LOS ANGELES
IT’S a miracle. That’s what the humans believe, more often than not, after watching this compact, 40-year-old C.E.O. do his work. He enters a room purposefully, his chest thrust forward and a smile on his face. “How can I help?” is his standard introduction, and the way he says it — calmly, assertively — indicates that your problems are about to be solved.
It’s unbelievable. That’s what the humans say when they see what Cesar Millan, the “Dog Whisperer,” can do. And the dogs? To a pooch, they appear to be thinking: “Thank God, help has finally arrived.” To prompt a visit from Mr. Millan, these dogs have exhibited seemingly irrational fears (of motorbikes, toasters, linoleum floors) and strange obsessions (biting rocks, ankles, tractor tires).
Their owners, meanwhile, have told poignant, if at times ludicrous, stories. One couple sought out Mr. Millan after their two pit bulls, hell-bent on killing each other, forced them to live apart. Another hadn’t slept in the same bed for months because their Yorkies wouldn’t allow it.
If you have a television, you may know Mr. Millan from “Dog Whisperer With Cesar Millan,” whose sixth-season premiere was on Friday on the National Geographic Channel, a cable network piped into about 70 million homes. Nearly 11 million Americans tune in each week. You may have stumbled upon his new glossy magazine, Cesar’s Way, or his four books, the latest of which, “How to Raise the Perfect Dog,” went on sale last week. His first three books, all New York Times best sellers, have cumulatively sold two million copies in the United States and are available in 14 other countries.
Partly because he is based in Los Angeles, the epicenter of the entertainment industry, Mr. Millan has become something of a cultural icon, a Latino man who commands respect wherever he goes. He has helped scores of movie stars and moguls — among them alpha dogs like Oprah Winfrey, the actor Will Smith, the former Disney chief Michael D. Eisner and the director Ridley Scott — become pack leaders in the one place they fail to rule: their homes.
No wonder Mr. Millan’s reputation as a fixer — he says he rehabilitates dogs, but trains people — has been immortalized in pop culture. “What is the ‘Dog Whisperer’?” has been a winning answer on “Jeopardy.” An episode of “South Park” featured the mom of Eric Cartman, the spoiled, foul-mouthed brat, hiring Mr. Millan to discipline him. A New Yorker article by Malcolm Gladwell quoted scientists and dance experts analyzing how Mr. Millan’s bearing instills confidence. The conclusion: his fluid movement communicates authenticity better than words could.
Not bad for a once-poor native of Culiacán, Mexico, who crossed the border illegally 19 years ago with nothing in his pockets. (He became a United States citizen this year.) When he talks about transformation, in other words, he’s living proof that it’s possible.
With his wife, Ilusion, he runs Cesar Millan Inc., the center of a constellation of businesses that coordinates all things Cesar beyond the show, including speaking engagements; executive leadership seminars; a line of organic dog food, fortified water, shampoos and toys that sells at Petco; and the charitable foundation financed by an undisclosed percentage of the company’s revenue.
His Web site, cesarmillaninc.com, grosses annual sales in the mid-seven figures, according to a company spokesman, chiefly from DVDs, books and merchandise like the Illusion Collar, designed by his wife to help control challenging dogs. Nearly 400,000 visitors are on the site monthly. Then there’s his Dog Psychology Center, a 43-acre mecca he calls a “Disneyland for dogs.” Under construction north of here, near where he and his family live, it will be the first of many such centers nationwide, he says.
According to MPH Entertainment, the production company that is Mr. Millan’s partner in all its many offshoots and co-owns the TV show with the producers who discovered him, he will be a $100 million business in a few years. And he says he’s just getting started.
“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!”
Ilusion is wry about this “light-bulb moment,” which she says initially made her angry. But then she realized that for her husband, all knowledge walks on four legs. His mantra of “exercise, discipline and affection” — the essential trio that he says keeps dogs (and apparently wives and anyone else) happy and healthy — was born that day. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Millan are a team.
“We’re what I call Mr. Talent and Mrs. Brains,” says Ilusion. “You can’t have one without the other.”
Cesar agrees: “My wife rehabilitated me.”
