“Anything that is realistic, if I create it in my mind, it can become a reality,” he says, evoking one of his favorite authors, the self-help superstar Wayne W. Dyer. “That is the power of intention.”
Like the dogs that he is world-famous for understanding — and, notably, unlike some of their owners — Mr. Millan doesn’t judge others. Instead, he lives in the now and maintains a sort of über-balanced mien. For without balance, or what he calls “our most important tool: calm, assertive energy,” no one can be a pack leader. And that, more than anything else, is what Cesar Millan dearly wants each of us to be — for our animals, sure, but also for ourselves and the well-being of the planet.
“World transformation begins with self-transformation,” he advises. To achieve that, he says, you need a co-pilot: “My suggestion is you have somebody next to you that is willing at any time to transform the moment. That is called dog.”
THERE are 65 million dogs in the United States, where pet care is close to a $40 billion industry. By one estimate, dog owners spend an average of $11,000 over each pet’s lifetime. And even during a recession, such spending shows no signs of flagging. Simply put, Americans are nuts about their pets.
Or maybe we’re just nuts. Which is pretty much the underlying message of “Dog Whisperer.”
Did you see the episode about Genoa, the golden retriever who was afraid of the garage? Mr. Millan quickly sussed out that the woman of the house had strong feelings about the garage, too — namely, she resented it because her husband spent more time puttering there than he did cuddling with her. Problem solved.
How about the one about Li’l Miss Kisses, the Maltese whose owner was obsessed with pink? The woman’s apartment, her outfit, everything was pink. Including the dog. Can you blame Kisses for urinating on the floor? Then there’s the episode in which Mr. Millan sat down with Kathy Griffin, the comedian, and Pom Pom, her Labrador mix.
“What is she saying to you with her body language?” Ms. Griffin demanded. Mr. Millan didn’t hesitate: “That you are kind of crazy.” Ms. Griffin yelled, “Cut!”
That Mr. Millan keeps a straight face in these situations says less about his manners and more about where his focus lies: with the hounds. Over the years, he has learned that in a country where pet lovers treat their animals like coddled children (making them unhappy, he believes), he must delve into the human realm to put things right.
He’s the first to say, however, that communicating with humans didn’t come naturally.
He grew up on a farm in Mexico, where from an early age he was known as El Perrero, or “the dog man.” Dogs made sense to him. They telegraphed their anxieties in predictable ways. They loved to be led.
“They accept you as who you are — one leg, two legs, no eyes, no problem,” he says. “But they won’t be around unstable energy. That’s how much integrity they have.”
Not so with humans. “One of Cesar’s favorite sayings,” says Jim Milio, a partner in MPH, which produces the show out of a mini-mall in Burbank, Calif., “is that humans are the only animals who will follow unstable pack leaders.”
It would take years before Mr. Millan realized that to achieve his goal of being the world’s best dog trainer, he would need to understand not just pets, but also pet owners.
His wife, Ilusion, a Mexican-American whom he met at an ice rink and married when she was 18 and he was 24, recalls the moment he began to “get” his own species. After the birth of their first son (they have two), they’d hit a rough patch and separated. Cesar was too macho and too bossy, she felt, and ignored her feelings. At her insistence, they went to counseling, where the therapist told her to express her needs.
“I said: ‘You know, Cesar, I really want you to listen. I want you to be there in our household. I want to hear you say that you love me. I don’t want to be treated like I’m just a piece of property. I want to be acknowledged,’ ” Ilusion says, recalling how her husband looked at the counselor and exclaimed, “She’s just like dogs!”
