“Do dogs understand what we say?” is one of the most frequent questions people ask me.

My answer is, “yes and no. They do, and they don’t. It all comes down to what you mean by understanding.”

Dogs do not understand English or any other human-created language. They do understand words (or rather, sounds) in any language. After hearing the sound “sit” many times, the dog associates it with a particular behavior and with some consequences, and will end up sitting more often than not when it hears that sound. It all depends on the consequences and on the competing stimuli at that precise moment. If the dog has something better to do, offering more attractive consequences, or the consequences for not sitting are not that unpleasant, then it won’t sit. In that respect, it is exactly like us: “I hear perfectly well what you are saying, I just don’t want to do it.” It is all a question of costs and benefits, as we say in ethology.

Dogs do not understand sentences. Most dogs get excited and run to the door when we say, “Let’s go for a walk.” That does not prove the dog understands the sentence; it only shows that it associates one sound in the sentence—probably the word walk—with one particular behavior. If we say, “Banana ping-pong walk,” we will very likely get the same response.

Tone matters. We don’t need any experiments to verify that. Observing casual dog owners provides us with all the necessary evidence. “Don’t do that, sweetie, we don’t like that at all,” with a gentle voice, is no way to prevent a dog from doing whatever it is doing. Better be quiet if so, because all we say in that tone will only reinforce the behavior we don’t want. Curious, isn’t it, how things can work just the opposite of what we intend?

There is a universal language comprising terms that all animals understand, such as peace, danger, companionship, fear, safety, and mutuality. Partnerships exist between animals across species (photo by unknown).

If you want your dog to keep on doing what it is doing, you’d better say something in a mellow tone. It does not matter what you say, but it will be more efficient if you always use the same word (read sound). Personally, my favorite is dygtig (Danish for clever). It has a good doggy sound, gives me a friendly, doggy face, and I can modulate it for the occasion, e.g., make it long, short, etc.

If you don’t want your dog to do something, you’d better say it in a serious tone (I said serious, not yelling). I use “Stop” or “Phooey” in an assertive tone, and that does the trick (usually). I never use “No” for this purpose. “No” conveys important information, i.e., “What you’re doing is not adequate, try something else.” Of course, you don’t need to do as I do. You do what works for you, and I do what works for me.

Body language is essential, and even more decisive in our dogs’ behavior than sounds and tones. If you doubt it, watch my movie “Animal Training My Way.” I barely talk to the dog, and we understand one another perfectly well. Self-confident body language will induce your dog to follow your instructions more readily. Insecure body language will either make your dog nervous or alert it to take control of the situation since you seem to be in no position to do anything about it.

Does it help to try to speak dog language, even with an awful accent? Yes, definitely. Dogs respond well to our yawning, champing (chomping), licking our lips, squeezing our eyes shut, pouty mouth, the canine muzzle grasp, and many other signals. You need to be a keen observer and practice, and to be completely uninhibited and unconcerned about others laughing at you. I like doing it, and I get excellent results. Then again, I speak nine languages (doguese, catese, and horsish not counted), some with a poor accent—and I do get rewarded for my effort. It works for me, but again, you do what works best for you.

Do dogs create relationships with us like they do with other dogs? Not exactly, but does it matter? Dogs are uncomplicated. When they live with other animals, including humans, they adapt (as do many other animals). They don’t regard us as dogs, and I believe they don’t even speculate about that. They communicate with us in their language, and they seem to appreciate it when we answer them in something that resembles their language. There’s nothing special about that. It works for and with most animals (if not all). You respect their ways, and you get some results—you don’t, and you get different results.

It’s all a question of communication. When I’m diving with rookie students, their way of moving around and gesticulating far too much attracts the attention of the local fauna. When I’m there with one of my usual diving buddies (we always dive in buddy pairs), they don’t even seem to notice us. The body language of the rookie signals “alarm,” “intruder”—and ours, more experienced as we are, signals “all is good.”

It’s really that simple. I still can’t grasp how anyone can argue that meeting the other party halfway is pointless. The usual defense is that dogs are dogs and humans are humans—a remarkable justification that flies in the face of everything we know about interspecies communication—hence, my commitment to “knowledge to everyone everywhere.”

All I can say to you is that it works well for me. With all my human inadequacies—and within certain limits—when in Rome, I do as the Romans do; when underwater, I do as the fish do; and when I’m with a dog, I do as dogs do. You don’t have to, of course. Yet, I tell you, every time we manage to bridge that gap, even for an instant, we glimpse something larger than ourselves—the rudiments of a language that might well be universal.

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Featured image: Dogs communicate with us in the ways of their species, and they seem to appreciate it when we answer them in something that resembles their language (photo by Lisa Jernigan Bain).