BACK in 1991, Mr. Millan’s English was poor, which made him reluctant to charge much for his door-to-door training services. “My goods were good, but my delivery wasn’t,” he says, recalling that his initial rate per session was $10. “We couldn’t even afford Pampers.” But his reputation was spreading.
One of his first clients was Jada Pinkett, then 20 and starring in a television sitcom. As he helped Ms. Pinkett, just 5 feet tall, become pack leader to four huge Rottweilers, they became friends. When Mr. Millan told her he wanted to be on TV, she leveled with him: he wasn’t ready. Then, she hired him a tutor in English. He studied for a year.
For all Mr. Millan learned during that period, the actress says he taught her even more.
“When Cesar came into my life, I was a young starlet,” she says. “I had all this energy and all this power at my fingertips, but I didn’t know necessarily what to do with it.” She credits him with helping her have good relationships with both canines and humans. (She married Will Smith in 1997.)
“We want to have our own self-fulfillment, and we’re not paying attention to what the dog needs,” says the actress, now Jada Pinkett Smith. “Then we’re throwing the dog into complete imbalance and wondering, What is the problem? That was a crazy discovery: Oh, my goodness, I wonder if I’m doing that in other relationships.”
The Smiths started recommending Mr. Millan to friends. The director Michael Bay needed help controlling his 230-pound mastiff, Mason. Later, he sought out Mr. Millan for help with another mastiff, Bonecrusher (a nod to the Transformers villain of the same name). Bones, as he is called, liked to attack small dogs. Mr. Millan brought a tiny dog to Mr. Bay’s house, as well as his sidekick, Daddy, a gentle pit bull that “Dog Whisperer” fans will recognize from his frequent appearances on the show. For $60 a day, Mr. Millan and Daddy shaped Bones right up.
“It was the oddest experience in the world,” says Mr. Bay. “He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say, ‘Here, doggie.’ He doesn’t pet the dog. It’s like this animalistic thing between him and the dogs. They immediately respected him.”
In 2002, after a newspaper article about Mr. Millan drew dozens of producers to his door, he teamed up with two of them, Sheila Emery and Kay Sumner, whom he picked because the dogs in his pack liked them best. That pair teamed with MPH, which had made its name with other successful reality-based cable shows.
The National Geographic Channel, which had started in the United States only in 2001, was interested but didn’t want to bankroll the entire production. It ordered 26 half-hours with the caveat that MPH provide deficit financing to get the show on the air — what Mr. Milio said eventually amounted to “a low seven-figure investment.” The upside was that MPH and Emery/Sumner retained copyrights to the show.
The channel, a joint venture of the National Geographic Society and Fox Cable Networks, controls television distribution in the United States and Canada. MPH and Emery/Sumner control worldwide home video and foreign sales and share that revenue with the channel. Mr. Millan takes a big slice of that same pie.
“His profit definition is the same as our profit definition,” Mr. Milio says. “We’re not doing the studio thing where we’re taking off 25 percent overhead and then interest on the money and all that stuff. He’s got a really great deal.”
Mr. Millan calls the deal, which he agreed to on instinct, a blessing. “The goal that God and I have together is the whole world transformed through a dog. God was my lawyer,” he says. “And so he’s going to bring you great people, and those great people are going to give you your fair share without you asking.”
Mr. Milio also gives the National Geographic Channel credit for taking the initial plunge. “TV runs on fear,” he says. “No one gets fired for saying no and having it become a hit two years down the road someplace else. They get fired when they say yes and it tanks.”
The show premiered in 2004, and its audience grew slowly, by word of mouth. That first season, it wasn’t in prime time and the channel did little to market it. But Mr. Millan was magnetic. “I’ve been in the business 30-some years,” says Mr. Milio, “and I’ve met three people who had that kind of magic. One was Jacques Cousteau. One was Jim Henson. And the third is Cesar.”
In Season 2, the show expanded to an hour and moved into prime time. That’s when things started to take off.
NOT everyone agrees with Mr. Millan’s methods. “Positivist” trainers like Ian Dunbar reject the idea that a submissive dog is a happy dog. Mr. Dunbar advocates treating dogs as companions, not followers. While Mr. Millan uses his hand like a mother dog uses her mouth — to nudge dogs to behave — Mr. Dunbar shuns physical corrections and relies instead on treats and rewards.
