillset to turn my situation around. A skillset of discipline, repetition, grit and determination. A skillset that I would later use to change careers to something that was far more lucrative. In this modern age, many people overlook the power of skillsets, always trying to find a shortcut.

In life, there are no short cuts. Good things only come to those who hustle.

"I'll tell you what, this is a weird dog. But he is really smart. And you're doing a great job with him. You have come a long way," he said with a smirk. John, like many people in the horse world, almost never gave compliments. From him, this was the best praise I could hope for.

I smiled back in gratitude, without much of a response. Back in those days, I didn't talk much.

Trauma has a tendency to do that to people.

It's people like John that keep this world turning. And I hope to one day help people with problem horses, and help humans with their problems through horses - just like John does with dogs.

For the good of the animals, and for the good of the humans. We're all in this, together.