When Did It Become So Easy to Be an Expert?

By Anders H. Davidsen
SAHD – Centre for Behaviour and Mentality

There have never been more dog schools and experts. Yet there have never been more dogs with problems either. How can that be?
Dog schools are churning out “experts”.

I have written a little about it.

WHEN DID IT BECOME SO EASY TO BE AN EXPERT?

A troubling pattern is emerging in today’s dog world: more and more people call themselves “experts”. After only a few weekend seminars, an online package and a final assignment, someone is given the title of expert. With a diploma in hand and a couple of well-rehearsed phrases, they go out into the world as behaviour specialists, advisers and instructors—ready to guide others in matters involving life, trust and interaction.

But expertise is not something handed to you. It is not a certificate you print out. It takes shape over time, through experience, reflection and—perhaps most importantly—mistakes you learn from. Yet the term has become so diluted that it almost means nothing. So what does it really mean to move towards expertise?

Some may have heard the claim that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. The figure became widely known through Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers and is based on research by psychologist Anders Ericsson, who spent decades studying what makes people truly skilled in fields such as music, sport and chess. But the rule is often misunderstood.

Ericsson never said that you become an expert simply by doing something for a long time. His point was that expertise develops through deliberate, purposeful and challenging practice—not by doing the same thing over and over. You have to keep working on what you have not yet mastered, seek feedback, question yourself and adjust what you do. It is not about having been active for a long time. It is about how you have used that time—and what you have learned along the way.

In practice, 10,000 hours means working with dogs full-time for around five years, with a high degree of reflection and development throughout. If you work part-time, perhaps ten hours a week, it could take fifteen to twenty years to build the same depth—provided that you actually learn along the way. But no one becomes wise simply by keeping at it for a long time. You become wiser by asking questions, making mistakes and learning from them.

And this is where we see a shift. What was once understood as a process is now presented as a product.

The market for dog-related education has exploded. There are courses that give you impressive titles after a few weekend seminars and a couple of digital assignments. You learn some methods, some terms, some techniques—and are then sent out into the world as a specialist. Many of these programmes cost a great deal and are marketed as the way to “make a living from your passion”. What they rarely mention is that helping owners and dogs with real problems takes more than technique. It takes judgement. Perspective. Experience. And the kind of insight that does not come in a package, but has to grow over time.

The biggest problem is not that the programmes are short, but that they shape an attitude: the idea that it is actually supposed to happen quickly. That you do not need to live with uncertainty, make mistakes or spend years developing understanding. And something fundamental then disappears: the willingness to mature.

What happens when you receive a diploma and a title long before you have developed professional confidence? You stop digging deeper into the field. After all, you have already “become someone”. There is no room for doubt, and no time for a process—when everything has to move fast and everyone has to appear confident. Knowledge then becomes something you use to market yourself, rather than something you build within yourself. You are no longer on your way into a profession; you are on your way out of the profession and into a role.

And when speed becomes more important than substance, we stop developing professionals. We develop brands.

This is reinforced by how easy it is today to look professional. With a few ready-made templates, a smart logo and some pictures of yourself interacting with a cute dog, you can create a website that looks credible. Add a catchy title and many people will assume you know what you are doing. But there is a big difference between looking like an expert and being one.

Being able to use professional terms, have a visual identity and maintain a social-media presence says nothing about your ability to understand a dog in crisis. Or a relationship that has fallen apart. Or a person living with shame, frustration and hopelessness.

People who truly understand their field do not hide behind façades. They show their work. They show their dogs—not as perfect display pieces, but as living beings in development. Being a professional also means being transparent: allowing people to see how knowledge is applied in practice. And often the difference becomes visible in the small sideways glance at one’s own pack.

At the same time, both in practice and in public, we see the consequences of this superficial expert role. When methods do not work and the adviser does not understand why, the blame is rarely turned inward. Instead, the dog is blamed. Or the owner. Or “the genes”. In recent days this has been visible on NRK, where, in the wake of this, I have questioned how professionals reach conclusions too quickly—often without a holistic assessment and without real insight into the relationship, sense of safety and life circumstances.

When confidence in one’s role is greater than one’s understanding of the work, it is easy to reach a conclusion—and dangerously difficult to adjust it.

What the dog field needs is not more “experts”.

We need more people who think.

People who know there is no single method that suits everyone. Who understand when they do not understand enough. Who take responsibility for their advice—and for the consequences it may have. People who dare to stay with the process, rather than merely deliver answers.

And one more thing:

Who is actually training these “experts”?

Far too often, it turns out that the people offering such programmes also lack the professional grounding they ought to have—in several cases, they are nowhere near it. They may have built a course that looks good, with attractive colours and wording, and found a business idea that works—but lack depth, a holistic perspective and critical insight. Yet they sell titles, package solutions and shape new “experts” in their own image.

What could have been professional development has become a market that is more financially lucrative than professionally sustainable. It costs lives—in the literal sense.

And the result? There are more experts. The problems grow larger.

And dog owners in Norway are left with the bill, while more dead dogs are taken to crematoria.

Some professional communities—ours among them—have therefore chosen not to offer quick certifications or ready-made titles. Not because they are unpopular or would be a financial gold mine, but because they would be irresponsible. We do not believe in shortcuts to professional depth. We believe in work over time. In allowing oneself to develop and mature. In understanding before acting.

Because expertise cannot be bought.

It has to be built, and that takes time— a long time.