Kind to Dogs, Cold to People? The Myth of Positive Reinforcement and Human Empathy
Written by Lauren Tsao, MS, CDBC, CPDT-KA, DDP
In the world of dog training, “positive reinforcement” has become a rallying cry. And rightly so.
It is rooted in decades of behavioral science. It respects the learner, canine or otherwise. It focuses on what we want to see more of, rather than what we want to stop. It gives dogs agency, nurtures trust, and shifts the training relationship from one of control to one of collaboration.
When applied thoughtfully, it is a powerful technique. One that has changed lives, redefined professional standards, and gently but firmly pushed the industry away from outdated, aversive methods. But alongside this progress, there’s a quiet, dangerous assumption that often goes unexamined.
We assume that if someone trains with positive reinforcement, they must also be kind.
And that assumption, while comforting, is simply not true.
Knowing how to reinforce a behavior is not the same as knowing how to hold space for a person’s pain. Understanding how to shape a sit-stay doesn’t mean you understand how to sit in silence while a client explains why they haven’t practiced in two weeks; because their child is sick, or their partner is leaving, or they’ve simply been drowning in the noise of life.
Positive reinforcement is a science. It tells us how behaviors are built, maintained, and strengthened. It gives us technical clarity, mechanical goals, and measurable results. But it is not the science of connection. It does not teach us how to attune to another person’s distress, how to speak without blame, or how to truly listen. I’ve been in this field long enough to witness the gap firsthand.
I’ve seen trainers who can shape a flawless chin rest, teach a heel that flows like water, and craft sessions with surgical precision, but speak to overwhelmed clients with coldness, condescension, or dismissal. I’ve seen trainers quote Skinner and Pryor with religious fervor, yet grow visibly impatient when a guardian forgets to bring their treat pouch. I’ve seen people mask frustration with the language of “accountability,” delivering corrections not to the dog, but to the human on the other end of the leash.
I’ve seen shame dressed up as education. And I’ve seen how it breaks people.
Because positive reinforcement is a technique. Empathy is a practice. One is about increasing behavior. The other is about increasing connection. One helps you get a dog to choose a mat instead of a leash lunge. The other helps you meet a client’s tear-filled eyes and say, without judgment, “You’re not failing. This is just really hard.”
If we are going to serve the public, especially families navigating complex behavioral challenges like fear, trauma, reactivity, or aggression, we need both. Without empathy, even the kindest training plan can land like a weight. Without kindness, our protocols become prescriptions. Cold. Unyielding. Blind to the lived experience of the humans we claim to help.
The dogs matter. But so do the people. And if we forget that, we risk becoming technicians instead of teachers; masters of mechanics, but strangers to the heart of the work.
Defining Our Kindness vs Positive Reinforcement
To understand why these concepts don’t always travel together, we have to define them clearly.
Positive reinforcement is a learning principle from behavioral science. It means adding something the learner wants after a behavior, to make that behavior more likely to happen again. For dogs, it might be a treat after sitting. For humans, it might be a kind word after showing up to a difficult session. It’s a technique for shaping behavior. It tells us how to teach, but not why we teach, or how to respond when teaching is hard.
Kindness is a behavior too, but it’s driven by values, not reinforcement schedules. It looks like treating others with warmth, respect, and care. It’s the choice to respond gently, even when you’re tired or frustrated. Kindness shows up in how we speak, how we hold space, and how we offer support. It’s not always soft, but it is always considerate.
Empathy is deeper still. It’s the ability to sense or imagine what someone else is feeling and to respond with understanding. It’s not just about feeling for someone, but feeling with them. Empathy says, “I see where you are, and I can meet you there, without judgment.” It requires emotional attunement, not just intellectual understanding.
And while kindness and empathy can support a positive reinforcement-based training approach, they are not required for it. You can train a dog effectively with treats and clickers and still speak coldly to their guardian. You can follow every positive reinforcement guideline and still shame a client who’s struggling. You can deliver a technically sound plan while making the human feel small.
When we conflate the use of positive reinforcement with personal warmth or relational safety, we miss something important. Tools don’t replace tone. Timing doesn’t replace trust. Only people can offer those.
Why The Confusion Happens
Many of us came to positive reinforcement because something about it just felt right.
It wasn’t only the science that drew us in, it was the spirit of it. The idea that we could teach without intimidation. That we could build trust instead of eroding it. That we could stop saying “no” so much, and start saying, “Yes, do more of that.” For many trainers, switching to positive reinforcement felt like a deep exhale. A return to compassion. A shift toward something more hopeful for both dogs and ourselves.
And often, those same values that led us to kinder methods with animals inspire us to treat people more gently too. Many trainers do carry that softness across the board. They pause when a client tears up. They ask questions before making assumptions. They validate struggle instead of punishing it.
But not everyone does. For some, that intention stops at the leash.
There’s a strange cognitive shortcut that often happens; one that’s easy to miss until it causes harm. We meet someone who trains with treats instead of tools, who avoids force, who talks about agency and welfare and kindness. And our brain makes a quick leap: If they’re kind to dogs, they must be kind to people too.
It’s a comforting assumption. But it’s not a reliable one. Because training, for better or worse, can be a performance.
It can be well-rehearsed timing, mechanical skill, and confident instruction. All delivered without ever needing to engage authentically with the human standing across from you. A trainer can demonstrate empathy in their teaching method without ever truly practicing empathy in their interpersonal interactions. Empathy isn’t what we show during a polished session. It’s what surfaces when things go off script. It’s not just about offering accommodations. It’s about noticing when someone needs them, without being told. It’s about reading body language, not just in dogs, but in the weary posture of a tired parent, or the furrowed brow of a client trying to hold it together.
