Why the Job of a Behaviourist Shouldn’t Exist

I want to be clear that this isn’t meant to upset anyone in the veterinary profession. Honestly, I was nervous about writing this at all, because I deeply value the collaborative relationships I’ve built with so many dedicated vets, those who listen, trust, and work with such care and integrity. This isn’t directed at you or any other veterinary professional. This is about a systemic issue, not personal criticism. It’s about a gap in the system that impacts all of us, especially the animals we’re trying to help.

The more time I spend in this field, the more convinced I am: I shouldn’t have a job. Not because behaviour work isn’t valuable or because I doubt its scientific foundations, but because the very existence of an external profession like mine reflects gaps in how we care for animals. If veterinary medicine functioned the way it should, with truly holistic, whole-animal care at its core, the role of a non-veterinary behaviourist would be largely obsolete.

We work with animals who cannot say, “I’m in pain,” “I’m scared,” “my joints ache in the morning,” or “this noise hurts my ears.” They communicate in the only language they have: behaviour. A lunge. A bark. A refusal to walk. A sudden withdrawal. Each is a data point, a signal. And yet, in most clinics, those signals go untranslated or ignored.

Time and again, we see animals labeled as "aggressive," "stubborn," "dominant," or "reactive," when they are in fact unwell, confused, or fearful. We see well-meaning vets dismiss chronic pain as a behavioural quirk. We are forced to write carefully coded emails to avoid "telling a vet what to do," suggesting gently that perhaps a pain trial, or a thyroid panel, or imaging might reveal more. We edit out the truth because the system doesn’t recognise our remit, and in doing so, we become complicit in its failures.

All the while, we carry the burden of knowing: this dog is starving because its thyroid is underactive, not because its owner is careless. This dog snaps at strangers because its hips ache. This dog refuses to leave the house because its sensory system is overwhelmed and its nervous system is dysregulated. We know this. We see it. But we cannot treat it. And often, neither does anyone else.

Of course, there is a vital place for trainers and coaches who help with skill-building, routine challenges, and early socialisation. But once a case becomes emotional once fear, pain, or medical complexity enters the frame we are no longer in the realm of training. We are in clinical territory. And the only professionals legally empowered to diagnose, prescribe, and treat in that space are veterinarians.

Yet most vets are not given the training, tools, or time to recognise what’s really going on beneath the surface. They are overworked, overwhelmed, under-supported, and often lack the specialist behavioural knowledge required to fully investigate the emotional or neurological dimensions of a case. Even the consultation room itself works against them: unfamiliar, clinical, and rushed. It’s a space where fear and adrenaline suppress more subtle signs of pain or stress, where an animal cannot behave naturally, and where body language cues are easily overlooked or misinterpreted.

And still, somehow, a diagnosis is expected often in under 15 minutes.

Now add to that the reality that many of these animals are so defensively aggressive they cannot even be touched. Trying to assess pain or pathology in a patient who is flailing, thrashing, lunging, or trembling in self-defense is not just stressful, it's borderline impossible. Imagine being asked to diagnose a nonverbal patient who won’t let you get close enough to examine them. That is the impossible task vets are often asked to perform daily. And yet, we treat this scenario as routine.

This is where behavioural literacy is not a luxury, it is a necessity. Studies show that up to 82% of dogs presenting with behavioural concerns are doing so because of underlying medical causes. Behaviour is often the only signal the animal can give that something is wrong. Being able to distinguish between normal and abnormal species-specific behaviour becomes one of the most powerful diagnostic tools a vet can have. Understanding behaviour is understanding communication.

For example, if an adult dog suddenly begins mouthing, nipping, or chewing a behaviour common in puppies but atypical for mature dogs it is not a training lapse. It’s a symptom. A well-informed clinician might know to look for dental pain, gastrointestinal irritation, or lower back discomfort. Unless vets are taught to recognise that, those signs get missed.

We do have veterinary behaviourists. They are extraordinary. But they are also rare. There are not enough to meet demand and virtually none in a clinic setting. The truth is that every practise should have access to a veterinary behaviourist or a vet trained in behavioural medicine. This is not a luxury; it is a necessity. If we want to treat the whole animal, not just the infected paw or the upset stomach, we must acknowledge that the mind and body are inextricably linked.

Until that happens, behaviourists like me will continue to exist in this strange liminal space: essential, but unofficial. Called in when things are at their worst. Told to tread lightly. Barred from recommending what we know might help.

I don’t want to do this job forever. Not like this. I want to see a veterinary world where behaviour skills are embedded into every consultation room. Where pain is not the last thing considered but one of the first. Where the way an animal moves, responds, and communicates is treated as vital clinical information, not background noise. I want to see fewer trainers taking on cases that require medical oversight, and more vets equipped to spot the signs early.

Until then, I will keep hoping for the day when my job no longer needs to exist at all. Always remember behaviour is often the first and only indicator of an underlying medical problem.