My sister, Claire, always carries dog treats with her. It’s her way of preventing petty crimes.

I’ve never thought of curbing theft by handing out rewards, but apparently she’s doing it, and her subject, Percy, knows the arrangement. He hasn’t been stopped for shoplifting yet, so evidently it works.

Maybe we have something to learn.

Dog training has eluded us. We’ve tried to get Farrah, our latest adopted canine, to come when called. It’s been a frustrating and futile effort. She responds when Carol claps, racing to the car to leap into the back seat. She loves the car. Call her name, however, and she doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when it’s time for dinner, she doesn’t respond and will leave her kibble untouched until she decides it’s time, just to be defiant, I’m guessing. It’s aggravating.

Farrah is the smallest of the dogs to be a part of our family. A mix of German shepherd and Corgi, she weighs about 25 pounds. Her day is packed between bursts of high energy and standing guard over our yard from first and second floor windows, ever vigilant for squirrels, a cat that may stray into the yard or, as happened recently at 2 a.m.,  a coyote wandering the premises. I awoke to her growling, followed by intimidating barks, hackles raised as she stood on a couch glaring at the yard.

“What’s up Farrah? It’s too early for this,” I said as if she would understand. She didn’t look at me, but cranked up the volume. Finally, I commanded “stop!” That had no effect. The outdoor lights were off, but the snow offered the reflection of a mangy coyote beating a retreat to our neighbor’s yard. Farrah’s alarm had been effective. She quieted down and returned to her, well, actually Carol’s, bed to sleep the rest of the night.

Over the years we’ve sought to train our dogs, and with the exception of our last two companions, Ollie, a spotted coonhound, and Farrah, have successfully taught them to know their names and follow the basics, which include “come” and “stop.” To do it, we even enrolled one of them, Binky [don’t blame us, he came with the name] in a class held at the RI School for the Deaf. I found it ironic that a class for canines that don’t respond to their names be held there. Binky was a C student, but at least he came when called.

Claire’s dog, Percy, is a Portuguese water dog and remarkably obedient for a rambunctious adolescent. There’s one exception. He’s a shoplifter.

There’s a pet store not far from Springfield, Massachusetts, that Claire frequents. I haven’t visited it, but in addition to all the supplies you might need there’s a large section devoted to toys. Percy seems to think they’re there just for him. He’ll sniff them and then latch on to one, prepared to head out of the store. Claire doesn’t admonish him, but rather reaches into her pocket for a treat. Percy drops the toy, which Claire returns to its bin or places in her carriage. Store alarms remain silent.

Claire’s story got me thinking we should all have a pocket for treats. Imagine having a pleasant word for loved ones, friends and even strangers when things appear to be heading off the rails.  Who knows what that might do promote a better world.

Maybe that’s what I need to do when I call Farrah and she fails to come – dangle a treat and praise her stubbornness.