What if Training Changes My Dog or Breaks Their Spirit?

I call my personal dog Hopper “the drama”… because he is, well, extremely dramatic. He was a later rescue, and we honestly have no idea what his first six months of life looked like—siblings? parents? species?? (Kidding… mostly.) All we know is that when we picked him up through a questionable Craigslist rescue setup, he was living in a garage pen with a bunch of Doberman Pinschers.

He was used to going potty indoors, and whenever someone came to meet the dogs—or when new dogs arrived—the pen would burst open and everyone would bark, bounce, and rush forward like a furry Black Friday sale. So when I brought him home, he had no clue why it wasn’t ideal to scream at full volume and pogo-stick whenever he saw a person or dog behind a gate, window, or while on leash. He’d look at me like, “FREE ME TO TACKLE!!!”

He also had zero concept that pottying indoors was frowned upon. He’d make eye contact while doing it. And if he slipped between your legs at the front door, he would BOLT, full-speed, with absolutely no plan. To where? No idea. But he was excited about it.

On his second day home, he sprinted three doors down, squeezed under a cracked garage door, and by the time I tracked down the owners, he had finished eating their cat’s entire food bowl and was standing proudly on their workbench like, “Oh hey guys! You got any more of this stuff?”

I’ll be honest—even as a dog trainer, those first days had me thinking… bold choice. Very bold.

Hopper is almost six now, and he is still THE DRAMA. He doesn’t bark at other dogs on leash anymore, though he’ll sometimes grumble like an old man searching for his slippers. He no longer bolts out the door (thank goodness), but given the chance, that dog will still run like the wind. So we pivoted that energy into the most competitive game of fetch known to mankind. And he no longer treats the house like a toilet… though in new indoor places with lots of dog smells, I do keep an eye out. The temptation lingers.

And yes—he still occasionally hops onto the kitchen table when he thinks no one is looking to see if my son left eggs on his plate. We yell, “HOPPER!” and he turns around like, “What? I thought this was a buffet?”

So why am I telling you all this about my little psycho? Because I adore him—and he’s proof that training doesn’t change who a dog is. He’s still dramatic, still hilarious, still bold and audacious. But training has made him safer, more reliable, and infinitely more enjoyable to take places. He can now run off-leash in Mammoth Lakes and come flying back to a whistle—even off a squirrel. He’s safer with other dogs, safer with people, and understands his role in our household.

One thing I notice a lot—in dog culture and life in general—is the lack of nuance. The idea that two things can be true at the same time. Dog training is no exception.

As pack walkers and trainers, we get a unique window into how differently people approach dog ownership. Some people just want a best friend and don’t mind if their dog is decorating the baseboards with teeth marks. Others feel stressed unless their dog is a canine version of a well-behaved British schoolchild.

When we integrate new dogs into the pack, those differences in mindset can cause friction—especially when an owner is relaxed at home but hopes for strict structure on the trail. It can be hard to explain that we can’t teach a dog to respect space, walk calmly, or stay composed around distractions if those expectations aren’t reinforced consistently at home.

This comes up less in training programs because those owners already want change. And sometimes—no matter how much training we do—a dog simply isn’t a good fit for pack life. It’s not always about skill; sometimes it’s just personality. Just like I’m not a good fit for any sport involving a ball. I’ve tried. Truly. I’m just… not built for it.

But one theme comes up everywhere: the fear that obedience or boundaries will “break” a dog’s spirit.

Let’s unpack that.

A good trainer builds desire, not fear. We want your dog to want to work with you—to feel clarity, engagement, and confidence. Training should be communication, not suppression. If your trainer is only teaching your dog what not to do… it might be time to find a new one.

And here’s the big thing: you can’t change who a dog is at their core. Genetics, early life, temperament, and whatever cosmic dog-soul magic is going on in there—they all shape who your dog is. That’s why trying to “recreate” a past dog by getting the same breed, from the same breeder, around the same time of year never works. You’ll always get a different dog. And that’s the beauty of it.

The goal is to balance acceptance with guidance. Training makes life safer, calmer, and more enjoyable—for you, your dog, and everyone around you. You don’t want to constantly worry that your dog might run away, scare someone, or collapse your grandma.

It’s genuinely rewarding to have a dog who knows stuff. And with the right trainer, you’re not going to lose your dog’s spirit. You’re just going to reveal the best version of who they already are.

Pack Mentality

At OC Lucky Dogs, we see this every day—dogs with huge personalities, quirks, opinions, and yes, drama (the good kind). Our goal isn’t to change who they are; it’s to help them live safely, confidently, and harmoniously within their pack—both at home and on the trail.

Because when structure meets spirit, that’s where the magic happens.