Hattie can’t decide which book to chew up first. (Courtesy photo)

Someone asked me the other day what I’ve been reading lately. I realized, with something close to shock, that I haven’t read anything since Hattie came. Anything, that is, besides books about her.

Hattie is a 3-month-old black Lab, complete with soulful brown eyes and floppy ears, who entered my life when she was 8 weeks old. She was, and still is, what we might politely refer to as “solid”— almost as wide as she is long, which makes for a very cute waddle as she walks. Determined to do it right this time, to raise a well-mannered dog who knows who’s in charge, I started re-reading a couple of books I had used with Hattie’s predecessor—even though they hadn’t worked. The books agree on a couple of important points—that there is a short window of opportunity in which to turn your puppy into a good dog for life, and that it is essential for the owner to be the alpha. I know the importance of the latter, having learned from experience what happens when a dog runs the house, but I have a lot of trouble thinking of myself as head wolf. I’m still struggling with this—even though Hattie is small, she’s no pushover. Then there’s the idea that socialization starts at 8 weeks and there’s only a short time for the behavior of the owner to determine the whole future of the dog’s life. Talk about pressure!

I have read The Art of Raising a Puppy by the monks of New Skete over and over. Their approach is a kind and gentle firmness. They reiterate the alpha idea: “Your pup needs the guiding, stabilizing presence of a competent and understanding pack leader.” All right, I’ll try harder at the wolf thing! They say that with the right kind of training collar, a quick correction on the leash deters unwanted behavior. Even though Hattie doesn’t have the monk-recommended collar, she and I set off around the block. It soon becomes clear to me that this regular collar isn’t working. The monks would be appalled to see us: I give a quick pull on the leash, Hattie ignores it, and now the leash is at full tension, with me pulling at one end and Hattie balking at the other, head down, butt up. Afraid I’ll strangle her, I give in and let her have some slack, even though I know no self-respecting alpha would do so. The monks believe that treats are neither necessary nor as helpful to long-term training as is an approach based solely on praise. I like the idea of not using food as a reward—not for myself, of course, but for Hattie. She certainly responds to praise, but as soon as I’m quiet, she goes back to doing what she wants. I love the gentle, serene tone of the book, and I’m moved by the monks’ belief that dogs draw us out of ourselves and root us in nature: “They bring out a deeper part of ourselves, a part more compassionate and less arrogant, more willing to share life with another life. And whenever this happens, we know the real meaning of happiness.” Maybe if Hattie and I were at a monastery, we could make this work. As it is, I start to panic that my window is closing and I’m not getting very far along the good-dog path.

According to Barbara Woodhouse there are No Bad Dogs. She simply won’t have it. Sort of like the late ’70s version of the Dog Whisperer, Woodhouse tells owners to assert their authority and command respect. Her no-nonsense tone pervades the book: dull owners make dull dogs; owners must make a wild show of affection when the dog responds correctly; no tidbits for training, because when you stop giving them, the dog will think you’re a fraud. Hattie and I set off on a walk around the block the Woodhouse way. Hattie keeps tugging on the leash to explore, and I try to be Barbara and jerk on the leash “gaily,” while speaking to Hattie in a “happy voice.” Of course, I don’t have Barbara’s thick-linked choke chain, which may explain why my perkiness quickly turns to annoyance.

I am about to invest in a training collar when a friend who survived her dog’s puppyhood lends me her new bible, and with renewed optimism, I start to read Positive Perspectives by Pat Miller. Unlike the ascetic monks, Miller believes in the power of treats, the yummier, the better. Just reading her recommendations, from pretzels to string cheese to roast beef, I can imagine Hattie’s mouth watering and picture her subsequent prostrate obedience. (And I can visualize our gaining 20 pounds.) Holding a cream cheese-swathed dog cookie, I ask Hattie to sit. She nearly falls over herself getting her bottom on the floor. Aha! Further reading describes the clicker method of dog training. The owner plays Pavlov and as soon as the dog follows a command, the metal, hand-held clicker is depressed and food is given. The theory is that a dog doesn’t automatically want to please its owner (Oh, Hattie, say it isn’t so) and needs to be conditioned to do so. Timing is important—more pressure!—the clicker must sound at the instant the dog obeys in order for the dog to connect the action with the reward. Hattie and I set off around the block on a clicker walk, with the mandatory regular collar. I have a pocketful of treats, the clicker, the leash, and a pair of gloves. I call Hattie and when she responds, I twist the wristband on the clicker around so I can press it, drop a glove in the process, and fumble for the treat. The timing is way off, but Hattie doesn’t seem to notice. She takes the treat and then returns to tugging at the leash to check out some interesting smell in the leaves. I repeat the drill: command, click, feed. But I find it hard to tell exactly when she starts to pay attention and so am never sure if I’m clicking at the right time. This walk takes the longest time yet, and my hands are freezing. I’m not sure I fully buy into clicker training; it feels a bit demeaning to the dog. That’s the thing with this approach: you have to believe that a dog is a dog.

My older daughter lent me her gently-used Golden Retrievers for Dummies. There’s a lot of common sense here, and it seems a compromise between the extremes of the monks and Barbara on the one hand, and the food-heavy clicker system on the other. Hattie and I make it around the block in record time, with some treats and lots of perky cajoling. The problem with the book is that every page makes me feel that I was totally misguided—if not downright dumb—to have gotten a Lab rather than a great and magnificent golden.

I look at the family room floor strewn with dog toys, even though the monks say a dog has one toy that’s his, and at Hattie curled up in the chair she’s not supposed to be in. Shall I get her off the chair with the clicker and a yummy treat, or with a stern command and praise? Or shall I just leave her there and get started on a good novel?