29/11/2025
Figuring out the Rubix Cube!
When it comes to training dogs, one of the most overlooked pieces of the puzzle is this: before you can unpack the Rubik’s Cube that is your dog, you have to understand the Rubik’s Cube that is you. Successful dog training and truly connected relationships always begin with knowing who you are as an individual — your strengths, your blind spots, your tendencies, your temperament. Your training approach is, in many ways, a reflection of your character.
Some people naturally seek dogs who balance them out. Others instinctively look for dogs who amplify what they already enjoy. Neither is right or wrong. It’s not a judgement — just an honest acknowledgment that who we are shapes what we need and how we train. For some, this means choosing a dog or an approach that fits them so precisely that the pathway is narrow but deeply effective. For others, it means adapting, stretching, or even reinventing themselves to meet the dog they have. Both can lead to success. What matters is knowing yourself well enough to recognise which path is yours.
If you’ve ever brought home a dog—whether a squishy-faced puppy, a rescue with a mysterious past, or a canine tornado disguised as a border collie—you’ll know that the very first question isn’t actually “what should we name them?” or “where will they sleep?” It’s this: how on earth am I going to train this creature?
Depending on who you speak to, you’ll hear wildly different approaches. One of the most common is what I call the hammer-and-mallet approach. You get a dog—full of potential, personality, and possibility—and immediately reach for the metaphorical hammer. Not literally, of course, but you do aim to shape, mould, and tap this raw material into the exact figure you want it to become. The thinking is simple: I have the science. I have the methodology. I have the instruction manual. Therefore, the dog must fit the manual. So you chisel, shape, and adjust until the dog conforms to the training plan.
The problem with this? Dogs are not IKEA furniture. They don’t arrive with pre-drilled holes, neatly labelled parts, and an Allen key. Many simply won’t fit the box you’re trying to press them into, and when they don’t, we’re tempted to slap on labels like “stubborn,” “difficult,” “strong-willed,” or “not food motivated.” When in reality, they’re just not designed for that box in the first place.
A close cousin to this method is what I call using the wrong manual for the wrong model. It’s like buying a Tesla and trying to fix it with a guide for a 1986 lawn mower. Or opening a sourdough recipe when you’ve actually bought ingredients for croissants. The training plan isn’t wrong—it’s just written for a completely different dog. People often try to train the dog they imagined they were getting, or the dog they owned five years ago, rather than the unique individual sitting right in front of them. But dogs, like phones and software, come with different operating systems. You wouldn’t expect Android shortcuts to work on an iPhone, and you shouldn’t expect a sensitive, thoughtful dog to behave like a bombproof working machine—or vice versa.
The approach that has stood the test of time for me is what I call the Rubik’s Cube method. Every dog arrives with its colours already mixed, its patterns already set, and its quirks arranged in their own peculiar way. My job is not to hammer them into shape; my job is to solve the riddle that is that dog. I take that Rubik’s Cube they present and start exploring: What makes this dog tick? How does this dog learn? What lights them up? What shuts them down? What terrifies, motivates, inspires, or excites them?
My aspiration is always to teach dogs the same core skills—recall, loose-lead walking, engagement, sport behaviours, the works—but how we get there is entirely dog-dependent. Sometimes the science gives me a beautifully drawn map. Other times I need to wander off the beaten track, through the scenic route, around a metaphorical lake and over a fence, and create something new in the moment. As someone who’s naturally creative, this is my wheelhouse. It’s my favourite part of dog training.
Because it’s one thing to make a dog do something. But creating a dog who wants to do something? That’s a whole different level of mastery. That’s the real puzzle—the $64 million question I find myself asking with every dog I work with: How do I use what the dog wants to help them want what I want? Solve that, and you unlock cooperation, joy, trust, and a training relationship that feels like a conversation rather than a demand.
I’ve lived with and trained more dogs and more breeds than I could ever count, and no two have ever been the same. Each one has been a unique Rubik’s Cube: a different pattern, a different puzzle, a different combination waiting to be discovered. And when you finally turn the cube and all the colours click into place—when you find the key for that particular dog—it is pure magic.
So if you’re a trainer, an owner, or someone desperately Googling why their puppy is doing the thing… put the hammer down. Set aside the one-size-fits-all manual. Pick up the Rubik’s Cube instead. Because your dog isn’t here to fit a mould—they’re here to be discovered, understood, and celebrated. And when you train the dog in front of you, rather than the dog in your imagination, that’s when the real transformation begins.
