My Dog Trainer Taught Me How to Heal

Written By Julie Matlin

On January 31, 2024, my husband, Dan, died from an opioid overdose. He left me with two teenage children, a seven-year-old dog named Zoe, and a three-year-old monster named Molly. 

To be fair, Molly isn’t really a monster. She’s a good dog, full of love, but highly leash reactive. She was a Covid puppy, so obedience school was out of the question. We did the best we could at the time, but it’s hard to socialize a dog when it’s not allowed near other dogs.

Dan and I were together for over 27 years. We had, what I thought, was a near-perfect marriage. He was a successful CTO, we owned our own house, raised two beautiful children, and we were crazily attracted to each other. I had no clue he was an addict.

Sure, there were moments over the years that made me raise my eyebrows. I had caught him in a couple of lies. There were those handful of times he didn’t make it home until morning. He couldn’t hold on to a dollar to save his life. But spread these things out over the course of a marriage, toss in his ability to masterfully minimize and deflect, and I learned to brush them off. Until March 2023, when he spiralled out of control and I had no choice but to face the facts before me. 

When I asked him to leave, it was for our safety—mine and the kids. I couldn’t risk having him around. He was running with a dangerous crowd. The drugs were making him erratic. But once he was gone, I was scared. How was I going to manage alone? My mental health had long been shaky and I wasn’t convinced I was strong enough to pull this off. He gave us no financial support and I had left the workforce close to a decade ago. But I put on a brave face, got myself a job, and moved forward. 

The only one who seemed to understand how scared I was, how anxious, was Molly. Already a handful on walks, her reactivity spiked tenfold. Every dog, car, bicycle, bus, skateboard, and sometimes even human, set her into a frenzy. Every walk ended in me crying. 

I contacted Sean, a local trainer who came highly recommended. Sean was great, and we met several times. He showed me how to handle her and gave me all the tools I needed to succeed. But as soon as I stopped our lessons, Molly and I backslid in a spectacular way. I didn’t have the emotional or physical capacity to do the hard work. Much like Molly, I was going through my own trauma and I was exhausted. So I stopped walking her, letting her play in the backyard while I tried to give myself some grace and rest. This also backfired, as the less she was walked, the more intense she became.

A year went by and I knew things had to change. Around this time, my friend Stacie started coming in from Ontario on a regular basis to stay with me. She would listen to me ruminate about Dan, helped me pack up all his stuff, and insisted on taking long walks. On one such walk, she watched me trying to handle Molly and said, “This dog needs to be trained.”

“It’s not about training,” I insisted. “She’s reactive. She’s scared. I don’t know how to get her to focus on me instead of everything around her.”

“Get a trainer,” she said.

“I tried that. It worked for a while, but I just can’t follow through. I need someone to break this cycle for me.”

Stacie had an acquaintance who had sent their dog away for training. A few weeks, a few thousand dollars, and they were presented with a changed dog. I laughed at the idea, it was the last thing I could afford. But the more I thought about it, the more the idea appealed to me. It was a lot of money, but it could be life-changing. 

I searched online, remembering Nick, the trainer who helped us with our first dog, Kato, almost thirty years ago. He has a company in Vaudreuil, about 30 minutes from the city, where he offers a board and train program. It meant giving up Molly for three weeks and delaying my retirement for another year to afford it, but once the idea was in my head, I couldn’t let it go. I can buy myself some peace. Didn’t I deserve that? 

I drove up to the kennel for a consultation. I was so confident I’d leave her there that I brought all her food and medication with me. I worried the whole ride up that Molly is such a sweet dog, Nick wouldn’t see the issue. The kennel is remote—not in the middle of the city with a dog on every corner. What if he told me I was crazy and sent me home? 

About five minutes after I brought Molly in, another woman came in to board her dog. Molly went nuts. Barking, straining at the leash, paws skating on the floor, yet Nick got her under control before I could say, “SEE?” For the first time in what felt like forever, I exhaled. 

“Tell me about her,” Nick said. 

I rattled off a long, rambling, barely coherent list of all the mistakes I’d made, all the ways I’d done the dog wrong, and throwing my feelings of guilt and inadequacy in for good measure. Nick let me go for about two minutes, then held up his hand.

“Stop,” he said. “All of that is in the past. All that matters now is what you do moving forward.”

I stopped, blinked, and swallowed hard. 

“I cry easily,” I said, as the tears started. I knew he was talking about the dog, but that simple sentence somehow applied to my entire life. Every red flag I’d ignored with Daniel. Every time I walked on eggshells to avoid upsetting him. Every time I settled for even less than the bare minimum. All of that is in the past. All that matters now is what you do moving forward. 

I left Molly in his care, returned home, and the strangest thing happened. All the tension and stress I’d been feeling evaporated. There were no walks to dread. Zoe and I would go out and have a pleasant stroll through the neighbourhood. I regained my love of spending time outdoors with my dog. It became a pleasure again, rather than a chore. 

Nick kept me updated on a regular basis, sending emails and posting video to his YouTube channel. I was stunned at the progress she was making and how quickly it was happening. Three weeks later, I drove to the kennel with a little apprehension and a lot of hope. 

“You need to ignore her when I bring her out. Watch what I do. What happens in the next few minutes is important.” Nick left me in the waiting area while he went to retrieve Molly. I waited for the moment she’d jump on me and pee all over the floor. She was a dog with big emotions, he’d warned me—something I already knew. But when the came back, even though she was clearly excited beyond measure, he was able to contain her. A simple correction on the leash and she remained by his side. As soon as she sat, I went over and pet her, feeling a rush of love for her that made me realize no matter how difficult she’d been, no matter what the road ahead held, I loved this dog.

We went outside into the frigid December air and he showed me how to handle her. We did drills with me reinforcing her heel, back and forth, in a perfect square, each time giving her the command and implementing small corrections. She fell into place beside me and it was glorious. 

“I know she’s a good dog, I know she wants to please—” I started. He shook his head.

“She doesn’t want to please. That’s not how a dog works. Dogs who do things predictably and reliably find value in the behaviour. That value is either something positive gained or something unpleasant avoided.”

Nick was talking about dogs, but I thought of Daniel. I know I need to stop, he’d said to me at one point. But without the ability to retreat into a drug haze, I can’t face what I’ve done. The drugs rewarded him, allowed him to avoid the difficult feelings. Until they didn’t. His whole life had been about either gaining positive reinforcement or avoiding unpleasant situations. He didn’t know how to handle failure, how to be accountable for his actions. The drugs gave him an out. 

Since his death, I’d been doing everything in my power to show my kids (and myself) that there was a different way. Through therapy, grief groups, EMDR sessions, positive coping mechanisms, I was facing our trauma head on. That’s what Nick was talking about—finding a better way to do things.

I peppered him with questions, asking about her motivation, inventing possible scenarios and, once again, rehashing all the mistakes I’d made in the past.

“Stop,” he said. “Just stop ruminating. You need to get out of your head and just deal with the situation before you.”

I laughed. He was right. In one two-hour transfer lesson, he was showing me in concrete terms what I’d been grappling with in therapy for over a year: stop focusing on the past and deal with the present. It doesn’t matter what happened before. All that matters is how I handle things going forward. 

“I’m here for you,” he said, handing over Molly’s leash. “If you need a refresher, if things start to backslide, just call me. We’ll book another session and work it out.”

I thanked him profusely, looked down at my dog and smiled at her. We’re going to be okay. Both of us.