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Reflections on Living with a Complex Dog

Apr 6 / Dr Teresa Tyler

There are dogs who slip into the rhythm of my home like gentle music; easily, softly, with barely a ripple. They are usually hounds that I have fostered or rescued. And then there are dogs like Lottie.

She is a German Shepherd cross Malinois, recently turned two, adopted at 4 months ish. She’s that age where, by the book, adolescence should be behind us. But the book doesn’t know her. The book doesn’t live in a multi-dog household where tension hums loudly beneath the surface, and where management is a constant choreography of gates, glances, distractions and gut instinct.

She is not an easy dog. Let’s not pretend otherwise. She fizzes with intensity, her emotions aren’t felt, they’re worn and loudly! Her reactivity hasn’t faded with time. If anything, it’s become more complex, more nuanced, as she’s aged into herself. Her aggression towards the other dogs isn’t born of malice, but of frustration, confusion and overwhelm. The wires in her brain are wired for motion and action, not stillness. She struggles to rest. Not just in the physical sense, but in her soul. She is always watching, always alert—waiting to see what we, her humans, will do next. She craves activity like oxygen, yet exhausts herself with the mere anticipation of movement. Come evening, when the shadows grow and most of the dogs wind down, she is scanning the garden for the feral cats who dare trespass, winding the other dogs into a spiral of arousal and noisy alarm. And yet, she is mine. Fiercely loyal, deeply loving, disarmingly intelligent. She often meets my gaze with a clarity that makes words seem unnecessary. She doesn’t demand affection, but when she chooses closeness, it is always on her terms, which makes it somehow pure, intentional, earned. But the truth is, I have been stretched to my limit with her.

When she attacked another of my dogs, I felt something inside me fracture.

That moment, the noise, the adrenaline, the panic, the aftermath, left me gutted. Raw. I’ve seen aggression in my professional life more times than I can count. But in my own home? Amongst my own dogs? That was a different kind of heartbreak.

And the thoughts that followed were heavy. Do I keep trying? Am I the right person for her? Is this fair on the others? On her? On me?

These aren’t the sorts of questions people like to talk about, especially not those of us who work in behaviour. But we must. Because there’s a quiet, isolating pain in loving a dog who brings chaos as much as she brings connection.

Living with a dog like her is a lesson in humility. It is not about “fixing” or “training out” or “overcoming.” It is about understanding. It is about meeting her where she is, not where I wish she would be. It is about the quiet wins, the settled nap at my feet, the walk where no outbursts happen, the moment she chooses peace over fight.

Dogs like her aren’t for the faint-hearted. They are mirrors held up to our own nervous systems, our own unmet needs and unhealed parts. They teach us to be better observers, better guardians, better listeners.

So yes, the work is constant. Management is tight. My emotional resources are often low. But in those small, almost sacred moments when she leans her head on me, when she trusts enough to rest, truly rest, I find a sliver of grace.

She is not an easy dog. But she is a remarkable one. So for now, we keep trying, one deliberate, loving step at a time.


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