10/03/2026 - Training
Last week, I fell down the stairs. Not my finest moment, and almost certainly the fault of one of my dogs (I'm looking at you, Dave). I landed on my right-hand side, collected a bruise on every step I hit, and have spent the week shuffling around in quiet agony, dosing myself up on paracetamol and ibuprofen, and trying very hard not to let anyone hug me.
But here's the thing: you wouldn't know. There's no limping, no visible bruising, no cast or crutch to signal to the world that I'm in pain. And yet that pain has completely changed my behaviour. I've been short-tempered with my kids, I've pushed the dogs away when they've tried to climb on me for a cuddle, and I've been walking more carefully, sitting more gingerly, and avoiding anything that might nudge the sore bits.
Now imagine I couldn't tell anyone. Imagine no one saw it happen, and I had no way of explaining why I suddenly didn't want to be touched, why I flinched when someone leaned against me, or why I snapped at someone who got a little too close. People might just assume I was being difficult.
That's exactly the situation our dogs are in.
Dogs injure themselves all the time in ways we simply don't notice. A slip on a kitchen floor, a clumsy collision with another dog in the park, an awkward landing from a jump: all of it entirely invisible to us if we weren't watching at precisely the right moment. And unlike us, they can't reach for the paracetamol, book a chiropractor's appointment, or tell us their side aches.
What they can do is change their behaviour. And that's when we, as dog parents, often get it wrong.
When a dog that was previously friendly starts growling at other dogs, snapping when touched, or avoiding the children they usually adore, the instinctive response is to label it: naughty, difficult, needs training. But what if that dog is in pain? What if they're simply saying, "Please don't touch me there, it hurts"?
My dog Dave is a brilliant example of this. He's never liked his feet being handled, and for a long time it was easy to assume it was just stubbornness. But Dave has arthritis in both front feet. Of course he doesn't want you picking them up. He's not being obstinate, he's asking for a little gentleness.
Here's what I've come to understand: when a dog's behaviour changes, there is always a reason. Our job is to play detective before we play disciplinarian. That means asking: did something happen? Has anything changed? Might they be in discomfort?
And importantly, even once the pain has resolved, the behaviour may linger. Just as I'm flinching when my family reaches out to hug me this week, even though it doesn't hurt as much, dogs can form learned responses to situations that were once painful. Rebuilding trust and positive associations takes time, and it requires us to address both the physical cause and the emotional response.
So the next time your dog does something unexpected, before you reach for the lead or book an emergency training session, pause. Ask why. Consider pain. Consider discomfort. Consider the fact that there may be something going on that no one, not even your vet at a glance, can see.
A dog in pain isn't a naughty dog. They're a dog who needs to be heard.
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