Empathy doesn’t mean coddling. It means witnessing. It means recognizing the full context of a client’s experience, grief, fear, guilt, fatigue, and responding with curiosity instead of criticism.
The confusion happens because positive reinforcement looks like kindness. But one is a technique. The other is a mindset.
And while they can and should coexist, they are not the same. Being skilled in one doesn’t automatically grant fluency in the other.
The Double Standard
There’s a quiet contradiction that runs through much of our industry. One that rarely gets named out loud, but shapes so many of our interactions. We extend more grace to the dogs in front of us than we do to the humans beside us.
We look at a trembling dog and say, “He’s not being stubborn, he’s scared.”
We observe a reactive outburst and say, “This behavior makes sense once you understand the context.”
We structure our plans with care and say, “Let’s set him up for success.”
But when a guardian forgets to practice?
When they cancel a session last-minute?
When they admit they’re overwhelmed and haven’t made progress?
We tighten.
We label them “noncompliant.”
We mutter about “lack of commitment.”
We think, sometimes even say, “They’re the real problem.”
And in that moment, without realizing it, we trade empathy for expectation.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? We are trained to read subtle signs of stress in dogs. We pride ourselves on creating low-pressure learning environments. We preach the importance of reinforcement over punishment, of curiosity over judgment. And yet, when the human struggles, we often abandon that framework entirely. We expect clients to absorb complex information while managing jobs, families, health issues, financial stress, and often, profound grief over the dog they thought they had. And when they falter under the weight of it all, we sometimes meet them with impatience instead of understanding.
Imagine if we applied the same lens to our human clients that we do to our canine ones.
What if, instead of assuming they don’t care, we asked what else might be going on?
What if we saw a missed session not as defiance, but as a sign of overload?
What if we paused before assuming they “should know better,” and remembered that learning is messy for people too?
Clients, just like dogs, don’t thrive under shame. They don’t grow through guilt. They grow through support. Through safety. Through someone believing in them even when they’re struggling to believe in themselves. That doesn’t mean we throw boundaries out the window. It doesn’t mean we ignore patterns that need to shift. But it does mean we check ourselves when frustration creeps in. It means we look for the unmet need behind the behavior. And we remember that compassion is a practice, not a personality trait we either have or don’t.
If we truly believe that behavior is communication, then it’s time we start listening to both ends of the leash.
Building Both Skill Sets
Because behavioral science teaches us how to get behavior. It does not teach us how to connect. It gives us tools for shaping a response, but it doesn't teach us how to sit with someone who feels like a failure. It doesn't show us how to support a guardian who just realized their dog’s behavior may never be “normal.” It doesn’t prepare us for the trembling hands, the angry tears, the guilt, or the grief that so often accompany behavior issues, especially the big ones.
Science doesn't teach you how to hold space.
It doesn't teach you how to pause when a client’s voice catches mid-sentence.
That underneath is a parent stretched too thin, a partner trying to keep peace in the home, a person who desperately wanted a companion and now feels like they’ve failed.
And yet, these are the moments that define the work. Not just when the dog learns a new skill, but when the human feels safe enough to keep going. When they leave a session feeling a little more capable, a little less ashamed, a little more understood. If we want to shift the culture of dog training, not just what we teach, but how we relate, we must stop assuming kindness is a byproduct of our method.
Positive reinforcement is not empathy by default.
It’s not a shortcut to compassion.
It’s not a promise that we’ll show up with gentleness when things get hard.
Kindness is a practice.
It’s the way we speak when progress is slow.
It’s the way we manage our own disappointment when a case plateaus.
It’s the humility to say, “Let’s figure this out together,” rather than, “You’re doing it wrong.”
Being a skilled dog trainer means mastering technique.
Being an effective dog behavior consultant or private dog trainer means mastering presence.
And if we want to create a profession where both dogs and their people thrive, we must deliberately build both.
The Dog Deserves a Skilled Trainer. The Guardian Deserves a Kind One.
The best trainers I know aren’t just masters of mechanics. They are stewards of humanity. They know how to shape a behavior with precision, but they also know how to shape an experience with care.
They hold boundaries with clarity, but never cruelty.
They deliver hard truths without making anyone feel small.
They understand that sustainable change doesn't come from shame. It comes from safety.
Because in this work, technical skill gets you in the door. But empathy is what keeps people from walking away.
When a guardian feels heard, when they feel respected, when they leave a session believing they’re not a lost cause, they come back. They show up. They do the work. And so do their dogs. The reality is a brilliant training plan will crumble in the hands of someone who feels judged. But even a simple plan can become transformative when paired with kindness, patience, and genuine human connection.
So yes, let’s keep teaching positive reinforcement. Let’s keep studying the science, sharpening our skills, and honoring the craft of behavior change.
But let’s also ask the harder question:
Am I training with kindness, or just with technique?
Because one changes behavior.
The other changes lives.
And in this field, especially this one, we’re meant to do both.
Want To Go Deeper?
If you’re a professional dog trainer ready to strengthen your client communication skills, check out my recorded webinars that offer CEUs:
“Empathy, Boundaries, & Clarity: The Dog Trainer’s Guide to Human Students” — Learn how to set firm, compassionate boundaries without losing connection.
“The Seductive Allure of Aversive Dog Training” — Explore how to work with empathy when your students started their journey somewhere harsher.
If you’re a dog guardian searching for a kinder, science-based approach to behavior, I offer:
Group classes, focused on skill-building through positive reinforcement
Integrative behavior assessments, combining deep listening with expert insight
Sessions are available in Braxton, MS (near Florence) or virtually worldwide. Let’s build something better together.
