“I still hate it.”

I understood her frustration. She really had tried to memorize facts of geology and the weather systems of the Mississippi Delta and Piedmont regions of the Southeast. But no matter how hard she studied, the science teacher seemed to throw obscure questions at the kids that I would have thought more appropriate for a high school or introductory college class.

The new semester had just begun when Helen asked me about coming along for the first scans. The next morning, we were standing at the bus stop.

“Do you have any tests this week?” I asked. Her face turned white.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“I think I have a science test today.”

I was furious. “Helen, you just had a three-day weekend, and you didn’t study at all?”

“I forgot.”

“And, on top of that, you want to skip school to see the Dog Project?”

Her eyes were starting to tear up. “I know the material.”

“How can you know the material if you didn’t study?”

There was no answer to the question. She got on the bus, and I walked home frustrated that she wasn’t prioritizing her schoolwork.

Both Kat and I were ready to ground Helen as soon as she got home that night. In the past, when she received less than an 80 on her tests, she would lose computer privileges until she brought her grade up. While this had been an effective strategy to prevent her from wasting time on computer games, the time that was freed up didn’t generally translate into more studying. Computer time was exchanged for sulking time. She was well on her way to perfecting the art of the silent treatment.

From the day she joined our household, it was clear that Callie was an alpha dog. In Cesar Millan’s terminology, she wanted to be pack leader. She hopped on furniture whenever she wanted. When Lyra started to chew on a bone, Callie would dart in to take it away, only to drop it on the ground a few feet away, indicating that she determined who would be allowed to eat the “prey.” And when Callie settled into our bed at night, it was almost always in a position uncomfortable for the human occupants. The expression “let sleeping dogs lie” should have been broadcast above her head, because any attempts to move her to a more harmonious location were met with the most vicious snarling possible from the little creature.

Similarly, her insatiable appetite meant that all food had to be pushed back from the edge of the kitchen counter. With her long snout, she could grasp any morsel of food within three inches, even if she couldn’t see it. She once licked clean precisely half of a pumpkin pie, which was the extent her tongue could reach. Every time we caught her with paws up on the counter, we yelled at her to get down. Although she complied with the command, it never prevented her from doing it again, usually within minutes.

It was this behavioral stubbornness that made us doubt Callie’s ability to participate in the Dog Project. I eventually realized that the problematic aspects of her behavior had nothing to do with her ability to learn. She could not only learn a complex task like going into the MRI scanner, she could actually learn to enjoy it.

I wondered whether something similar was going on with Helen.

Every time she did poorly on a science test, we used the equivalent of a squirt bottle or a shake can to curb the behavior: a scolding followed by a mild punishment. Punishment can be very effective in shaping behavior, but it works only when there is a credible threat of punishment present. This is so important, it bears repeating: only the threat of punishment can change behavior. As soon as the threat disappears, behavior reverts to its natural state. Punishment after the fact serves only to establish a credible threat in the future but does nothing to change what has already happened.

Helen’s lack of studying was water under the bridge. Grounding her would not change the inevitable poor grade she was about to receive. Would it make her study more in the future? Possibly, but only under the constant threat of punishment. There had to be a better way.

I asked Kat what she thought.

“I don’t like the idea of punishing our kids for not studying either,” she said.

“I wish Helen would want to study,” I said. “But if I had to study from that textbook, I probably wouldn’t do it either.”

“What can we do?” Kat asked.

“Maybe we need more of the carrot and less of the stick.”

We put our plan into motion at the dinner table that night. Not surprisingly, Helen didn’t think she had done very well on the test and picked at her food sullenly. Maddy sensed the tension and remained silent.

With great solemnity, I announced, “Mommy and I have been thinking very seriously about the Dog Project.”

Bracing for the inevitable hammer about to fall, Helen didn’t look up from her plate.

“Helen,” I continued, “you really want to see the scanning on the big day?”

“Yes,” she pleaded.

“Okay. Mommy and I have discussed this, and because this is so special and may never happen again, we want to let you go.”

“Really?” she exclaimed.

“This is important to you?” I asked.

She nodded vigorously.

“Good,” I continued, “because there is a condition.”

“What?” Helen asked.

“In order for you to miss school, you have to pull your science grade up to an A,” I explained. “If you have an A in the class, you can come. The Dog Project is very important to me, and I would really like you to be there to share in it.”

“I can do that!” she agreed.

For the next several days, the prospect of positive reinforcement had the desired effect. Although Helen still didn’t enjoy studying science, there was a noticeable decrease in homework resistance. She threw herself into making flash cards and made an earnest attempt to memorize the material. Kat and I patted ourselves on our backs, celebrating our success at applying dog-training theory to preteen behaviorism.

But like dog training, the effectiveness is in the details.

Callie was making progress in the training in large part because I was beginning to learn how to make it clear what I expected of her. Baby steps, coupled with consistent reward, make for effective learning. But if the desired behavior is too difficult, then the reward becomes unobtainable and motivation declines.

With Helen, the desired behavior was clear: get an A. But what I had neglected to consider was the inherent unpredictability of her science teacher. I mistakenly assumed that if Helen put in the necessary effort, she would be rewarded with a good grade.

Big mistake.

A week later, despite all of her efforts, she returned home with a 75 on a quiz. This pretty much put out of reach the possibility of raising her grade to an A, at least by the time the Dog Project launched.

“I really tried,” she said. “He makes the tests too hard.”

Now Kat and I were in a difficult position. Helen had failed to achieve the goal we had set. If this were Callie, I would simply make her try again until she did what I wanted. But not only were we running out of time with the scan day a week away, but I also hadn’t accounted for an element out of my control: the fairness of the test.

Certainly Helen could have tried harder. With half the school year gone by, she knew what the tests were like. But that wasn’t really the point. She had done what I had asked, which was to redouble her efforts at studying.