reading

“For decades Phil Callaway has made us think, smile, and thank God. This new book is a welcome event.”

“Callaway could write about owning a shrew and I’d be entertained, amused, and taught something profound. I had no idea we could learn so much from dogs and have this much fun doing so. This book is tender, uplifting, and funny.”

“Phil Callaway has the extraordinary gift of writing about ordinary life in a way that makes you laugh, cry, reflect, and gain hope—all in the same paragraph. This book might inspire you to get a dog. It will definitely compel you to live a better life.”

“If laughter is the best medicine, Phil is the best apothecary. In this wonderful book about the goodness of a dog, he serves up humor in huge doses and somehow manages to be profound and hilarious in a single breath. Read this story of the two Mojos and prepare to get your own mojo back.”

“Tricks My Dog Taught Me made me laugh over and over. And in the vulnerability of that laughter, Phil managed to tug at my heart and challenge my soul. This book will stay with you a long time—it’s a refreshing and truthful companion on a life-journey that can be scary and exhausting.”

“Dogs teach us about life, death, and everything in between. Phil Callaway supplies the laughter. Don’t miss this long walk with a good friend.”

“Phil Callaway has done it again. In his oddball yet endearing and deeply resonant way, he connects with our human experience and gives light, laughter, insight, and spiritual encouragement. Even if you’re not a dog person, you’ll love this book.”

“I don’t have a dog, but reading Tricks My Dog Taught Me awakened me to the homespun wisdom other peoples’ dogs can teach me. I guffawed so loudly, my airplane seatmates wanted in on the joke.”

“Thank God for another wonderful work by Phil Callaway! Along with lots of laugh-out-loud humor, Phil delivers sage advice that will inspire, inform, and enlighten you.”

“What a fun read! I loved this book and smiled all the way through. This is pleasant, relaxing, insightful. Easy to read, yet full of truth!”

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Cover photos © Annette Sheff, Martin Allinger, Lobke Peers, Daniiel / Shutterstock

This book contains stories in which people’s names and some details of their situations have been changed to protect their privacy.

For David, my wise and discerning nephew who has read each of my books multiple times.

Lover of life and God.

But not a big fan of dogs.

Yet.

1. Virtues—Anecdotes. 2. Social skills—Anecdotes. 3. Human-animal relationships—Anecdotes. 4. Dogs—Anecdotes. 5. Christian life—Anecdotes. 6. Callaway, Phil, 1961—Anecdotes. I. Title.

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While writing this book, I was accosted by several who snickered at my title and the thought of a dog teaching us anything worthwhile. “You haven’t met my dog,” was how they put it. One confessed, “My dog barks at everything but did nothing when a burglar showed up. I think he helped him carry stuff out. What can I learn from that? Kindness? Servanthood?” Another divulged that his dog routinely lies in front of the tires of his parked car and turns up his nose at dog food, preferring the neighbor’s kitty litter box. “We would never allow that behavior in our children,” he said.

And he was right. Some of the characteristics we observe in our dogs should not be emulated. For one thing, dogs are incorrigible liars. “Let me outside!” they beg with a grin. “I won’t touch the garbage!” But they do touch the garbage. “Take me with you!” they say with their tails. “I won’t be a problem!” But they will be a problem.

They are also among the world’s most adept con artists. They can pick your wallet clean, determine when you sleep and when you rise, bite a million Americans a year, and determine which friends are welcomed and which are snarled at.¹

They steal unattended cookies, mark your territory as theirs, and bark at hair dryers, violins, ornamental cats, and anything that moves faster than a toddler.

Certain dogs have been known to commandeer and hold hostage entire households. An acquaintance, whose name I shall wisely conceal, walks on eggshells in his own home. He tiptoes around his snarling schnauzer, fearful of disturbing its sleep. The dog adores the man’s wife but will sometimes try to keep him from her, guarding doorways and barking wildly when he enters a room. His theme song is “Who Let the Dogs In?” The schnauzer has this man exactly where he wants him. He’s playing him like the bagpipes.

