“But she doesn’t apply the same thing to herself,” Cesar says. When Ilusion is upset, he’s supposed to be patient and cuddle her, “which is opposite of what she’d do if I were going through my process.”
Ilusion appraises him unflinchingly. “Yeah, because he goes to anger. I go to sadness, and for a woman, being sad, you want comforting. A man is like, ‘I’m pissed. Stay away from me.’ ”
Cesar’s eyes twinkle. “I would like to have sex with you even though I’m angry.” Ilusion rolls her eyes.
Anyone who’s watched Dog Whisperer With Cesar Millan knows that while dog owners may think their dogsare the problem, actually the problem is them. But interestingly, it is only through his marriage, Cesar says, that he began to understand human behavior. If Ilusion hadn’t moved out in 1995, he says, he would never have gone on to train Will Smith and Jada Pinkett’s dogs, or Oprah Winfrey’s, or those of countless other A-listers. And to this day, without Ilusion to poke him to look inward—when it comes to emotion, he says, “my wife is an expert”—he’d still lack the tools to meet his goals.
Ilusion is quick to say Cesar has broadened her world, as well. During the early years, when she coached him to raise his prices—he used to charge $65 a day (his fees now start around $10,000)—he told her more than once that she had a natural head for business. Insecure, she says, she resisted the suggestion. But when Dog Whisperer began to take off—there have been four best-selling books, a line of pet-care products, a glossy magazine, and instructional videos; he expects to be a $100 million business in a few years—she joined him.
Today, Cesar (who became a U.S. citizen last year) is CEO of Cesar Millan Inc.; Ilusion is its president and co-CEO. Together, the couple have funneled money into charities that promote animal health. Ilusion, once a preschool teacher, has eagerly teamed up with Yale University to develop “Mutt-i-grees,” a curriculum for young children based on the Dog Whisperer’s teachings. And then there’s the Illusion Collar, a device the couple designed to keep the leash high on a dog’s neck, for easier handling.
Like the rest of us, Ilusion sometimes struggles to implement Cesar’s teachings with the family pets. “I’m the nurturer, so naturally I just want to hug my dog,” she says.
Her husband raises an eyebrow. “I respectfully disagree with that. You don’t frickin’ nurture me when I’munstable.” He turns again to me. “This is a very smart woman, and she will play Monopoly on you and pretend she’s not,” he says, making his wife, who admits she enjoys and excels at games of all kinds, laugh out loud.
“He’s reached that state where he has to emote,” she says approvingly. “You’ve got two people emoting now. It’s like watching a great sitcom.” In fact, 20th Century Fox Television recently greenlit a pilot based on Cesar and Ilusion. Wilmer Valderrama is set to star as the man who is dog’s best friend. (Ilusion’s role is yet to be cast.)
Their real-life plotline, meanwhile, will always include arguing, they say. Their last fight came after Cesar bought a bunch of fencing for the ranch where he is building a Dog Psychology Center, the first of several he hopes to open across the country. The couple had agreed that whenever he spent money, he’d tell his wife so she could update their books. But the D.W. forgot to tell the M.W., and the M.W. blew her stack. Patching things up meant heading back to the kitchen, the place where Cesar says they tend to talk things through. “I sit over there,” he says, pointing to a chair on one side of the table. “My wife will sit there,” he gestures to the other side.
“Or we’ll go to the bedroom,” Ilusion adds. “Depending on the intensity of the situation.”
