Dog's tricks teach owner a few life lessons

Mine is not the brightest dog in the world, but that's okay with me. After all, we humans don't praise our pooches by saying "smart dog" but "good dog." And Charlie is a good dog.

That doesn't mean he is completely without sin. Dogs, I've decided, are morally complex creatures, and although I don't think Charlie would ever launch a huge Ponzi scheme with the express intent of bilking investors, he does sometimes lie. For example:

The first thing we do every morning is let Charlie out for a pee. He finds this irritating, since the first thing he wants to do is eat. As soon as he hears us stirring upstairs, we hear the click of his nails on the floor downstairs and know that he's at the foot of the staircase, rigid with anticipation. When we descend, he starts doing that enthusiastic Labrador retriever tail wag that involves oscillating the entire rear half of his body as if he's unhinged his hips.

Oh, how he would love for us to go immediately to his kibble and scoop out some breakfast. Instead, we unlock the backdoor and order him out.

I didn't used to watch what he did out in the back yard, busy as I was getting his food and starting my coffee. But when I noticed that he was back at the door more and more quickly, I started peering out the window to see what he was up to. He was doing a quick trot around the back yard and then padding back to the door. In other words, faking it.

Sorry, Charlie.

He was lying -- I peed, honest! -- and the interesting thing is, when I caught him, he knew that I knew that he was lying. And he felt guilty. His shoulders went a little slack, and he wouldn't make eye contact. All I had to do was say, "Go on, Charlie," and he slunk off to relieve himself. Now, I stand at the door to watch him pee -- not every day, but often enough to let him know that he has to keep his end of the bargain.

The other time Charlie dissembles is when he finds something interesting to eat while I'm walking him. I wouldn't mind so much, except that what Charlie finds often came out of another animal. He knows I don't approve, but he can't help himself. I could keep him on a tight leash, literally, but I don't want to crimp his sniffing. Like all dogs, Charlie lives to sniff. But I have to be vigilant, lest a nasal inhalation turn into an oral one.

Charlie knows this, and he has started positioning his body so that it obscures whatever it is he's sniffing. He figures that if he can briefly block my line of sight, he might be able to get in a quick gulp. Sometimes he can.

Charlie has one other unpleasant trait: If he thinks we've wronged him in some way, he can be truculent. He does not dig up flowers. He does not steal food from countertops. He does not chew couch cushions. But if he thinks he's been ignored, he will destroy the one thing in our house that he knows we love more than any other: paper.

If we rush out of the house without giving him his afternoon walk, upon our return that evening we'll probably find something pulled from the paper recycling bin and reduced to moist confetti. He once chewed the corner off my W-2 and another time ate my daughter's allowance, a $20 bill she'd left on the stairs. She did not want it back. (I was curious whether he'd poop out a 10 and two fives.)

I hope I'm not making him sound like a bad dog. No, Charlie's a good dog. But in the end, he's a dog.

Not everybody likes dogs. Not everybody likes pets. I once heard someone ask what was the point of a pet: What can they do for you?

People probably have all sorts of answers to that question. Here's mine: Even the smartest dog can't speak English. But every dog can tell you something, if you're willing to listen.

I think of a dog as a human-training device. I might teach Charlie to sit or to shake, but he's teaching me, too: to be observant, to pay attention, to discern through the wag of a tail, the cock of an ear, the look in an eye the thoughts of a living being who shares time with me on this all-too-imperfect planet, in this all-too-finite life.