The ancient Romans used the word Canis to mean “parasite, hanger-on.” But most naysayers will admit that, if nothing else, dogs are brilliant at discovering a chink in our armor, of weaseling their way into our hearts. Who wouldn’t admire the cunning of a creature with so many woeful habits that is allowed to share the front seat of our cars?

This is the story of one of those dogs. And how that dog changed a family. Forever.

For many months a picture clung to our fridge. It was a school assignment brought home by our son Jeffery. He’d finished it on time. He’d received stellar marks. I was proud. And a little surprised. At the top he had written, “Wut I wont for Krismus.” Below the words was a tree etched in crayon and crowned with a yellow star. Beneath the tree was a gopher. Or a sweater perhaps. I wasn’t sure.

Thanks to my wife, the artwork stayed there, causing a small lump to form in my throat with each glass of juice, each midnight snack.

“But, honey,” I protested, “with all that’s going on in our lives, there’s no way.” My wife didn’t say much. She just kept it on exhibit from November to July with Miss Plett’s comment at the top—“I hope this works, Jeffery.”

On a rainy August evening, Jeffery, his sister, Rachael, and his brother, Stephen, couldn’t stop grinning as we stood before an indoor kennel.

Selecting the family pet is no cakewalk. You stand before a litter of three squint-eyed little troublemakers, and with one simple nod of your head, you must neglect two of them.

I examined the scoundrels. Number One was a robust little rogue with ink-black eyes, puffed-out chest, and ample attitude. He was a manly dog with real possibilities. With any luck, I could make something of him.

Number Two nudged him aside, almost smiled at me, and then bit his younger sister. I’m no dog’s fool. The smile was as fake as a Hong Kong Rolex. “Not him,” said Stephen past his braces. Teenagers can spot a poser a mile away.

The owner told us the female was already taken, so we were left with Mr. Attitude, the boy cub with “pick me” eyes.

“This is it?” I asked, which didn’t come out right. I knew what it was. It was a setup. My wife, Ramona, had brought me here with our three children—thirteen, eleven, and ten—all of them prepped and prepared to vote. To think the decision was up to me was a brief fantasy I allowed myself.

“Well,” said the owner, “there’s this little… ” and she reached into the pocket of her hoodie. An ear flopped out and then retreated. “Come on,” she coaxed. “He doesn’t like the light.” Her voice was apologetic, the voice you use when your sister won’t emerge from her room for a blind date you’ve been party to all week.

“We’ve named him Elvis. He’s the runt. Whines a lot. Teeth are crooked. Can’t get much for him. Think we’ll just keep him.”

“May I?” I can’t remember which child said it, but all three stepped forward together and reached out as if they’d rehearsed.

Elvis dug his claws into the hoodie, but the owner finally tugged from her pocket a whimpering, diminutive fur-ball—part Ewok, part kitten. Toffee brown at the shoulders, his milk-chocolate kneesocks rose above boots of white.

I cringed. Like Elvis, I’d been dragged along on this venture. I didn’t mind dogs, but I had no time for one. Besides, I’d always had large dogs, manly dogs, dogs your friends would address as Bud before bending respectfully to scratch their ears. It helped a little that this was a boy dog. But he had no spirit. Disgruntled at being unpocketed, he promptly warmed up his feeble vocal chords and emitted the soft, mournful howl of an animal deprived of mother’s milk. Then he piddled on my son’s arm.

“Hmm… ” I smiled. “My wife doesn’t want a boy. They’re not so easy, you know?”

Ramona snickered. “You’re not kidding,” she muttered. We were wedged in the middle of a substantial argument that day, and I thought the snicker had a bit of an edge to it.

The kids quickly warmed to the little wimp though. “Let’s… ” It was all my daughter could manage as she cradled him. Looking at me, she batted her eyes. “Can we? Please?” I was fine until then. When she batted her eyes I was cheese in a barbecue.

And so it was that we found ourselves driving home with a hound the size of my hand howling in the backseat. As the frightened howl took on increasingly robust proportions, I muttered, “Who’s gonna feed him?”

“So,” I said through my teeth in a voice only audible in the front seat, “we just spent hundreds of dollars. Dog. Kennel. Food. Shots.”

“But look at the kids’ faces,” my wife said. “Plus he was on sale. Remember?”