To each his own, says Mr. Millan, whose favored “tsst!” sound is a correction heard around the world. “It’s just that I think I know something you might not know,” he says. “An open-minded human can learn from anybody.”
Soon, more humans will be able to learn from him. This summer, after a special 100th episode (and a third Emmy nomination for Mr. Millan), the National Geographic Channel struck a deal with Fox to syndicate “Dog Whisperer” next fall. That means 50 million or so of the nation’s 120 million households that might not know him will get their chance to meet El Perrero.
“Here in America, the dogs take over,” says Mr. Millan, and he doesn’t have to look far for evidence. Ms. Winfrey did an episode of her show with Mr. Millan in which she outed herself for loving her dog Sophie “like I gave birth myself.” She called her dogs “little people with fur,” until Mr. Millan told her this might be “good therapy for the mankind, but not for the dog kind.”
Mr. Millan says Mr. Eisner, whose home he visited for a private consultation, told him there was no way his German shepherd would get on a treadmill. “I said, ‘Well, sir, that’s your opinion.’ In less than three minutes, the dog was on the treadmill,” he recalls.
Mr. Eisner was unavailable to comment, but Mr. Millan said that once the dog was on the treadmill, all the business titan could say was “amazing.” Then he just walked away. “Because you know, he can’t be wrong,” says Mr. Millan.
On another occasion, Mr. Millan spent eight Sundays in a row eating breakfast with Mr. Scott, the movie director, and his two Jack Russell terriers, Scottie and Matilda. “When you can actually direct 2,000 people in a movie called ‘Gladiator,’ that makes you a very powerful man,” says Mr. Millan. “But two Jack Russells controlled this man.”
So how did the Dog Whisperer help? Mr. Millan attributes his success with the terriers to “patience, and sitting down and enjoying his cigar habit and waiting until he is in a zone,” he adds of Mr. Scott, who declined to comment. (A representative confirmed Mr. Millan’s account but says the director does not smoke cigars.)
“They get into zones, all these powerful people,” Mr. Millan said. “And they give you 10 minutes to listen to you.” Of course, by this point, he was charging handsomely for his time — $10,000 to $100,000 for a private consultation, which he usually donates to his foundation.
“What I learned about wealthy, wealthy, wealthy people is money talks. So you charge them a lot of money; you speak their language,” he says. “I don’t mind. I’m very happy with $100,000. Really. They really pay attention.”
ON a recent hot September day, Mr. Millan is standing outside his trailer in a San Fernando Valley suburb. On a break before shooting an episode about Spike, a year-old husky with a penchant for eating pool furniture, Mr. Millan speaks gratefully about the opportunities America has given him, and how he is determined to give back.
But when it’s suggested that Mr. Millan — trim in a white T-shirt, black track pants with red racing stripes and a big diamond in his left ear — now has more money and material things than he could ever have imagined growing up, he calmly, assertively objects.
“No, I want a plane,” he corrects. “Because people want to meet my 10 dogs, and I don’t want to put them in cargo. I just want them to ride comfortably, temperature adjusted, water when they need it. It’s not a luxury. It’s a necessity, you know, from a dog perspective.”
Despite his success, he says he never forgets that being a true pack leader means taking care of others, not just yourself. “Sacrifice is a must in any relationship. Animals are not selfish,” he says. He and his wife finance numerous efforts to promote animal health. Their Shelter Stars program provides educational materials to people who adopt pets; they also sponsor a spay-and-neuter campaign and have teamed up with Yale to develop “Mutt-i-grees,” a curriculum based on Mr. Millan’s teachings. The goal is to foster empathy in young children. And, if he has his way, someday every state will have a taxpayer-supported dog rehabilitation center.
Mr. Milio recalls how, at the end of the show’s first season, he teased Mr. Millan at the wrap party about his growing stardom. “If you get famous, you can’t, you know, ask for a bigger trailer and become this difficult guy and throw stuff,” Mr. Milio said.
Mr. Millan nodded, looking, as usual, utterly unworried. “The dogs won’t let me be unstable,” he replied. “If I’m unstable, they won’t follow me. And then, I’m in big trouble.”
Originally found at the New York Times
Published: October 10, 2009
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/business/11dog.html?scp=1&sq=Whispering+to+Rottweilers&st=nyt
