It’s a Ruff Job, but Someone’s Gotta Do It

They call him Dr. Woof.

As self-described “dog trainer to the stars,” Matthew Margolis has given obedience lessons to celebrity pooches, presided over L.A.’s Canine Court and grappled with the delicate matter of how to describe a pet that isn’t housebroken.

Winner: “Poofie makes chocolates in the house.”

He’s also co-written such books as “When Good Dogs Do Bad Things” (Little, Brown & Co., 1993) and, coming soon, “The Good Shepherd.” (No, it’s not a religious text--unless you happen to worship German shepherds.)

He’s also begun appearing as part of Prodigy’s weekly “sex, dogs and rock ‘n’ roll” chat-line programming.

On a recent Tuesday, for example, one online subscriber asked Margolis what to do when his dog mounts his wife’s leg. The answer: “If you and your wife don’t mind and it makes your dog happy. . . .”

But most of the time, Margolis can be found across the street from a cemetery, in a Monterey Park kennel that humorist Margo Kaufman once dubbed “the Betty Ford Treatment Center for Dogs, a three-week rehabilitation camp for chronic shoe-eaters, barkers and other offenders.”

From there, the 54-year-old Queens, N.Y., native has parlayed dog obedience into a six-figure income, regular TV appearances and a home in Beverly Hills.

Still, glitches have bubbled on occasion, including a fraud lawsuit filed by actor John Candy in 1992, grumblings from some other trainers that Margolis is overrated, and a recent National Enquirer cover photo of Liz Taylor’s latest ex, Larry Fortensky, handcuffed by police while wearing one of Margolis’ “Woof” shirts. (Fortensky was a client.)

There was also a financial downturn after the Northridge earthquake.

“After the quake, people weren’t thinking food, shelter and dog training,” he says. “We had some rough times.”

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Margolis’ canine connection began as a youngster in New York City, when he brought home one too many stray mutts and his parents told him, “Either the dogs go or you go.”

Margolis says he and his four-legged compadres camped out in Central Park for several days (Kids: Don’t try this at home!) until his folks relented.

Later, after finishing high school, he sold cosmetics for Yardley and took a brief stab at acting before a career-aptitude test steered him toward the world of choke collars and paws.

He learned the trade from a 350-pound former Army captain with a shaved head, Arthur J. Haggerty. It was 1968. Margolis spent the next eight years tutoring New York canines with his “love, praise and affection” technique.

He also co-wrote his first book, “Good Dog, Bad Dog” (NAL-Dutton, 1974), which landed him on Johnny Carson’s “Tonight Show” and sent his career into orbit.

One of Margolis’ first celebrity clients was a beagle owner he knew simply as Mr. Heller.

“What do you do?” Margolis asked his gray-haired customer one day.

“I’m a writer,” was the reply.

“No kidding?” Margolis said. “I am too.” He proudly dug out a copy of his dog book and offered to autograph it. “By the way,” he added, “what did you write?”

“ ‘Catch-22,’ ” answered Joseph Heller.

Today, Margolis’ graduation list of celebrity pooches includes Madonna’s pit bull, Cher’s Akita, Whoopi Goldberg’s Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Ed McMahon’s golden retrievers, to drop just a few names.

Of course, it would be way more interesting if the dogs’ problems matched the quirks of their owners--if, for example, Madonna’s woofer took out ads for breeding partners or desecrated church images in the backyard.

But Margolis says movie star pets are no different from their hoi polloi counterparts. McMahon’s dogs dug up his lawn, Cher’s Akita relieved itself indoors, and the late Jimmy Stewart’s canines barked and jumped uncontrollably.

“Everybody always asks me what the celebrity dogs are like,” Margolis says. “My answer is that the dogs don’t know their owners are celebrities.”

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For the most part, Margolis’ Hollywood link has been good for business. But it has backfired at least once. Four years ago, the late comic actor John Candy sued Margolis over a 3-year-old, German-born shepherd named Label vom Muhlenbruch.

According to court papers, Candy bought the dog from Margolis for $19,000, then discovered the beast had a rare eating disorder and requested a refund.

When Margolis promised but failed to pay, Candy sued, alleging that the trainer not only misrepresented the dog’s health but also its value. (The going rate for shepherds, he claimed, was $1,500 to $4,500.)

When the story came out, Margolis quickly settled, according to the late actor’s attorney on the case.

Margolis says that there was a “miscommunication” and that the matter was settled the day the lawsuit was filed, with both sides agreeing not to discuss the case.

The incident may be the only time Margolis got bad press. Most reports focus on the lighter side of his business, such as his stint as a “judge” in L.A.’s doggy court, a late ‘80s experiment by the L.A. city attorney’s office. There, he tried to mediate disputes over barking or other nuisance dogs before they further clogged the human court system.

He also has done a special for PBS and directed a prison program that taught inmates to train dogs. Currently he serves as resident canine expert on TV’s “Good Morning America.”

Not everyone in the field is impressed. In New York, he had a reputation for being “more of a salesman than a trainer,” says Warren Eckstein, an animal-behavior expert with a nationally syndicated radio program. A number of Los Angeles-area trainers also consider Margolis overrated, Eckstein says, although he notes that the profession is fiercely competitive and animosity between trainers is common.

Margolis, who has a staff of 30, says there’s nothing wrong with being a good salesman: “That’s how I got my business. . . . But I also walk the walk and talk the talk as a trainer. . . . I’ve written 11 books, I run a school to teach other dog trainers.”

Geoff Simmons of the Humane Society of the United States in Sacramento, says Margolis “seems to have a fairly decent reputation” and that his methods “are right in line with Humane Society standards.”

Margolis says one of his main goals in seeking publicity is to spread the message of training animals by using positive reinforcement. “Remember the 11th Commandment,” he says when signing off his Prodigy chat line. “Never hit your dog.”

He insists he’ll continue promoting that cause to the grave: “I’ll never retire. I think work keeps you alive.”

In that case, why not add a species? Maybe . . . cats?

Not interested, Margolis says: “Cats don’t have that many problems.”