“A discounted dog,” I said, pulling into our driveway and shaking my head. “A Malteze-shih tzu.”

We had a rule in those days. No one gets out of the van until we complete a silly family tradition, fast fading as the kids grew older.

They responded together, all of them looking at the dog. “Because we’re not all there.”

I couldn’t have summed it up better myself. Were we crazy? This dog could not have arrived at a more inopportune time.

I wondered what the dog thought of his new cappuccino-colored house on Eighth Street, its yard littered with bicycles and skateboards. I wouldn’t have to wait long. His first act was to toddle off to the backyard, glance sneakily back at me, and wiggle under our garden shed. Bent low, I craned my neck to see what he was up to. Scooting the length of the shed, he pulled his back paws through an escape hatch at the other end. How a six-inch mutt could move so fast, I had no idea. From there, some sixth sense steered him due west toward the bungalow where his mother lived a mile away. The kids laughed as I tracked him down. “Go, Dad!” they yelled.

Finally I corralled and held up the tiny creature. “Stay,” I commanded, as you would a toddler. The pup squirmed and looked past me. “I don’t want to put you in the kennel,” I threatened, nodding at the blue cage-like box on our back deck. The dog squirmed some more, so I let him down. He rolled over, hoping for a scratch. Three sets of hands obliged.

From day one, my expectations for the dog were low. Be clean, loveable, pettable, and loyal. Find me charming. Know that I am the alpha male. The leader of the pack. I am to be obeyed and, if necessary, feared. Under no circumstance are you to chew table legs, slippers, or dress shoes. Guests are not for sniffing, licking, or lunging upon. The trash can is not a buffet. The carpet is not for dragging bones across. Nor bottoms. The neighbor’s kitty litter box is not a cookie jar.

For all my gruffness, the animal seemed to know I have been a dog person all my life. A pushover. A softy. With the exception of a few years here and there, we always seemed to have a spare dog around the house. Most were big dogs. Dogs a kid could ride. And feed hay. Mom seemed to think that a house wasn’t a home until you threw in a set of four legs and a waggly tail.

The first was Inky, a jet-black terrier with mournful eyes and a lopped tail. Inky was in trouble from the start. I brought him along for hide-and-seek only once. He was kicked out. “Unfair advantage,” said Steve Porr. “Leave the dog at home.” Inky’s major downfall was his fondness for surprising people. Folks strolling by our house late at night, gazing upward, admiring the northern lights, thanking God for his awesome creation, had no idea how fast they could run until Inky showed them. That was his gift, I suppose. Bringing out the best in people. Helping them scream their loudest, run their fastest, and write the most articulate letters to my parents.

When I asked my busy father what happened to Inky, he said, “Sold him to a glue factory.” Mom was more wordy about it. She said they found a better home for him on a farm, where he could run free. It helped me sleep at night, thinking of Inky reclining on the floor of the glue factory after a stroll in the grass and a drink from a stream.

After a brief hiatus, we visited the farm of Mr. Yule, a kindhearted Tennessean, renowned for his ornate carvings and substantive collection of dogs. Inky wasn’t there, but everywhere there were red dogs, panting, and pouncing. With some prodding from Mom and negotiations with Mr. Yule, Dad handed over what seemed to me a fortune. Before I knew it I was in the backseat of our station wagon with an Irish setter named Lady. She was regal on the surface but drooled like a leaky tap. I came to love that dog, but it was the most disobedient animal God ever created. By Thursday I thought Dad might go back to Mr. Yule, buy a gun, and shoot the dog. He didn’t. But many a night I walked our street in my pajamas calling her name loudly—“Lady! Lady!” I was a kid at the time. This is not something you want to be caught doing when you’re a little older.

We were a churchgoing family, and one Sunday we arrived home to discover Lady had eaten the soles off our shoes. The preacher had talked of patience that morning, how tribulation helped it work. I don’t think Dad was listening. He gave Lady away to Roberta Boutwell, a gorgeous hippy living across the street. Within a week Lady gave birth in the back of Roberta’s old station wagon. “They just kept a comin’,” she told us. Did they ever. Lady became the tired mother of twelve puppies. I spent that summer asking for one of them. And I spent it barefoot. Shoes were in short supply that year at the Callaway house.

We were dogless for a few summers until I came home to the most glorious surprise of my life—Mojo, a smiling Heinz 57 who would live fifteen fantastic years. It’s hard to believe I married during her lifetime because she was just about all the companion a boy could handle. Shy and humble, Mojo was a friend of strangers. Most people in our town knew her. I shut my eyes and I can see her loping toward me—glossy back, white chest, black mask, and brindle on the nape.

When our kids were small I immortalized her, recounting imaginary fables of Mojo at night. Mojo the Superdog. Rescuer of distressed children and the elderly. Able to soar from buildings and land unperturbed while carrying a bundled child in her jaws.

So there in the backyard, with the kids massaging our little Ewok’s belly and doling out treats, I asked, “What shall we name him?”

I said, “How about Maher-shalal-hash-baz? That’s Hebrew for ‘Hurry to the spoils. Hasten to the plunder.’ ” The kids looked at me like I was wearing a fish on my head.

“A friend of mine has two dogs,” I continued. “He named them Sam and Ella.” Silence. Jokes you have to explain aren’t worth telling.

“What about Mojo?” asked one of the boys. The kids all smiled. Mojo seemed to be smiling too. And that was that.

Your first night with a puppy is rarely a restful one. In fact, the best place for a new dog to spend his first night is in someone else’s laundry room eleven miles from your house. Dog books describe both Maltese and shih tzu puppies as “difficult to housebreak.” A friend with a shih tzu told me, “It tends to wheeze a lot. Snores. Has respiratory problems.” Great, I thought. It’s like Uncle Lenny is moving in for good.

Sure enough. That first night at our house there was whimpering and bickering. And the dog wasn’t easy to deal with either. My wife said, “Stop with the whining.” So I did. But not before I reminded her that I had my share of things to whine about.

In the past year we had built a house, acquired a hefty mortgage, and invited my aging parents to live in a spacious one-bedroom suite we built in it. It was Ramona’s idea. As Mom and Dad became increasingly unable to care for themselves, she believed that we should do unto our parents as we would have our kids do unto us. So the four of us sat at an ice-cream shop one day, and we told them what we were thinking. Smiles came first. Then tears.

Friends asked if we were sure we should do this. Of course we weren’t. We just felt it was the right thing to do. What they really meant was, “Are you out of your cotton-pickin’ minds?” Yes we were. Our kids were entering the teen years, and it hit me as I finally climbed into bed that with the acquisition of this latest little hitchhiker, these friends had a point.

Mojo finally offered us a few seconds of silence, and I wondered what he was into. “I can’t believe we did this,” I groaned.

Chewie was without a doubt the scruffiest, most ill-behaved dog I had ever met. A year older than Mojo, he was bat-eared, ill-tempered, and mean. I had yet to get within six feet of him without the dog going crazy. I mean psychopathic, Cujo crazy.

Ramona laughed at the thought of this. In the next room, Mojo was stirring again, letting out a long, mournful howl.

“You know. He never cared for dogs. Mom was always the one begging him for us.”

“Did I ever tell you that Mom used to put an alarm clock and hot water bottle under a blanket to help our puppies adapt to their first night in our house? The theory was that the warmth would remind them of their mothers.”

“I can’t remember. She got the idea from a dog book I think. Maybe the ticking was why our dogs were so paranoid.”

“Do you think the bathroom idea will work?” It was my turn to laugh. We had followed a friend’s counsel to put the pup on a soft blanket in our master bathroom, shield the floor with newspaper, and call the friend for more advice in a day or two. I had stuffed a housecoat against the door to muffle the sounds. It seemed to amplify them. The latest addition to our family was softly scratching our bathroom door now, slowly, one paw at a time.

I glanced at my watch. Two in the morning. The earplugs turned loud scratching to soft scratching, so we lay there, recounting our day.

“This is kind of nice,” said Ramona. “We haven’t… talked much lately.”

It seemed like the time to tell her. “The doctor wants me on the meds,” I said.

A few years earlier I had experienced a crippling burnout that slowly spiraled into despair. I seldom slept now, anxious, agitated, negative, and numb. I knew that depression was something my family had battled through the years, the kind that paralyzes and debilitates, testing the limits of your relationships, your job, your faith. As a kid I had a recurring dream in which I was walking down the street and the sidewalk slowly turned to quicksand, sucking me downward. The dream had come to life the last year.

As a humorist my job was to bring joy to the lives of others. The hypocrisy was not lost on me. But for brief interludes, the joy was gone.

I would do my best to go along with it, but adding a dog to the mix could only make things worse. Dog hair on the couch was the least of my worries.

My wife eventually had enough of the scratching and whining in the bathroom. She opened the door, flipped on the light, and picked up the dog. I saw her frown and lift the pup higher.

Mojo, I want you to meet your grandfather.” Neither the squirming pup nor my aging dad seemed all that impressed with my introduction the next morning. Dad bent down, scratched the dog’s chin, and asked if he could borrow some cereal. It was a start. Though I hoped the dog would grow on both of us, there was a bit of my dad in me too.

Our friends Jane and Al were coming for dinner that night. Whereas Dad tolerated dogs, they couldn’t stand them. Small ones anyway. I wondered why.

When they arrived I was smothering four medium rares in sauce on the backyard barbecue. Jane brought a fruit salad, and Al was swatting mosquitoes. Mojo introduced them to all six inches of herself by running mad circles around them and then sitting down and staring longingly up at the barbecue. “They can be fun, I suppose,” said Al. “But… she reminds me of Precious.”

The kids were out with friends, and it was nice to enjoy some adult conversation. “Who’s Precious?” I asked as I brought the steaks to the table.

“Precious is my parents’ dog,” said Jane, and the strange story unfolded from there. Since this little bundle of Chihuahua arrived, Jane and the grandchildren had barely seen Grandpa and Grandma. They had missed their grandchildren’s graduations and birthdays and even Christmas. “Last year they didn’t make it to our daughter’s wedding.”

“Yep,” Al leaned forward and laughed. “They gave the grandkids away because the dog was allergic to them.”

Jane wasn’t laughing. Though she and Al flew to visit when they could, she missed her parents.

“Precious doesn’t travel so well,” she continued. “His plumbing malfunctions at the very mention of air or car travel. No one is good enough to dog-sit. So the three of them stay home together. Home is where Precious is.”

“They plan this dog’s meals in advance. On a chart.” More shaking of Al’s head. “They buy Halloween outfits and liver biscotti and oatmeal shampoo for sensitive skin. Precious wears a necklace with bone charms hanging from it.” Al hiked his eyebrows at the memory of this.

“They weren’t this way with Max, their previous dog,” added Jane, with just a touch of defensiveness. “But when Max died, they joined a pet-loss bereavement group. It was moderated by a full-time veterinary social worker who talked about the five stages of loss and grief. And it wasn’t just grief. They felt guilt too. The vet told them they could have saved Max’s life with a kidney transplant. It would have cost something like $8000—if they could find a donor.”

Somehow Mojo had found a way onto Jane’s lap and was being scratched behind her ears. “They said they couldn’t leave Precious alone. Said she suffers from separation anxiety.”

“You can set up a small camera now and watch your dog from work,” I suggested, partly kidding. “They could eavesdrop to make sure he’s okay.”

Al was shaking his head again. “Don’t tell them. They’ll do it. This dog is a fur baby.”

The sun was slowly dipping behind the Rockies. “Is this why you haven’t been a big fan of dogs?” I asked.

“I agree,” said Al. “But did you know you can pay for dog walkers, dog groomers, and dog-friendly hotels? Their dog is on puppy Prozac. They feed it organic dog food. Filtered water. There’s just so much overindulgence.”

I couldn’t argue. “Americans spend more than $60 billion a year on their pets.” Al had clearly been studying these things. “You can get acupuncture sessions for $150 an hour. I just read about a Greenwich Village couple that spent $3500 for hydrotherapy treatments for a twelve-year-old shih tzu.”

Mojo looked at my wife as if she were saying, “Don’t fix me, just love me.”